he’d seen the piece I did on the Anse des Pêcheurs development, and it had really offended his client.”
“Did he say who his client was?”
“He didn’t need to. After a couple of minutes it was obvious that he was working for the Englishman Wapping.”
“How did he recognize you?”
“It’s the haircut. Remember? There’s a head shot of me at the beginning of the piece. Well, I gave him the usual stuff about the freedom of opinion in the press, and that my editor would probably be happy to give equivalent space in the paper to another point of view. He looked quite pleased with that, nodding and smiling, and then he took out an envelope. A fat envelope.” Philippe paused to take a drink.
“ ‘Exactly,’ this little con said, ‘another point of view. And you’re just the man to write it. Perhaps you might like some encouragement.’ Then he slid the envelope over to me. ‘You’llfind ten thousand euros in there,’ he said, ‘and there’s more where that came from. A nice little earner, and it’s all yours for a couple of favorable pieces. This is just between you and me, you understand. Nobody else needs to know.’ ”
“Suppose you went to the police?” said Sam.
Philippe shook his head. “And tell them what—someone tried to give me ten thousand euros? They’d tell me to get lost.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told him I didn’t take bribes. Grow up, he said. This is France—everyone takes bribes. That was when I lost it. I told him to take his envelope and shove it up his ass. I said that in French, so he probably didn’t understand it, but he would have understood the tone of my voice. And then I left. What do you think I should do?”
“What else can you do? If you don’t have any witnesses, it’s your word against his. And if he works for Wapping, you can be sure there’s a crooked lawyer around somewhere who’d swear that the meeting never happened.” Sam shook his head. “No. Try to forget about it. I don’t think he’ll risk coming back, in case you’re ready for him with a recorder in your pocket. Now, I’ve got something that might cheer you up: a little scoop. I’ve got to work out the details, but here’s the idea.”
Ray Prendergast, his mission unaccomplished, fiddled nervously with the envelope on the desk in front of him while he waited for Lord Wapping to get off the phone. His lordship didn’t take kindly to failure.
The call over, Wapping poked at the envelope with a thick index finger. “So he didn’t bite?”
“Afraid not, Billy.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, the last bit was in French, so I didn’t get all of it. But basically, he told me to piss off.”
“Silly boy. Very silly boy.” Wapping sighed, as if he’d been disappointed by the foolish behavior of a close friend. “Doesn’t leave us much option, does he? You’d better talk to Brian and Dave. Tell them to teach him a lesson. But Ray?” Wapping lowered his voice. “Nothing terminal. Know what I mean? We don’t want any complications. Tell the lads to make it look like an accident.”
There are certain men, blessed from birth, whose character and appearance inspire instant liking. Gaston Poirier was such a man: an oversized cherub with a pear-shaped body, a chubby, red-cheeked face, and a mop of curly gray hair. His brown eyes twinkled, and his mouth seemed to be permanently on the brink of a grin. Reboul had said he was the best fixer in Marseille. Sam had warmed to him at first sight.
They were sitting on the terrace, a bottle of rosé between them. “I haven’t been back to this house since Francis lived here,” said Gaston. “There were some parties then, I can tell you—girls, champagne, more girls. Wonderful times.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to his new project. Tell me all about it.”
As Sam went through the background, Gaston made serious inroads on the rosé , dabbing his forehead between glasseswith a silk handkerchief as though he
“Did he say who his client was?”
“He didn’t need to. After a couple of minutes it was obvious that he was working for the Englishman Wapping.”
“How did he recognize you?”
“It’s the haircut. Remember? There’s a head shot of me at the beginning of the piece. Well, I gave him the usual stuff about the freedom of opinion in the press, and that my editor would probably be happy to give equivalent space in the paper to another point of view. He looked quite pleased with that, nodding and smiling, and then he took out an envelope. A fat envelope.” Philippe paused to take a drink.
“ ‘Exactly,’ this little con said, ‘another point of view. And you’re just the man to write it. Perhaps you might like some encouragement.’ Then he slid the envelope over to me. ‘You’llfind ten thousand euros in there,’ he said, ‘and there’s more where that came from. A nice little earner, and it’s all yours for a couple of favorable pieces. This is just between you and me, you understand. Nobody else needs to know.’ ”
“Suppose you went to the police?” said Sam.
Philippe shook his head. “And tell them what—someone tried to give me ten thousand euros? They’d tell me to get lost.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told him I didn’t take bribes. Grow up, he said. This is France—everyone takes bribes. That was when I lost it. I told him to take his envelope and shove it up his ass. I said that in French, so he probably didn’t understand it, but he would have understood the tone of my voice. And then I left. What do you think I should do?”
“What else can you do? If you don’t have any witnesses, it’s your word against his. And if he works for Wapping, you can be sure there’s a crooked lawyer around somewhere who’d swear that the meeting never happened.” Sam shook his head. “No. Try to forget about it. I don’t think he’ll risk coming back, in case you’re ready for him with a recorder in your pocket. Now, I’ve got something that might cheer you up: a little scoop. I’ve got to work out the details, but here’s the idea.”
Ray Prendergast, his mission unaccomplished, fiddled nervously with the envelope on the desk in front of him while he waited for Lord Wapping to get off the phone. His lordship didn’t take kindly to failure.
The call over, Wapping poked at the envelope with a thick index finger. “So he didn’t bite?”
“Afraid not, Billy.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, the last bit was in French, so I didn’t get all of it. But basically, he told me to piss off.”
“Silly boy. Very silly boy.” Wapping sighed, as if he’d been disappointed by the foolish behavior of a close friend. “Doesn’t leave us much option, does he? You’d better talk to Brian and Dave. Tell them to teach him a lesson. But Ray?” Wapping lowered his voice. “Nothing terminal. Know what I mean? We don’t want any complications. Tell the lads to make it look like an accident.”
There are certain men, blessed from birth, whose character and appearance inspire instant liking. Gaston Poirier was such a man: an oversized cherub with a pear-shaped body, a chubby, red-cheeked face, and a mop of curly gray hair. His brown eyes twinkled, and his mouth seemed to be permanently on the brink of a grin. Reboul had said he was the best fixer in Marseille. Sam had warmed to him at first sight.
They were sitting on the terrace, a bottle of rosé between them. “I haven’t been back to this house since Francis lived here,” said Gaston. “There were some parties then, I can tell you—girls, champagne, more girls. Wonderful times.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to his new project. Tell me all about it.”
As Sam went through the background, Gaston made serious inroads on the rosé , dabbing his forehead between glasseswith a silk handkerchief as though he
Similar Books
