The Corsican Caper Read Online Free PDF

euros on dinner were there in Marseille? “Who is this man?”
    Marie-Ange consulted her guest list. “A Monsieur Vronsky,” she said. “Perhaps you know him?”
    Reboul shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
    Marie-Ange led Reboul over to the dais. The band ended Piaf’s old classic, “Non, je ne regrette rien,” with a flourish, and Marie-Ange took over the microphone.
    “Ladies, gentlemen, friends of Marseille—a warm welcome to you all. I can promise you an evening you will never forget.” She glanced down at her notes. “After dinner—and what a dinner”—she paused to kiss her fingertips—“there will be an auction, an auction
de luxe
, to tempt you into extravagance. But extravagance in a most worthy cause. First, we have a weekend for two at Le Petit Nice, with its three Michelin stars, its magnificent sea views, and its legendary
bouillabaisse
.” Another pause for fingertip kissing. “Six bottles, selected from our host’s personal cellar, of Lafite Rothschild 1982, one of the great vintages of this magical wine. Next, for all you football fans—four tickets to the Club des Loges for all of next season’s Olympique de Marseille home matches. Finally, a rare opportunity to acquire a truly extraordinary car: the vintage BentleyR-Type, bought by King Farouk to celebrate his becoming an official resident of Monaco in 1959.”
    Marie-Ange turned to Reboul. “And now,” she said, with the air of a conjurer about to produce a particularly handsome white rabbit from her hat, “I would like to ask our most generous host for the evening, Francis Reboul, to say a few words—a very few, he has asked me to tell you—to welcome you.” After leading the applause, she passed the microphone to the next, somewhat reluctant, speaker.
    In his brief but charming remarks, Reboul thanked his audience for their support and emphasized that this evening was just a start—the first step on a journey that he hoped would end with a spectacular addition to the delights of his beloved Marseille. “But I’m sure you’re all hungry,” he said, looking toward the summer kitchen, “and I can see my friend Alphonse the chef tapping his watch. In my experience, he is not a man to be kept waiting.
Allons, mes amis! À la bouffe!
”
    There were well over a hundred people settling themselves at their tables, and Reboul knew most of them personally: a wide selection of local businessmen and their wives; Hervé, the chief of police; luminaries from the chamber of commerce; Gaston, the fixer; Madame Spinelli of the Women’s League of Marseille and Bruno, her considerably younger partner; the executive committee of the Olympique de Marseille football club; and a sprinkling of socialites, comparing tans and jewelry. In other words, there was everyone who counted in the social hierarchy of Marseille.
    And some who didn’t—not yet, anyway. At a prominent table, already making short work of a magnum of Dom Pérignon, was a group that Marie-Ange described, in a whispered aside to Reboul, as “the Russian contingent.” There was Vronsky, in a plum-colored velvet smoking jacket, with Natasha on one side and Katya on the other; the Vicomte de Pertuis and Madame la Vicomtesse, a fashionably anorexic woman brandishing her cigarette holder with dangerous abandon; and, lolling back in his chair with the light glinting on his sunglasses, a rather glamorous young man with implausibly ash-blond hair, dressed from head to toe in black leather.
    Reboul was making his way back to his table after greeting some friends when he heard his name called. He turned, and found himself looking into the chilly blue eyes of Oleg Vronsky.
    “Ah, Monsieur Reboul. I am Vronsky.”
    For once, Reboul’s habitual good manners deserted him. “I know,” he said, and turned away.
    Vronsky caught up with him and took hold of his arm. “We should talk,” he said. “It could be very interesting for you.”
    “I doubt it,” Reboul said,