The Vintage Caper (15 page)

“Elena, don’t bite,” he said. “It’s me. Your man in the field.”

Sam could hear her take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sam, I’m sorry. But I’ve just had the daily earful from Danny Roth. I thought it was him calling back. He’s always doing that. I think he knows it drives me crazy.” Elena followed this with a short but blistering tirade in Spanish, ending with a fusillade of expletives and another deep breath. “I needed that. OK, now tell me what’s happening.”

“The good news is that I’m pretty sure we’ve found the wine. Roth’s fingerprints are on some of the bottles in Reboul’s cellar, and the guy who did the match works for the police down here. So it’s solid evidence.”

“That’s wonderful, Sam. Great work. Congratulations.” But she didn’t sound ready to celebrate just yet. “Tell me I’m wrong, but I get the feeling there’s some bad news as well.”

“Could be. Reboul may have done it, but he’s smart. It’s more than likely he’s covered his tracks with fake invoices and all kinds of paperwork. If that’s what we find he’s done, we can say hello to the lawyers, and I don’t have to tell you what that means: a million bucks in legal fees, and the case tied up for months. Maybe years.”

“Not to mention a lawsuit to decide who pays the legal fees.”

“Exactly. The problem is we won’t know how he’s covered himself until we make a move on him, and then there’s no going back. So I’m beginning to have a few thoughts about plan B.”

“Does it involve homicide and a well-known L.A. entertainment lawyer? Can I come?”

“You know me, Elena. I don’t do homicides. Listen, there’s something I need to know. In a case like this, what’s the bottom line? What do you absolutely have to have in order to avoid paying out that claim?”

“OK. It boils down to three things: discovery, identification, and condition. We have to know the whereabouts of the stolen goods. We need cast-iron confirmation that they
are
the stolen goods. And we have to be satisfied that they are still in good condition; ideally, the same condition they were in when stolen. There are dozens of supplementary details, but essentially if those three points stack up, then we’re off the hook.”

“And who does all the checking? Is it you or is it Roth?”

“Are you kidding? Would you take Roth’s word for anything? You know that old saying, ‘Good morning, he lied’? Well, that’s Danny Roth. No, the verification is done by us—in this case, by me and a couple of experts—and then we get Roth to sign off on it. And then I push him over a cliff.”

“Thank you, Ms. Morales. That will be all. I’ll be in touch.”

“What’s plan B?”

“Trust me. You don’t want to know about it. Good night, Elena.”

“Good night, Sam.”

Twenty

The night was dragging, as if the clocks had slowed down, and Sam’s mind was far too busy to let him sleep. Scotch, normally a sure soporific, had no effect. Even a CNN special on the renaissance of the Nigerian banking system was unable to work its soothing magic. He was wide, wide awake.

He put on a sweater and went out onto his terrace, hoping the sharp night air would succeed where whisky and television had failed. He stared at the moon hanging above the Vieux Port. Almost full. He checked his watch. Almost three a.m. He wondered where he’d be this time tomorrow. He wondered if it would work, if he’d thought of everything. And he wondered if the others would go along with it.

Dawn found him still on the terrace; cold and stiff, but not at all tired. In fact, he felt as though his sleepless night had given him a shot of adrenaline, and he was impatient to get on with the day. He called room service to order breakfast, and stood under a scalding shower until his skin started to redden through its California tan.

He did his best to dawdle over coffee and the
Herald Tribune
, but it was still too early to call Sophie and Philippe. He decided to take a walk, and on leaving the hotel instinctively turned right, in the direction of the Palais du Pharo.

The great iron gates hadn’t yet been opened for the day, and he stood looking through the black bars toward the immense green carpet of lawn that led up to the house. Vial wouldn’t be in his cellar much before ten, and the domestic staff who worked for Reboul would be taking advantage of his absence in Corsica to have an extra half hour in bed. It was surprisingly quiet for a spot so close to the center of the city. Behind him, he could hear the murmur of traffic as Marseille hurried about its early-morning business, and the mournful hoot of a ship’s siren coming from the direction of the docks beyond the Vieux Port. The sound prompted him to set off down the hill to the Quai des Belges, to see the catch of the day being set out for the fish market.

The fishing boats normally get in between 8:00 and 8:30 a.m., but the ladies of the market are there before them, their stands empty and waiting and freshly scrubbed. A traditional feature of the market—almost a tourist attraction in itself—is the often ripe vocabulary of these ladies, delivered with relish by voices powerful enough to compete with a force-eight mistral. Sam regretted that his level of French wasn’t quite high enough, or perhaps low enough, and most of the unprintable nuances escaped him. He thought he’d like to come back with Philippe as his interpreter.

