The Vintage Caper (13 page)

“Elena, I want you to hear me out. First of all, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about Sophie Costes. She’s been a real help, and she’s had a couple of great ideas.” He might have been talking to Siberia, but at least she hadn’t hung up. “Now, what you won’t find on her C.V. is that she’s planning to get married in the fall. He’s called Arnaud—a nice, middle-aged guy from Bordeaux with an elderly mother and two Labradors named Lafite and Latour. Oh, and a château, apparently, but not a very big one.”

“Is this what you called to tell me?”

Sam detected a hint of climate change coming down the line. “Partly, yes. I mean, I wanted to put the record straight. I didn’t want you to think I was, well, you know …”

Elena let him dangle for a moment or two before replying. “OK, Sam. You’ve made your point.” She sounded almost friendly. “So, how’s it going down there?”

“Promising. I’ll know for sure in a couple of days.” Sam took Elena through what had happened since the first meeting with Reboul: the day with Vial, the discoveries in the cellar, the call to Lieutenant Bookman, and Philippe’s efforts to help in resolving the question of the fingerprints. “In other words,” said Sam as he came to the end of his report, “progress, but nothing definite. Nothing yet for Roth to get excited about.”

At the mention of her client’s name, Elena said something short and sharp in Spanish. It didn’t sound complimentary.

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Sam. “You know, you should get away from him, take a few days off. Spoil yourself. They say Paris is pretty nice in the spring.”

“Let me know about the prints. Oh, and Sam?” Her voice softened. “Thanks for the call.”

She hung up. Diplomatic relations had been reestablished.

Eighteen

Chez Félix, a spacious, well-kept bar on an unremarkable side street, is a brisk two-minute walk from Marseille police headquarters on the Rue de l’Evêché. Thanks to this convenient location, and the added attraction that the bar’s owner is a retired gendarme, Chez Félix has long been a favorite of police officers seeking liquid consolation after a hard day trading punches with the underworld. A popular feature of the bar is the section at the back, which has been divided into three small booths. Here, delicate matters can be discussed in private. It was in one of these booths that Philippe had arranged to meet Inspector Andreis.

The inspector, lean and grizzled, with the watchful eyes of a man who has seen more than his share of trouble, arrived just as Philippe was taking delivery of two glasses of pastis, a squat, potbellied jug of ice cubes and water, and a small saucer of green olives.

“I ordered for you,” said Philippe as the two men shook hands. “You’re still drinking Ricard?”

Andreis nodded and watched as Philippe added water to their glasses, turning the pale-yellow liquid cloudy. “That’s enough,” he said with a grin. “Don’t drown it.”

Philippe raised his glass. “Let’s drink to retirement,” he said. “How long is it now?”

“Another eight months, two weeks, and four days.” Andreis looked at his watch. “Plus overtime. And then, thank God, I’m off to Corsica.” He took a creased photograph from his pocket and placed it on the table. It showed a modest stone-built house set in a silvery-green sea of olive trees, planted in orderly lines that radiated out from the house like spokes in a wheel. “Three hundred and sixty-four trees. In a good year, that’s about five hundred liters of oil.” Andreis looked fondly at his future home. “I’ll cultivate my olives, and I’ll spoil my granddaughter. I’ll eat those
figatelli
sausages and that
brocciu
cheese, and drink red wine from Patrimonio. I’ll get a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.” He sat back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, stretched, and contemplated the rest of his life with a smile. “But somehow I don’t think you wanted to see me just to hear about my old age.” He cocked his head. Philippe started talking.

By the time the story had been told, the glasses were empty. The waiter came with more pastis and a fresh jug of iced water. Andreis nibbled on an olive and waited in silence until he had gone.

When he spoke, his voice was low and cautious. “I don’t have to tell you what a powerful man Reboul is in this town. One doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. Also, he’s not a bad guy—a bit of a showman, it’s true, but I’ve heard good things about him over the years.” Andreis dabbed a finger in the tiny puddle of condensation that had formed around the base of his glass. “And, from what you say, we don’t know for sure that he’s done anything wrong.” He raised a hand as Philippe leaned forward to speak. “I know, I know. Checking those prints is one way to find out. If it turns out that they match, well …”

“That would suggest a crime. Wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so. Yes, you’re right.” Andreis nodded and sighed. This was not something he wanted to get involved in. Poking your nose into the affairs of powerful and influential men had a way of ending badly for the owner of the nose. On the other hand, he didn’t see how he could ignore it. It obviously had the makings of a big story. And the man sitting opposite him was a journalist; he wasn’t going to let it go. Andreis sighed again, the virtuoso sigh of a man faced with a decision he’d rather not make.

