The Marseille Caper Read Online Free PDF Page A

high, thick blue sky. There was a brief stop at immigration, where the officer welcomed them to France, and then through the terminal doors. Fifty yards away, a long, black Peugeot and a young man in a suit were waiting. He held the door open for Elena, showed Sam the luggage in the trunk, and then they were off. The time between leaving the plane and getting into the car had been just over five minutes.
    “I’m running out of nice things to say,” said Elena, shaking her head. “But I know what I’d like for Christmas.”

Four

    The big Peugeot made its cautious way through the cramped streets of Marseille’s 7th and 8th arrondissements, where the great and the good—and the chic—have their homes. Olivier was driving at walking pace and often had only inches to spare. He was negotiating the narrow, twisting Chemin du Roucas Blanc, passing between high walls that half concealed villas built in the pompous style greatly admired by the prosperous merchants of the nineteenth century. Occasionally there would be an architectural hiccup: a modern white ranch house looking slightly uncomfortable so far from California, or a tiny, shabby building, little more than a hut, which had once sheltered a fisherman and his family. This was typical of Marseille, Olivier said: wealth and poverty cheek by jowl, palaces next to hovels—the marks of a city that had grown organically, without much interference from urban planners.
    As they drew closer to the sea, the walls on either sideseemed to become higher, and the houses bigger. These had been built here by the richest merchants of Marseille not only for the beauty of the sea views, but so that they could keep an eye on their floating assets—the ships and their delightfully profitable cargoes going in and out of the port.
    “Wow,” said Elena. “See that place? What a spot.” They had come to the brow of a rise in the road, and she was looking at a house just below them. It was built on a point that jutted out toward the sea, surrounded by a small forest of parasol pines, and protected by the inevitable high wall.
    Olivier was smiling. “Monsieur Reboul hopes you will find it comfortable. This is where he used to live before he moved to Le Pharo. You won’t be disturbed here. It’s very peaceful.” He slowed down to give the iron gates time to swing open, and pulled up on the gravel forecourt in front of a short flight of steps that led to the massive entrance door.
    Waiting at the top of the steps was a welcoming committee of two: a slim, elegant figure with short, gray hair, and a much larger, younger woman whose wide, white smile was perfectly set off by her shining black face. Olivier introduced them as Claudine, who ran the house, and Nanou from Martinique, who was the maid. “Claudine’s English is excellent,” said Olivier, “but with Nanou it is what I think you call a work in progress.” At the sound of her name, Nanou took a deep breath. “How you doing?” she said, followed by “Have a nice day,” and then spoiled the effect by dissolving into giggles.
    Claudine led them into the house, across a gleaming expanse of beeswaxed herringbone parquet, up a broad staircase,and through double doors into what was to be their bedroom.
    Sam looked around and let out a low whistle. “I guess we’ll be able to squeeze in here,” he said. “It’s about the same size as my apartment.”
    Claudine smiled. “It used to be Monsieur Reboul’s bedroom.” She pointed to two doors set into the far wall. “You each have a bathroom. Monsieur Reboul always says that the secret of a harmonious relationship between a man and a woman is to have separate bathrooms.”
    “Amen,” said Sam. There was a muffled snort from Elena.
    “I’ll leave you to unpack. Then perhaps you’d like coffee on the terrace. I can give you your phones and answer any questions you may have.”
    Elena had been making a tour of inspection that took in the closet space (capacious, even by