The Corsican Caper Read Online Free PDF Page A

Palais du Pharo. Six months previously, Reboul had allowed his good nature to get the better of him and had agreed to act as host for a dinner in aid of a local charity, Les Amis de Marseille. The charity had been sponsored by a committee of local businessmen, whose aim was not entirely without self-interest; charity, after all, begins at home. But the cause was worthy and locally very appealing: to promote Marseille as a coastal destination with events to rival Cannes with its film festival, Nice with its flower festival, and Monaco with its tennis and its Grand Prix.
    What could Marseille offer that those other destinations didn’t? Yacht racing, music and theater festivals, a floating casino, world championship
boules
, and a competitive water-skiing tournament were all under consideration as possibleattractions. But ambitious schemes of this kind take money to set up, and the evening at Le Palais du Pharo, with dinner at a thousand euros a head, was to get the ball rolling and to pass the collection plate.
    Reboul had done Les Amis proud. The vast back terrace of Le Pharo had been turned into something between a small forest and a giant bower. There were olive trees, lemon trees, and clumps of black-stemmed bamboo, all in huge terra-cotta pots, and all decorated with garlands of tiny lights. Placed among the trees were twenty six-seater tables, each with its thick linen cloth and napkins of true Marseille blue, its candlelit lanterns, and its centerpiece of white roses. A small band, installed on a dais in one corner, was playing old French favorites—“La Mer,” “La Vie en rose,” the theme from
Un Homme et une femme
. Even nature had made a contribution: the air was soft and still, the sky an expanse of black velvet pricked by stars. It was, as one of the early guests said,
un décor magique
.
    The host and his team were having a glass of Champagne to help them prepare for the evening’s events. Elena was in what she called ceremonial black, although she declined to say exactly what kind of ceremony she had in mind. Sam had plenty of ideas, but was told to keep them to himself. The newly engaged Mimi and Philippe held hands while they drank their Champagne, and Reboul and Sam were resplendent in their white dinner jackets.
    “Well,” asked Sam, “have you worked out your speech?”
    Reboul winced. “I agree with the man who said that the rules for making a good speech were simple: stand up, speak up, and shut up. So I shall keep it short and sweet.” His eye was caught by a figure coming through the crowd. “Ah, there she is—my social mentor.”
    Marie-Ange Picard was a specialist organizer of events of this kind. A slim, blonde woman in her thirties, she too was squeezed into a little black dress, this one cut to display a generous
décolleté
with her official plastic name card strategically placed where it would receive maximum attention. Introductions were made by Reboul, and for a moment or two Elena and Marie-Ange looked each other over like two boxers preparing to go into the ring. “What a darling little dress,” said Marie-Ange. Elena inclined her head and smiled. Not as little as yours, she thought. Maybe next time you should go for something that fits.
    Marie-Ange turned her attention to Reboul, inching closer to him with every question. “
Alors
, Monsieur Francis. Have you got everything you need? The notes for your speech? Are you happy with the seating arrangements at your table? Would you like to go over the guest list again—there have been one or two late additions.” By this time, Marie-Ange’s bosom was almost pressed against Reboul’s chest.
    He took a step backward, escaping the fog of perfume, and looked around the crowded terrace. “Have all the tables been taken?”
    “The last two or three went yesterday,” said Marie-Ange. “One of them went to a Russian gentleman. He bought all six seats.”
    Reboul frowned. How many Russian gentlemen prepared to spend six thousand