“OK. I’ll tell you what I can do. I can let you have a print man for a couple of hours, but only if you guarantee that Reboul and his people are kept out of it, at least until we’ve checked the prints. Can you promise that?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“The last thing I need is Reboul calling his old friend the
préfet de police
to complain about the inappropriate use of official resources. So don’t screw up.” Andreis took a pen from his pocket, jotted down a name and number on a beer mat, and pushed it across to Philippe. “Grosso. We’ve worked together for twenty years. He’s reliable, he’s quick, and he’s discreet. I’ll have a word with him tonight. You can call him in the morning.”

“It might work,” said Sam. “If it were Reboul, I’m sure it would work. But with Vial? I don’t know. Does he have a twinkle in his eye?”

Sophie took another piece of bread from the basket and used it to polish the last rich drops of
bourride
—Marseille’s pungent fish soup—from her plate. They were having dinner in a fish restaurant by the port, and the topic of the evening was Florian Vial: how to get him out of the cellar while the bottles were being checked for prints.

Sophie’s suggestion was simplicity itself: she would take him to lunch, a special lunch, to thank him for his help. Sam would be left in charge of the cellar, officially to catch up on the white wines he’d missed on the first visit; unofficially, to point out the suspected stolen bottles for the man who would be taking the prints.

It was true that the idea depended on Vial’s being susceptible to a pretty woman, but here Sophie was optimistic. After all, Vial was French. And as she explained, Frenchmen of Vial’s background and age had been brought up to appreciate the opposite sex, to enjoy their company, and to be gallant when dealing with them. She knew several men of a similar type in Bordeaux—charming, attentive, pleasantly flirtatious. They were gentlemen who liked women. Perhaps they would never go quite so far as to pinch a woman’s bottom, but they’d certainly think about it. And they would never pass up the chance of a good lunch with an attractive companion.

There was an amused expression on Sophie’s face as she looked over at Sam. He’d been wrestling with
calmars à l’encre
, tiny squid cooked in their ink, and judging by the dark stains on the napkin tucked into his shirt collar the squid had not surrendered without a fight.

“The problem is, Sam, that you don’t understand French men. You’ll see. It will be fine. Let me call Philippe to ask him if there’s a good restaurant not far from the Palais.” She took her napkin, moistened a corner of it with water from the ice bucket, and passed it over to him. “Here. You look as if you’re wearing black lipstick.” She left Sam to clean up and order coffee while she called her cousin.

The next morning, they arrived at the cellar a little after 10:30 to find Vial full of the joys of spring. A colleague in Beaune had just called to tell him that he had been selected to be the guest of honor at a dinner given by the Chevaliers du Tastevin. It was a considerable mark of respect, even more so because all the fine old traditions were going to be observed. The dinner—an intimate affair with invitations restricted to two hundred prominent Burgundians—would take place in the Clos de Vougeot, the headquarters of the Chevaliers du Tastevin. The Chevaliers would be wearing their ceremonial long red robes for the occasion. Music would be provided by the Joyeux Bourgignons, those masters of the drinking song. And the wines, needless to say, would be copious and exquisite.

Vial’s high good humor was tempered only slightly by the prospect of having to give a speech, but Sophie reassured him. “To hear you talk about wine,” she said, “is like hearing poetry. I could listen all day.” Before the flustered Vial could recover from the compliment, Sophie went on. “But Florian—if I may—this has fallen very well. I was going to ask you to lunch today, to thank you for all your help. And now we can celebrate at the same time. It’s such beautiful weather, I thought we might get a table on the terrace at Péron. You will say yes, won’t you?” This time, Sam was certain that she actually did flutter her eyelashes.

Vial made a point of consulting his diary, but he was clearly delighted, and he put up only token resistance and the merest semblance of regret when Sophie told him that Sam would have to stay behind to finish the work he still had to do among the white wines.

The next two hours passed slowly. Vial took Sophie off to introduce her to the glories of Reboul’s red wines, with particular emphasis, this morning, on the Burgundies, where he could gain some inspiration for his forthcoming speech. Meanwhile, Sam found a distant corner among the champagnes where he could use his phone.

