The Diamond Caper Read Online Free PDF Page B

suspicious.”
    Reboul led them along the Quai du Port until they came to an unmarked door, painted dark green and set back from the street, with a discreet intercom set into the wall next to it. “Here we are,” said Reboul. “As you can see, the owners feel they can do without advertising—apart from the best kind, which is word of mouth. Most of the people who come here are regulars; in fact, it’s more like a club.” He pressed the buzzer, murmured his name, and the door clicked open.
    A flight of steps led up to the narrow, light-filled restaurant. At one end was a visible kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a wall of glass. The other walls were dedicated to the memory of Marseille’s favorite writer and filmmaker, Marcel Pagnol. Giant black-and-white photographs of the great man and famous scenes from his films shared the space with posters:
Manon des Sources, Fanny, Jean de Florette, La Femme du Boulanger,
and half a dozen others.
    “Let me guess the chef’s name,” said Elena. “Marcel?”
    Reboul grinned and shook his head. “Actually, it’s Serge. But Pagnol is his great hobby. Ah, here comes his lovely wife.”
    A young woman with a broad smile and a fan of menus made her way through the tables to greet them.
    “Julie!” said Reboul.
    “Francis!” said Julie.
    Embraces, kisses, and compliments were followed by introductions, and then Julie took them across the room and out onto the terrace. There were no more than a dozen tables, each with the same magnificent view: the boats of the Vieux Port, the glittering water, and, on the crest of a hill in the distance, the bell tower and the golden statue of the Madonna and Child crowning Notre-Dame de la Garde, a magnificent basilica built in 1864 on the foundations of a sixteenth-century fort.
    Reboul settled himself and raised the flute of Champagne that had magically appeared. “In all good restaurants,” he said, “one of the best appetizers is anticipation. A glass of something chilled and delicious, a menu of temptations, delightful company—there is no better way to put your taste buds on the
qui vive
. What shall we have? The
tartare de coquilles Saint-Jacques
? The homemade
foie gras?
Or the chef’s pride and joy, the
bouillabaisse maison?
Decisions, decisions. Take your time, my friends, take your time.”
    —
    While Elena, Sam, and Reboul were making up their minds
,
Coco Dumas was making do with a club sandwich on the high-speed TGV train to Paris. She was going to see her father, Alex, who had set her up in business more than fifteen years earlier. A self-made man and proud of it, Alex Dumas had made a great deal of money from business activities—which he never discussed—that took him from Belgium to Paris, often via Africa. He doted on his daughter, and, having recognized the talent she showed during her early years in architecture, he had thought of a way she could usefully fit in with his own business plans. He had been more than satisfied with the results, but now he was ready to retire; not, however, before making sure his precious Coco was set up for life.
    As late afternoon faded into evening, the two of them sat in the living room of Dumas
père
’s apartment in the Rue de Lille—decorated and furnished to perfection by Coco—and discussed some interesting possibilities. By the time they went across the street to Le Bistrot de Paris for dinner, an idea was forming. But the details, those all-important details, had to be worked out. Meanwhile, there were Coco’s future plans to consider. When Papa retired, what would his daughter do? She was beginning to tire of clients, with their nagging and their indecisiveness and their reluctance to do exactly as they were told. She, too, was ready for a change. An apartment in New York, perhaps, with a place in the Bahamas to escape to during those brutal Manhattan winters. A fresh start. It was a prospect that Coco found immensely appealing.
    —
    With considerable