The boats had started to tie up to the quay, and the badinage of the ladies increased in volume, accompanied by the soft slap of fish being arranged on the stands, eyes still bright and scales gleaming. In ones and twos, the first customers started to arrive. In the time-honored manner of the French when shopping for anything edible, they looked deeply suspicious as they went from one stand to the next—peering into the eyes of a
rascasse
, sniffing the gills of
a galinette
, weighing the attractions of a grilled
daurade
against the delights of a
bouillabaisse
.

Sam’s first and only encounter with this legendary dish—an experience that still made him shudder—had been in New Orleans, when he had been persuaded to try something called
bouillabaisse Créole
. It had been sufficiently nasty to make him ask the waiter about the ingredients. These turned out to include flour, oysters, margarine, and chicken broth. It was an odd mixture for a fish stew. He promised himself a genuine
bouillabaisse
one day. It was another reason to return to Marseille, a city he found himself liking more and more.

Without realizing, he had drifted close enough to one of the stands to arouse the sales instinct of the proprietor, a vast, weather-beaten woman wearing a faded baseball cap and heavy-duty rubber gloves.
“Eh, monsieur!”
she bellowed at him.
“Comme il est beau, ce loup!”
She picked up a large and splendid sea bass and thrust it toward him, a smile splitting her brick-red face. Sam made the mistake of nodding and smiling back. Before he could stop her, she had picked up a knife and gutted the
loup
with lethal speed and precision before starting to wrap it. Not a woman to argue with, Sam thought. He bought the fish.

As he started off back to the hotel, the clammy package tucked under his arm, he made a mental note to write down the recipe the woman had passed on to him. So simple, she had said, even a man like him could do it. Make two deep cuts in your fish, one on each side, and stick two or three short pieces of fennel in each cut. Paint the fish with olive oil. Grill on each side for six or seven minutes. Using a fireproof serving dish, place the fish on a bed of dried fennel stalks. Warm a soup ladle filled with Armagnac, set light to it, and pour it over the serving dish. The fennel catches fire, scents the air, and flavors the fish.
“Une merveille,”
she had said.

His phone was ringing as he came into the hotel lobby.

“Where are you?” said Philippe. “Ah, there you are—I see you.” He waved at Sam from the table where he was sitting with coffee and newspapers.

“I’ll be right back,” said Sam. “I have to get rid of this fish.”

Philippe showed no surprise. “Of course,” he said, as though a man wearing a business suit and a large dead fish were an everyday sight. “Sophie’s on her way down.”

Sam approached the desk of the concierge, holding his catch in front of him with both hands. “My compliments to the chef,” he said, placing the fish on the desk, “and I would like him to have this
loup de mer
. It’s fresh from the market.”

The concierge inclined his head and smiled. “Of course, monsieur. How very kind. I’ll see that he gets it immediately. Will there be anything else?”

Sam went back to join the others, with a mental tip of the hat to the concierge for his
sangfroid
. Jeeves would have been proud of him.

There was an air of expectancy about Sophie and Philippe, and Sam wasted no time getting started. “I have an idea,” he said. “But before I get to that, let me go over some of the background again. Stop me if you disagree with any of it. Now, we’re sure beyond a reasonable doubt that the stolen wine is in the cellar, and we have Roth’s fingerprints as proof. So we could blow the whistle on Reboul and go home. But what would happen then? The police would be all over him and Vial, and lawyers would get involved. If Reboul has covered his tracks—and I’m pretty sure he will have done that very thoroughly—all we can be sure of is that this whole business will take months to resolve. Probably years. Meanwhile, the wine will be taken into custody as evidence. And there will probably be a press embargo that would stop Philippe writing about a delicate case affecting a prominent man’s reputation. Reboul’s lawyers would make sure of that. I’d bet on it.” Sam stopped to let this sink in. “Any questions so far?”

Sophie said nothing. Philippe chewed his lower lip and looked thoughtful. Sam went on. “There’s another aspect to this which I don’t think any of us anticipated. It turns out that Reboul and Vial seem to be pretty good guys. We like them, and we wouldn’t want to see them in trouble, and possibly in jail. Am I right, Sophie?”

Sophie nodded. “I think it would be a shame.”

“Me, too.” Sam rubbed his eyes. They were beginning to feel gritty from his lack of sleep. “OK. Now, I spent most of last night on this, and I think it could work. Worth a try, anyway, because it has a lot going for it.” Sam counted off the points on his fingers. “Number one, it lets Reboul and Vial off the hook. Number two, it gives Philippe another, maybe better story—a mystery, and he would be in the middle of it. Number three, it means that Sophie and I will have done our job for the people at Knox Insurance. We’ll have tracked down the wine. There’s only one snag. Up till now, we haven’t committed any serious crime—perhaps a little harmless misrepresentation, that’s all. But what I have in mind is illegal.”

