The Corsican Caper (16 page)

Reboul was almost dancing with relief and excitement, and Elena was gripping Sam’s hand so tightly he thought he should ask her to stop before it came off. Laura and Uncle Doumé, nodding and smiling, added to the general air of
merriment as they went into the living room and gathered around a magnum of Champagne in its oversized ice bucket. While Reboul was dealing with the cork, Sam felt it was time for a quick dose of reality.

“I hate to say this,” he said, “but let’s not overdo the celebration just yet. It’s not over. We still have to deal with Vronsky.”

Before Sam could get any further into the problem of Vronsky, his phone rang.

“Jo? What happened?” Sam wedged the phone more firmly against his ear. “They did? Both of them? That’s great. Don’t let them anywhere near a phone. I think we can get going now. I’ll talk to you later.”

He was smiling as he put down the phone. “Good news. In return for reduced sentences, the Oblomovs have both signed confessions that they were carrying out an assassination contract for Vronsky. That makes him an accomplice in an attempted murder, and that just about does it. I think I could manage a drink.”

Reboul poured, Sam drank. Champagne had never tasted so good.

“I have a little news of my own,” said Reboul. “You know
my friend Hervé? He’s explained everything to his counterpart in Paris, and the Paris flics are ready to move on Vronsky as soon as you give the word.”

“The sooner the better,” said Sam. “There’s nothing to be gained by waiting, and Vronsky will start getting nervous when he doesn’t hear from the Oblomovs. Does Hervé work late? Could we call him now?”

Five minutes later, it was all arranged. The police would pick Vronsky up as he left the Bristol to go out to dinner. He would spend the night in a Parisian cell. The following day, he would be delivered to Marseille, where he would face interrogation and trial. Hervé said that with a word in the right ear, it could be arranged for Vronsky to be sent to French Guiana, on the coast of South America, to serve his sentence. A most unhealthy place, according to Hervé, where the odds against survival were high.

“Now, my friends,” Reboul said, “do you think it’s safe to celebrate? Because I have a suggestion: lunch at Le Pharo, perhaps the day after tomorrow, so that my chef has time to prepare. I will arrange transport for everyone from Calvi to Marseille. How does that sound? Only if you’re free, of course.” He looked around at the smiling faces of Laura, Doumé, Elena, and Sam. “And we mustn’t forget the Figatelli boys.”

The following morning, the three of them boarded Reboul’s plane for the short hop back to Marseille. Reboul was still
effervescent with relief, even more so when Hervé called to say that Vronsky had been picked up as planned and would be delivered to Marseille later in the day. He had apparently been threatening massive lawsuits for wrongful arrest to anyone who cared to listen.

“He can squawk all he wants to,” said Reboul, “but he doesn’t know yet about those signed confessions. Sam, I didn’t want to ask you before—but were you absolutely sure those guns had been loaded with blanks?”

“Of course,” said Sam. “The Figatellis knew that if they screwed up I’d come back to haunt them. Seriously, they were terrific. They loaded the magazines themselves, and found some way of keeping the guns out of the Oblomovs’ hands until the last minute. I never had any worries.”

Half an hour later, they were in the car, heading back to Le Pharo. Reboul immediately went into the kitchen for a conference with Alphonse, planning the menu for the celebration lunch. Elena and Sam went down to the pool and stretched out in the sun.

“I still can’t believe it’s all over,” said Elena. She leaned over and kissed Sam on the tip of his nose. “Can we go back to having a vacation now?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Just the usual stuff. You know, making love in the afternoon, dinner under the stars, that kind of thing. Maybe we could look at a few apartments, explore the
calanques
, spend some time with Mimi and Philippe.”

“Anything you want, my sweet, as long as I don’t have to wear a bulletproof vest. What happened to that, by the way?”

“Laura took it and put it in Alfred’s basket. She said the scent of it would remind him of you.”

