Free The Marseille Caper by Peter Mayle Page B

end of the nineteenth century. After one final spasm of activity during the 1914–1918 war, when it was turned into a base for a corps of nurses, it was left to rot.
    It wasn’t until the 1960s that Marseille decided to do something about one of its architectural treasures, and after twenty years of painstaking restoration work, La Charité had once again become something that Pierre Puget could be proud of.
    Sam hadn’t known quite what to expect. Reboul’s description had been so extravagant, with so many pauses for fingertips to be kissed, that Sam had prepared himself for a disappointment, or at least a slight letdown. But as he was passing through the double iron gates that guarded the entrance he was stopped in his tracks, stunned by the extraordinary sight in front of him. It was an immense quadrangle, built around a courtyard perhaps a hundred yards long and fifty yards wide. Surrounding the courtyard was a series of three-story buildings, their façades pierced by an elegant succession of arches leading to an interior gallery that ran the entire distance of the ground floor. And in the middle of the courtyard stood a charming domed chapel. Time had softened all the stone to a color somewhere between faded pink and cream, and in the morning sun the entire courtyard glowed.
    Some years before, La Charité had taken on a new role asa home for museums of art and archaeology. Inside the chapel was a permanent sculpture exhibition, and it was here that Patrimonio had arranged to hold the reception. Sam passed through a quartet of massive columns and into the entrance to the chapel, where he was immediately confronted by a large woman holding a clipboard.
    “On est fermé, Monsieur.” The words were uttered—and the inevitable stern finger wagged—with barely disguised satisfaction, as is often the case when French petty authority tells you that what you want to do is impossible. Sam gave her his best smile and showed her his invitation, his dossier, and even his name tag, all of which she peered at with considerable suspicion before standing aside to let him in.
    Inside the chapel, groups of people armed with crates of bottles and glasses hurried to and fro putting the finishing touches to a bar that had been set up in an alcove under the blind stare of a marble statue. Taking up much of the far end of the chapel were three long tables, each draped in a white cloth. The project models, one per table, had been arranged so that the lowest, Reboul’s apartment block, was in the middle, towered over by the skyscrapers on either side. Models were identified by the names of their backers: Wapping Enterprises, London; Van Buren & Partners, New York; and Eiffel International, Paris.
    As far as Sam could see, the installations had been done carefully and correctly. He was bracing himself for another encounter on his way out with the dragon at the door—no doubt to include a strip search in case he’d decided to steal one of the smaller sculptures—when he found he had company.A slim, dark-haired woman in a black pantsuit had arrived, apparently also to inspect the models. She was attractive in that slightly vulpine way brought about by years of strict dieting, and, as Sam quickly noticed, immaculately made up. Late thirties, by the look of her, but who could tell for sure with French women?
    “Hi. See anything you like?”
    The woman turned to face Sam, her eyebrows raised, her blue eyes glacial. “And you are?”
    “Sam Levitt.” He nodded toward his model. “I’m with Van Buren.” He extended his hand, and the woman extended hers, palm down, leaving Sam of three minds as to whether to shake it, kiss it, or admire the manicure.
    “Caroline Dumas. I represent Eiffel. So we are competitors.”
    “Looks like it,” said Sam. “What a pity.”
    Madame Dumas inclined her head and attempted a smile. Sam did the same. She turned away from him to resume her inspection of the models.
    Back outside in the sunlit