“Philippe? Sophie tells me that you’ve found a guy to take the prints. A plainclothes guy, I hope.”

Philippe chuckled. “Of course. You know what they say, my friend: if you want something done, ask a journalist. I spoke to him this morning. He says he’s ready when we are.”

“Well, today’s the day. Lunchtime, around 12:45, and not before. Is that OK?”

“How do we get in?”

“The main gates are left open during the day, and you don’t have to go anywhere near the house. Come to the delivery area in front of the cellar. It’s marked, on the left of the drive. I’ll let you in. And Philippe?”

“What?”

“Just make sure you don’t turn up in a police car.”

It would be difficult to imagine a more agreeable place to have lunch on a fine sunny day than the terrace at Péron. High on the Corniche Kennedy, the restaurant offers an irresistible combination of fresh fish, fresh air, and a glittering view of the Frioul islands and the Château d’If. It is a setting to sharpen the appetite and bring on a holiday mood, and it had an instant effect on Florian Vial’s sense of chivalry. Waving aside the waiter, he insisted on pulling out Sophie’s chair and making sure she was comfortably settled before sitting down himself.

He rubbed his hands and took a deep breath of sea air. “Delightful, delightful. What an excellent choice, my dear madame. This is a real treat.”

Sophie inclined her head. “Please call me Sophie. I thought perhaps we might start with a glass of champagne? But then you must choose the wine. I’m sure you have some little local favorites.”

This set Vial off, as Sophie guessed it would, on a verbal tour of Provençal vineyards. “There have been vines here,” he began, “since 600 b.c., when the Phocians founded Marseille.” And from there, interrupted only by the arrival of champagne and menus, he took Sophie from Cassis to Bandol and beyond, going east to Palette and west to Bellet, with a lengthy detour to visit the underappreciated wines of the Languedoc. The man was a walking encyclopedia, Sophie thought, and he had an enthusiasm for his subject that she found infectious and rather endearing.

They chose from the menu, and Vial selected a bone-dry white from Cassis to accompany the
loup de mer
. Sophie took advantage of the pause to ask Vial about himself, and his years with Reboul.

It was, as Vial said, a happy story with a tragic beginning. Thirty-five years ago, when Reboul was working on his early deals, he hired Vial’s father as the financial director of what was then a fairly small company. The two men became friends. The company flourished. Young Florian, an only child, was showing signs of promise at university. The future looked rosy.

That future disappeared, in shocking fashion, one winter’s night in Marseille. It was one of those rare years when freezing snow had fallen on the city. The roads were slick with black ice, conditions that very few Provençal drivers know how to handle. Vial’s father and mother had been to the movies, and were driving home when a truck skidded sideways into their car, crushing it against a concrete wall. The car’s occupants died instantly.

What happened then changed Vial’s life. Reboul took his friend’s son under his wing. He encouraged his early interest in wine and paid for him to attend a six-month course in viticulture at the wine institute of Carpentras, followed by a year’s apprenticeship working for
négociants
in Burgundy and Bordeaux. During the year, it became apparent that the young man had an exceptional palate. This was confirmed by a final six months in Paris under the eye of the legendary Hervé Bouchon, who at the time was the best sommelier in France. Acting on Bouchon’s recommendation, Reboul decided to take young Vial on as his corporate
caviste
, with a mandate to put together the best private cellar in France, and gave him a generous budget to help him do it.

“That was a long time ago,” said Vial, “nearly thirty years. I don’t know where I’d have been now if it hadn’t been for him.” His thoughtful expression brightened as the waiter came to take their orders for the last course. “If you permit, we might try with our dessert the closest thing Provence has to one of those Sauternes you Bordelais do so well. A glass of
muscat
from Beaumes-de-Venise. Can I tempt you?”

Vial’s story had left Sophie feeling a little confused, and she found herself beginning to hope that Reboul wasn’t guilty. Even if he was, a small voice was telling her, it would be a shame if he didn’t get away with it. She stole a glance at her watch and wondered how Sam was getting on.

• • •

Philippe and Grosso, a slight, neatly dressed man with a black attaché case that he described to Philippe as his box of tricks, had arrived in an unmarked car ten minutes before one o’clock, to find Sam waiting at the door. It was Philippe’s first visit to the cellar, and the sight of row upon row of bottles stretching away beneath the vaulted ceilings of rose-pink brick rendered him almost speechless.
“Merde,”
was all he could say.
“Merde.”
Grosso let out a soft whistle.