Sam was considering this unusual compliment when Reboul arrived at the pool, smiling broadly and clutching a sheet of paper.
“Voilà,”
he said, waving the paper, “Alphonse and I have agreed on the menu for tomorrow, and it is a
tour de force
. I won’t spoil his moment by telling you the details—he wants to do that himself—but I can guarantee a most memorable meal, a banquet. And now, I must go to the cellar and choose the wines.” He paused, and gave a long, theatrical sigh. “My work is never done.”

The group making its way up the steps of Reboul’s plane the following morning provided an interesting contrast in dress styles. Laura, elegant in gray silk; Uncle Doumé in a flowered shirt and baggy white trousers; the Figatellis in jeans and their favorite T-shirts, black with gold lettering spelling out the reassuring promise that whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

The short trip over to Marseille gave Laura, who had never met the Figatellis, the chance to get to know them. She clearly liked what she saw, and flirted outrageously. They flirted back, and she became quite girlish, with much fluttering
of the eyelashes. Uncle Doumé was busy in the cockpit taking beginner’s lessons from the pilot, and by the time the plane landed everyone was in the best of spirits.

Le Pharo was ready for them. Reboul, with decorating advice offered by Elena, had turned one corner of the terrace into a haven of shade, with giant umbrellas shielding a seating area and the long dining table from the sun. White was everywhere—the umbrellas, the armchairs and couches, the tablecloth and napkins, and the ‘Iceberg’ roses that overflowed from huge terra-cotta pots. Elena and Reboul had dressed to match, all in white.

“Bravo, Francis, bravo.” Laura patted Reboul on the cheek. “This is quite wonderful, just like something out of that magazine—what’s it called?—
Côté Sud
. Now then, if someone were to offer me a little of that excellent Champagne I see on the table, I don’t think I could resist.”

Reboul had arranged for Claudine, his housekeeper, and Nanou, his housemaid from Martinique, to take care of his guests, and when he saw that everyone had a glass he stood up to offer a few words of welcome.

“First, let me say how grateful I am to you all for your help. Nobody could ask for better friends, and I shall never forget what you’ve done. This lunch, this happy occasion, is to say thank you, but I also want to say that if ever there is anything I can do to help any of you, all you have to do is ask.” He paused, a little emotional, and swallowed hard before continuing. “It is a day to eat, drink, and be merry.
Never has a fine meal been so richly deserved. And now, to prepare you for what is to come, it’s time to welcome Alphonse, king of Le Pharo’s kitchen and creator of today’s menu.”

The chef, who had been waiting outside the kitchen door for his cue, came forward, smiling and nodding at the guests.

Alphonse, as Elena later remarked, restored one’s faith in the classic French chef—classically rotund, classically jolly, and wearing a long, heavy apron instead of the dainty white monogrammed jackets so popular with show business chefs. He made his way onto the terrace accompanied by a round of applause, took his place next to Reboul, and cleared his throat.

“I have prepared for you a simple lunch with, as you will see, one or two Corsican touches in honor of our Corsican friends.” He nodded and beamed at the Figatellis and Uncle Doumé. “To start,
coquilles Saint-Jacques
to awaken the palate—just three per person, pan-fried, and accompanied by chives and a
ragoût
of new peas and broad beans, drizzled with olive oil and the merest dusting of Camargue salt.”

He took a sip of the Champagne that Reboul had passed to him before moving on to the next course. “We remain with the saints, and with the appetite now on the
qui vive
, we have a
filet de Saint-Pierre
, with asparagus tips and a lemon emulsion, made,
naturellement
, with the finest Corsican lemons.” Another nod and a beam to the Figatellis.

“To follow, braised rump of Corsican veal, with a
fricassée
of new potatoes and carrots and an infused
jus
of savory. This will put us in the mood for a selection of goat cheeses, and here, I must confess, I cannot promise that all the goats who contributed were Corsican. Even so, I think you will enjoy the cheeses. There are three: one soft and creamy; one hard and strong; and one
cendré
, with a fine dusting of ashes. The combination is subtle and delicious.”

