Read Online The Corsican Caper by Peter Mayle - Free Book Online Page B

here to set up.” Sam patted his pockets, and came up with a page torn from his diary. “Let’s see now—I was told to ask for a Monsieur Martin.”
    The receptionist frowned, disturbing the symmetry of two perfectly plucked eyebrows. “I’m sorry. There’s nobody of that name here. Are you sure it wasn’t Monsieur Morton?”
    Sam slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Of course,” he said. “Trust me to get things wrong. Would Monsieur Morton be available for a quick chat?”
    The frown deepened, the receptionist apologized again. Monsieur Morton was away on a business trip to Shanghai, and there was no one else available.
    “What a bummer,” said Sam. “I don’t think we can count that as a great success, do you? Maybe a glass of
rosé
would help.”
    They were sitting on the terrace of the Café de Paris,looking out across the Place du Casino. Elena, whose fascination for ghoulish details never failed to surprise Sam, was studying the façade of the casino. “Those guys, the heavy gamblers who lose everything at the tables,” she said, “where do you think they go to commit suicide?”
    “Glad you asked,” said Sam. “It’s usually under one of those big palm trees over there. If not, the other places should be listed in that little guidebook of yours. Under S.”
    The wine arrived, and they sat back to enjoy the ever-changing view of the mixed bag of tourists who invade Monaco every summer. As ever, the women’s outfits were more stimulating than the endless baseball caps and cargo pants worn by the men, and Sam was enjoying the current fad for short shorts and high heels. Elena was less impressed by another popular summer fashion—white skirts or dresses billowing with layer upon layer of frills that reminded her of her grandma’s vintage lampshades. She was elaborating on that theme—“Those dresses are for ten-year-olds with tanned legs”—when Sam’s phone rang.
    It was Gail, calling from New York, where the time was just past 7 a.m. When Sam complimented her on her early start, she told him that she’d already been to the gym and had had her protein smoothie breakfast.
    “OK,” she said. “About this Escargot Investments setup. It’s complicated, which always makes me think there’s some funny business going on. The company’s registered in Monaco, but it’s owned by a trust in the Cayman Islands,which in turn is owned by an
Anstalt
in Lichtenstein, with branches in Zurich and Nassau. In other words, whoever the real owner is doesn’t want the world to know about it.”
    “But there must be people with names somewhere,” said Sam.
    “Sure there are—the front men for the trusts, who are usually local lawyers. That doesn’t get us anywhere. I’ll keep trying. I have a friend in Nassau who owes me a favor. I’ll ask him to see what he can dig up.”
    “Gail, you’re a princess.”
    “I have just one word for you, Sam Levitt—Daniel.” And with that, the line went dead.
    While Sam had been talking, Elena had been studying the menu, nodding her head with evident satisfaction. “Liver and bacon—which you never get in the States anymore—and then
profiteroles
with hot chocolate sauce,” she said. She closed the menu with a snap, and leaned forward. “So tell me, what did your snoop find out?”
    A very pleasant hour passed, and they were having a second cup of coffee when Elena peered over the top of her sunglasses across the Place du Casino. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Look who’s here, with his favorite aunt.” And there, strolling through the crowd, was Olivier, his arm around the waist of an extremely pretty blonde who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.
    “I’ve noticed it before,” said Sam. “They do have very young aunts over here. I think it’s the Mediterranean climate.”He took out his phone and called Olivier. “Could you pick us up in about ten minutes? We’re at the Café de Paris.” Olivier swung around, saw them,