“Fat lot of help you are. Use your head, man-there must be something that would put him out of the running.”
Patrimonio sighed. “Well, of course if the American could be persuaded to withdraw his bid, we would be in a much stronger position.”
Wapping left his guests to their own noisy devices and found a quiet corner on the upper deck. He needed to think.
Reboul listened to Sam’s account of the presentation with considerable satisfaction. “So that little nonsense about land being scarce was all Patrimonio said? No interruptions? No comments as you were going through the details? Well, it sounds as though it could hardly have gone better. Congratulations, my friend, but also a word of warning: Patrimonio and Wapping-it’s a dangerous combination, and they’re not going to give in without a fight. Don’t let your guard drop. But enough of that. You must celebrate this afternoon’s success, and take the delightful Mademoiselle Elena out to dinner.”
They left Mimi in charge of Philippe and, following his advice, made their way to Chez Marco, a bistro tucked away behind the Vieux Port. Pausing at the entrance, they looked in vain for a menu. Marco served steack with frites, or steack without frites, with the option of a salad. And that was it. Despite this, almost every table was taken, the ambiance was loud and friendly, and their waiter fell in love with them at the first sound of Sam’s accent. He adored Americans, he told them, having spent three months working in a restaurant in downtown New York, where he had been amazed-epoustoufle! — by the generosity of his tips. He took their order and brought them a carafe of red wine.
It was soft and round and surprisingly good. The steaks were juicy and perfectly cooked, and the frites were a connoisseur’s delight. But the real triumph, according to Elena, came with the salad. “You can always tell a good restaurant by its dressing,” she said, “and this is terrific. They’ve used just the right amount of balsamic vinegar.”
Sam realized that, thanks to Philippe, they had stumbled upon a minor treasure-a restaurant that was content to provide a very limited choice, but of the highest quality, and at old-fashioned prices. According to Philippe, there used to be simple little restaurants like this throughout France; now they had become few and far between, killed off by the invasion of fast-food chains. But Chez Marco, it seemed, was doing fine. A knot of customers waited at the battered zinc bar, and tables were taken as soon as they became free. The laughter level was high, the waiters agile, and behind the bar the patron, Marco himself, dispensed pastis, jokes, and insults with a broad gap-toothed smile.
Elena used her bread to wipe the last of the dressing from her plate. “Apart from the food, you know what’s so great about this place? It’s genuine. Nobody designed it. A decorator would have a heart attack, but it works. Do you think they do dessert?”
They did. Again, the choice was limited to one. Panna cotta, made by Marco’s Italian wife and served in a thick glass tumbler, a white, satiny mixture of heavy cream and vanilla with a dense topping of semi-liquid caramel. Elena took her first spoonful and sighed with pleasure. “Heaven.”
Fifteen
The Mediterranean was a sheet of black glass-flat, calm, with a sickle moon high in a clear sky, as The Floating Pound eased slowly out of Saint-Tropez and turned west, destination Marseille.
Lord Wapping felt that he needed to get back to oversee the execution of an idea that was beginning to take shape in his head, and there was not a moment to lose. Hurried farewells had been made to his guests, and they had been hustled down the gangway, much to the displeasure of Annabel, who had no desire to leave Saint-Tropez, which she considered her spiritual summer home.
“I’m absolutely devastated, sweetie,” she said, displaying once again her ability to pout and talk at the same time. “The Forsyths-you know, Fiona and Dickie-had booked a table at the Byblos for dinner, and then we were going dancing. And now this. It’s too, too boring. Do we have to go back?”
Wapping grunted. “Something’s come up.” He added an invaluable phrase, knowing that it would put an end to any argument. “It’s business.” Experience had taught him that in Annabel’s mind business was synonymous with Cartier, Dior, Vuitton, and all the other little essentials of life that came her way after a successful deal. And so, for her, everything else took second place to business. Off she went, to find sympathy and a consoling glass of champagne with Tiny de Salis, while Wapping settled down in the deserted stateroom to ponder.
The presentation of his project was about to take place. A successful result would get the banks off his back and put millions into his pocket. The Parisian presentation, enthusiastically sabotaged by Patrimonio, had not impressed the committee. But that left the problem of the American. Patrimonio’s words came back to him: “If he could be persuaded to withdraw, that would put us in a much stronger position.”
Of course it would. But how? He considered once again those two old favorites, bribery and violence, and once again rejected them. The American stood to make more money out of the project than any bribe Wapping was able to offer, and any force short of murder was unlikely to work. In any case, to be credible and effective the withdrawal had to be voluntary; it had to come from the American himself. Lord Wapping stared out of the porthole, sipping the last of his 1936 cognac and letting his mind go back to the idea that had come to him, half-formed, following Patrimonio’s call. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed. And by the time he finally braved the chilly reception that awaited him in the cabin he shared with Annabel, he was feeling a great deal more optimistic.
The following morning, back at her old Marseille mooring in the Baie du Grand Soufre, The Floating Pound had recovered her good humor and was once again a happy ship. Lord Wapping was positively jovial at breakfast. Annabel had been tempted out of her sulk by the promise of an all-expenses-paid swoop on Marseille’s best boutiques, followed by lunch at Peron. Ray Prendergast had celebrated the change in the atmosphere on board with a solid English breakfast of sausages, bacon, eggs, baked beans, and two thick, greasy slices of fried bread. And the crew, having been a little disappointed by their brief glimpse of the prosperous respectability of Saint-Tropez, were pleased to be back in Marseille, with its superior opportunities for bad behavior.
Lord Wapping was humming the opening bars of “My Old Man’s a Dustman” as he selected his first cigar of the day. He was in the positive, benign mood that often follows the solution of a difficult problem, and he called Ray Prendergast into the stateroom to share his thoughts.
“I think I’ve cracked it, Ray-that bloody American and his beach huts. Somehow we’ve got to put him out of the running, and I think I’ve got the answer. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
As he explained his idea, Prendergast’s expression gradually changed from alarm to doubt to qualified approval. “It’s a bit dodgy, Billy, but it could work. I’ll have a chat with Brian and Dave. It’s a question of opportunity, isn’t it? Finding the right moment. But first, we need to know where he’s living. Oh, and another thing: We’re going to need a doctor, a friendly doctor. Know what I mean?”
Wapping nodded. “Leave it to me.” With a wave of his cigar, he dismissed Prendergast before reaching for the phone.
“Jerome? Couple of questions for you. I’ve been thinking about our little problem, and I need to know where our American friend is living while he’s in Marseille. Have you got his address?”
“Certainly.” Patrimonio reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a folder. “All the bidders had to provide contact details when they registered. Let’s see. Ah, yes, here it is: the Chemin du Roucas Blanc. Do you want the full address and the phone number?”