He looked toward Laura, and bowed his head. “To finish, I am indebted to Madame Lombard, who gave me the recipe for her sublime chocolate cake, rich and dark. I have added some early-season cherries, stoned and lightly heated in Corsican
myrte
until the juices run, and a large flourish of whipped cream.” He looked around, smiling at his audience, and delivered the traditional chef’s blessing,
“Alors, bon appétit!”
The applause followed him back to the kitchen.

Elena was shaking her head at Sam. “If that’s a simple lunch, I’m Paul Bocuse. You’re going to have to carry me away from the table.”

Reboul, who had been standing next to them, pretended to be shocked. “No, no, no,” he said. “I know the list of dishes is long, but the portions are modest, a series of exquisite mouthfuls. After you’ve eaten, you will spring from the table, ready for a run around the Vieux Port.” He cocked his head and winked. “Or possibly a siesta.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Elena.

A good lunch anywhere is a pleasure, but a good lunch
with friends out of doors on a fine summer’s day is a total joy. Everything seems to have been given an extra touch of magic. The wine tastes better, the jokes are funnier, the compliments more elegant, the food more delicious. And so it was that day at Le Pharo. The gastronomic voyage from
coquilles Saint-Jacques
to Laura’s chocolate triumph took three hours, with interludes between courses for impromptu speeches, most of which were in fact extended invitations. Sam and Elena invited everyone to Los Angeles. The Figatellis invited everyone to Calvi. Laura offered a choice between Paris and Gstaad, and Uncle Doumé proposed a visit to his family’s vineyard in Patrimonio, where, he said, even the bathroom taps ran with wine.

Reboul had just gotten to his feet when his phone rang. He stood at the head of the table, listening intently, smiling at first and then laughing out loud. He was shaking his head as the call finished. “I can promise you a rare sight, my friends,” he said. “Follow me.” He led the group to the edge of the terrace, scooping up a pair of binoculars from a low table, and stood looking out to sea. “The call was from Hervé,” he said. “Any moment now, we should see them coming round the headland.”

A minute passed, then two, and finally they saw, rounding the headland a few hundred yards away, a dark-blue police launch. It was dwarfed by what was following it—
The Caspian Queen
, her Russian ensign at half-mast. The binoculars
were passed around, and it was possible to make out several figures dressed in the uniform of the Police Nationale moving around the main deck.

“They’re on their way to the port,” said Reboul, “where Hervé tells me the boat will be kept while—how did he put it?—the owner is helping the police with their inquiries. So I don’t think we’ll be seeing any more of
The Caspian Queen
.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Sam. “Champagne, anyone?”

Peter Mayle is the author of thirteen previous books, seven of them novels. A recipient of the Légion d’Honneur from the French government for his cultural contributions, he has been living in Provence with his wife, Jennie, for twenty years.

By Peter Mayle

The questions, discussion topics, and reading list that follow are intended to enhance your reading group’s discussion of
The Corsican Caper
, Peter Mayle’s latest tale about lovable rogue and sleuth extraordinaire Sam Levitt.

Here is Peter Mayle at his effervescent best—his master sleuth, Sam Levitt, eating, drinking, and romancing his way through the South of France even as he investigates a case of deadly intrigue among the Riviera’s jet set.

Billionaire Francis Reboul is taking in the view at his coastal estate, awaiting the arrival of vacationing friends Sam Levitt and Elena Morales, when he spies a massive yacht whose passengers seem a little too interested in his property. The yacht belongs to rapacious Russian tycoon Oleg Vronsky, who, for his own purposes, will stop at nothing to obtain Reboul’s villa. When Reboul refuses to sell, Vronsky’s methods quickly turn unsavory. Now it’s up to Sam—he’s saved Reboul’s neck before—to negotiate with an underworld of mercenaries and hit men, not to mention the Corsican mafia, to prevent his friend from becoming a victim of Vronsky’s “Russian diplomacy.”