The Corsican Caper Read Free

breeze would blow them off the bed. “There’s this great little place on the Rue des Saints-Pères, Sabbia Rosa. Mimi calls it a girls’ outfitters.” She took a step backward and smiled at Sam, her head cocked. “What do you think?”
    Sam ran his fingers over the fine silk of something so insubstantial he thought for a moment that it was a small handkerchief. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think I need to see them on, to make sure that they fit.”
    “Sure,” said Elena, as she scooped them up from the bed and headed back to the dressing room. She looked over her shoulder, and winked. “Don’t go away.”

Chapter Three

    The letter had been hand-delivered earlier that morning, so Claudine said, by a very well dressed gentleman who had arrived in a Mercedes. He hadn’t left his name.
    Reboul opened the envelope, its inside lined with chocolate-brown tissue, and took out the single sheet of heavy, buff-colored paper. Instead of an address at the top, a discreetly embossed heading announced that the sender was the Vicomte de Pertuis. His message was brief and to the point:
    I would be most grateful for a few minutes with you to discuss a matter of mutual interest and profit. I am entirely at your disposition as to a time and place to meet. Please telephone me at the number below to arrange a rendezvous.
    This was followed by a one-word signature:
Pertuis
.
    Over the years, Reboul, like most wealthy men, had received countless solicitations from people offering to increase his fortune by one shady means or another. Some had been amusing, others quite astonishing in their imaginative use of his money. This time, he found himself more than usually intrigued. Perhaps the title helped, although the aristocracy these days, God knows, had become thoroughly venal and commercialized. But one never knew. This might be worth a few minutes. He picked up his phone and called the number.
    “Pertuis.”
    “Reboul.”
    The voice changed instantly, becoming unctuous. “Monsieur Reboul, how very kind of you to call. I’m delighted to hear from you.”
    “Obviously, I received your note. I’m free this afternoon around three, if that would suit you. I think you know where I live.”
    “Of course, of course. Three o’clock it is. I look forward to it immensely.”
    Elena and Sam had spent the morning being tourists. Many changes had taken place in Marseille leading up to 2013, when it had taken its turn as the European Capital of Culture. And Elena, an avid collector of travel tips, had readabout them all, from the transformation of the once shabby docks (
Le Grand Lifting
) to Pagnol’s
“Château de ma mère”
becoming a Mediterranean film center. There were also new museums and exhibition sites, newly created gardens both wet and dry, even a glamorous glass
ombrière
to give visitors to the fish market some shelter from the elements, if not from the ripe language. All in all, there were enough novelties to occupy even the most fast-moving of sightseers for at least a month.
    Sam did his best to keep up with Elena, but it was exhausting work. He looked with increasing longing at the cafés they rushed past until he could stay silent no longer. “Lunch,” he said, his voice steely with determination. “We must have lunch.”
    He hailed a taxi, bundled Elena in, and told the driver to take them to the Vallon des Auffes, just off the Corniche. Elena put her travel notes in her bag and let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Culture is defeated, and gluttony wins again,” she said, “and just when I was enjoying myself. Where are we going?”
    “It’s a little port with two terrific restaurants, Chez Fonfon and Chez Jeannot. Philippe told me about them: Jeannot for
moules farcies
, Fonfon for
bouillabaisse
.”
    Elena looked down at her pale-blue T-shirt and cream linen skirt. “I’m not dressed for
bouillabaisse
. How about the
moules
?”
    The Vallon des Auffes is a pocket port, too small to