Philippe shook his head gingerly. “I hadn’t touched a drop, honestly-not even a glass of rose. Two bikes boxed me in, one in front, one behind. And then, paf!, a kick in the knee knocked me off the scooter. I’m sure it was a professional job, but God knows why they did it. I don’t think they stole anything-there was nothing to steal-so perhaps it was just for a bit of fun.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
Another tentative shake of the head. “Not a chance. They had the visors on their helmets pulled down.”
Sam was frowning. In his experience, professionals didn’t do anything for fun. These two had meant to teach Philippe a lesson, perhaps even kill him. But why? Who would gain if he were out of action? It didn’t take long to come to the obvious conclusion. “When is that piece on the tent coming out?”
“Tomorrow,” said Mimi. “The editor loved it.”
“So it couldn’t have been that. But your first article didn’t go down too well with some people-Patrimonio, for one. And you had that row with him at the cocktail party. Even so, that’s not reason enough to take someone out. No, it wouldn’t be Patrimonio; it has to be Wapping. He’s in bed with Patrimonio, and he tried to bribe you to shut you up. It has to be him.”
Philippe fixed Sam with his one good eye. “OK. That makes sense. And I’ll tell you something: If the first piece made him furious, tomorrow’s piece will give him a heart attack.” He turned to Mimi, and grinned. “Do you think the paper will spring for a bodyguard?”
“I have a better idea,” said Sam. “I think you should disappear.”
“Sam, you’ve been reading too many thrillers. Besides, I’m not going to stop working just because of that connard.”
“You won’t have to stop working. You just won’t be working in your office, in your apartment, or anywhere else you normally go, because then you’d be a sitting duck for Wapping’s goons. You’re going to vanish from all your old haunts. You’re going to come and live with us.”
Sam held up his hand before Philippe could interrupt. “It’s perfect. There’s plenty of room. The house is secluded and protected; it couldn’t be safer. There’s a car and driver whenever you need them, there’s a housekeeper, a maid, and us to look after you. As I said, it’s perfect. I don’t want an argument. How soon can we get you out of here?”
Dr. Joel was consulted and he eventually agreed, on the condition that a nurse come in every day to check on Philippe and change his dressings. Olivier the driver met them at the hospital entrance, while Mimi went off to collect a few clothes from Philippe’s apartment. By the time the good people of Marseille were sitting down to lunch, Olivier and his passengers were making their way through the double gates leading to the house.
“This is bizarre,” said Philippe. “I think I know this place.” He nodded once or twice as he looked around. “In fact, I’m sure I know it. A few years ago-it must have been a flat time for news-the paper did a big feature on the homes of Marseille’s rich and famous. This was one of them. It used to belong to Reboul before he bought Le Pharo. Maybe it still does.” He looked at Sam, his face made slightly sinister by his black eye. “So how did you find it?”
For a few days now, Sam had been feeling increasingly uncomfortable that he had hidden his connection with Reboul from Philippe. He decided it was time to come clean. “We need to have a chat,” he said, “but not on an empty stomach. It’s a long story. Let’s leave it until after lunch.”
Alas, that proved to be too much of a wait for Philippe. A man desperate for a nap, he only just missed falling asleep in his dessert. It wasn’t until the early evening, l’heure du pastis, that they settled down on the terrace. Sam collected his thoughts and started at the beginning.
Philippe was fascinated. It was a story within a story, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that he agreed to keep Reboul’s name out of the articles he was planning to write.
For the time being, anyway. “Once this is over,” said Sam, “I can guarantee you an interview with Reboul. Exclusive. Do we have a deal?”
Philippe reached over to shake hands. “We have a deal.”
“Actually, I’m sure you’ll like him.”
Philippe shook his head and grinned. “I never met an exclusive I didn’t like.”
The following morning, reactions to Philippe’s article were predictably mixed.
Philippe himself enjoyed a few moments of modest satisfaction. For once, he didn’t want to rewrite the piece as soon as he saw it in type. It was flagged on the front page, and took up most of page three. The tone was informative and concise, with the occasional graceful turn of phrase, and the artist’s impression of the tent on the beach needed only a few topless sunbathers to look just like Saint-Tropez. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Sam was looking over Philippe’s shoulder as he read. “Nobody’s going to miss that,” he said. “But I don’t think Patrimonio will be sending you a Christmas card this year.”
The piece had already ruined Patrimonio’s breakfast, and was doing the same to his entire morning. Members of the committee had been calling to express their opinions, and they were almost all favorable. “Good to see a little imagination” was mentioned more than once, as was that old standby, “a breath of fresh air.” The only minor criticism came from the committee’s oldest member, a veteran in his eighties, who complained that there was no mention of toilet facilities, a subject of particular interest to him. But on the whole, it was seen as an enthusiastic endorsement of Sam’s idea.
Patrimonio’s call to Wapping was short, loud, and hostile.
“I thought you said you were taking care of that salaud of a journalist?”
Wapping bristled. He wasn’t used to being shouted at. “What are you talking about? The boys sorted him out the night before last.”
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
“Why? What about it?”
“C’est une catastrophe. Call me when you’ve read it.”
Elena swept out of the bedroom and performed a twirl so that Sam could appreciate her dress-summery, flimsy, almost diaphanous. “Worth the wait,” he said. “Well worth the wait. Are you ready?”
Sam had promised to celebrate Elena’s return from Paris with lunch overlooking the sea. But first, there was a little business: a rendezvous with Gaston on the beach, where the tent was being put up in preparation for the presentation.
Gaston saw them as they arrived and waddled across the beach to greet them. By now, Sam was used to the effusions of gallantry that Elena inspired in French men, and Gaston was no exception. Cradling Elena’s hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips like a thirsty man reaching out for water. While one hand continued to hold hers, the other began a slow, smooth movement up her arm, which would doubtless have continued if Elena hadn’t giggled.
“What a delightful surprise,” said Gaston. “I was expecting only Sam.” And then, with a wink directed at Elena, “Come with me to my tent.”
As they walked inside, Sam was struck by the warm, golden glow made by the sun filtering through white canvas. If the presentation was held as planned in the early evening there would be no need for artificial light. “Once the floor’s down, this is going to look great,” he said. “But suppose people start dropping in off the street and having a party?”
“Pas de soucis. I’ve arranged security-two big boys, Jules and Jim, and two Rottweilers. They’ll be here every night.” Gaston led them over to the far side of the tent. “Here is where I think the bar should be. You see? If you turn around and look through the entrance over there, you’ll be able to watch the sun set as you drink your champagne. What could be more agreeable?”