Philippe was back in his preferred position, perched on the edge of his seat, his feet starting to twitch. “How illegal?”

“I thought I’d steal the wine.”

Sophie laughed, and shook her head.
“Mais c’est fou
. You’re crazy.”

Philippe held up his hand. “Just a minute.” He looked behind him as he leaned forward, every inch the conspirator. Anyone watching would have marked him down instantly as a man discussing a guilty secret. His voice was little more than a whisper. “You’ve worked out how to do it?”

“Absolutely.”

Sophie had stopped laughing. “But Sam, we would be the obvious suspects. Reboul tells the police about this strange couple spending days in his cellar, and they find us, and then it is not him in jail. It’s us. No?”

Sam shook his head. “We could argue that what we’re doing here is to recover stolen property on behalf of the client of an international, highly reputable insurance company. Our methods are a bit unorthodox, that’s all. But more important: what’s Reboul going to say? Someone’s stolen the wine I stole? I don’t think so. No matter how good his lawyers are, he won’t want Interpol on his back. No, I’m pretty sure he’ll keep quiet.”

Philippe gave up chewing his lip to pour some more coffee. “Sam, you said something about a better story.” He looked at Sophie, and added quickly, “That is, if we decide to go ahead.”

“Right. It begins with that old favorite, the anonymous tip-off—you must have had dozens of them before. Sometimes the motive is revenge, sometimes it’s guilt, sometimes it’s just mischief. Anyway, you receive a call from a stranger. He refuses to identify himself. He tells you about an extraordinary cache of wine that has been left in a remote spot—we’ll come to that later—and he tells you that it has been stolen. Perhaps he’s stolen it himself and can’t unload it. But he doesn’t go into details. In fact, there are no other details. Just directions that lead to the hiding place. You don’t really believe him, but you go there. What a surprise: you find the wine, just as your anonymous caller said. And there’s chapter one of your story.”

Philippe nodded slowly. “Not a bad start. And I think I can see where it’s going.”

“I’m sure you can. You investigate. You call all your contacts. And little by little, maybe article by article, you pick up clues that lead you to Los Angeles, where you interview Danny Roth and get his take on how the wine was stolen: Christmas Eve, the crooked caretaker, the ambulance, everything. That part is clear. The other part—who stole the wine—remains an unsolved mystery; Reboul and Vial are left out of it.” Sam looked from Sophie to Philippe. “What do you think?”

“I like it,” said Philippe. “It could make a great series, like a
feuilleton
on television.” His feet danced a little jig of approval.

They both turned to look at Sophie.

It took some time to convince her that larceny was their best option. She tried to argue that they could just forget the whole thing and go home, but Sam reminded her it was too late for that: he had told Elena Morales. Knox International already knew the wine had been found, and they would follow up, with or without Sam. And so, after considerable soul-searching on Sophie’s part, it was agreed. They would steal the wine.

Philippe was able to provide the solution to the next problem, which was where the wine could be hidden. His grandmother had owned a farm and a few acres of land on the Claparèdes, an isolated area in the Luberon. When Philippe was growing up, he used to spend the summers there, a pleasant family tradition that ended when his grandmother died. Unfortunately, she had left no will, which provoked a bitter inheritance squabble—not uncommon in France—between relatives who thought they were entitled to the property. This had been going on for thirteen years so far, and showed no sign of resolution. Meanwhile, the farm was uninhabited and sadly neglected. None of the competing relatives was prepared to pay to maintain a property that might eventually go to someone else—an undeserving wretch of a cousin, for instance, or the universally detested Aunt Hortense. Apart from its extremely remote location, Philippe said, the property had the advantage of a good-sized cellar, where the wine could be kept without risk of deterioration.

“Sounds ideal,” said Sam. “Can you get in?”

“The key’s hidden under a stone behind the well. Or there’s a shutter that never worked on the kitchen window. One way or another, getting in won’t be a problem.”

“Fine. The next thing is transportation, and I don’t think your scooter’s going to be enough. Are you OK to drive a small van?”

Philippe sat up straight, an indignant expression on his face. “All Frenchmen can drive anything.”

“I thought so. We’ll rent something this afternoon.” Sam turned to Sophie. “Here’s where I’m going to need your help. I have to get into the house before it’s shut up for the night. My excuse for wandering around is that we have to take reference photographs, and the best time for that is in the evening, when the light’s really good. As soon as I get the chance, I’ll disappear. If Vial or anyone else asks where I am, you can say I had to go into town for a meeting. You keep taking photographs until the staff begins to leave, then get back to the hotel.” Sophie was frowning. “Then what happens?”