The Vintage Caper (7 page)

Eleven

Sam had never been to Marseille, but he’d seen
The French Connection
and read one or two breathless articles by travel writers, and he thought he knew what to expect. There would be villainous characters—undoubtedly trainee Mafia executives—lurking on every street corner. The fish market on the Quai des Belges would be a conduit for substances not normally found inside fish: sea bass stuffed with heroin, or grouper with a cocaine garnish. Pickpockets and
voyous
of all kinds would be conveniently placed to relieve the unwary tourist of camera, wallet, or handbag. In every respect, it would echo Somerset Maugham’s summing-up of the Côte d’Azur—“a sunny place for shady people.” It sounded interesting.

Sophie, who had visited the city once, some years before, did little to change Sam’s expectations. Compared with the ordered gentility of Bordeaux, Marseille as she remembered it was a scruffy, crowded labyrinth, teeming with raucous, often rather sinister-looking men and women.
“Louche”
was the word she used to describe both the city and its inhabitants—that is, as the dictionary puts it, “shifty, suspicious, dubious and equivocal.” She wondered how her cousin Philippe could live, apparently happily, in such a place. But then, as she said to Sam, she had often thought there was a slightly
louche
side to him.

When they arrived at Marignane airport that afternoon, such dark thoughts were immediately dispelled by the dramatic, almost blinding clarity of the light, the thick Gauloise blue of the sky, and the amiable nature of the taxi driver who was taking them to their hotel. It soon became clear that he had missed his vocation; he should have been working for the tourist office. According to him, Marseille was the center of the universe, whereas Paris was no more than a pimple on the map. Marseille, having been established more than 2,600 years ago, was a treasure trove of history, tradition, and culture. The restaurants of Marseille were the reason God made fish. And the people of Marseille were the most generous and warmhearted souls one could wish to meet.

Sophie had been taking this in without comment, although her half smile and raised eyebrows suggested that she wasn’t entirely convinced. She took advantage of a pause for breath to ask the driver what he thought of Francis Reboul.

“Ah, Sissou, the king of Marseille!” The driver’s voice took on a respectful tone. “Now
there’s
a man who should be running the country. A man of the people, despite his billions. Imagine, a man who plays
boules
with his chauffeur! A man who could live anywhere, and where does he choose to live? Not in Paris, not in Monte Carlo, not in Switzerland, but right here in Marseille, in the Palais du Pharo, where he can look out of his window and see the most beautiful view in the world—the Vieux Port, the Mediterranean, the Château d’If, the magnificent church of Notre-Dame de la Garde …
Merde!”

The driver stamped on his brakes and reversed, weaving backward through a chorus of horn-blowing from the oncoming flow of traffic until he reached the short driveway leading to the hotel. With apologies for having overshot the destination, he dropped them off, gave Sophie his card, beamed his appreciation of Sam’s tip, and wished them a memorable stay in Marseille.

On her cousin Philippe’s advice, Sophie had made reservations at the Sofitel Vieux Port, a modern hotel with a view of the twelfth-century Fort Saint-Jean, one of a trio of forts that had been built to keep pirates and seagoing Parisians at bay. Up in his room, Sam slid back the window, went out onto the terrace, and took a deep breath of salt air. Not bad, he thought, as he looked down across the sweep of the city. Not bad at all. Spring had come early to Marseille, and the reflection of sun bouncing off water seemed to have polished the air and made it glitter. The masts of hundreds of small boats made a floating forest of the port. Out to sea, the Château d’If was in silhouette, flat, sharp, and clear. Sam wondered if Reboul’s view could be any better than this.

He went down to meet Sophie in the lobby, and found her pacing up and down, cell phone pressed to her ear. As she finished the call, she came over, glancing at her watch.

“That was Philippe,” she said. “He suggests we meet for a drink in half an hour.”

“They start early in Marseille. Is he coming here?”

Sophie sighed and shook her head. “It’s never simple with Philippe. He wants to show us one of his little bars where tourists never go. It’s in Le Panier. He says it’s a nice walk from here,
typiquement marseillais
. Are you ready for that?”

They stopped at the front desk to pick up a map and set off down the hill toward the Vieux Port. As they walked, Sophie passed on what little she knew about Le Panier. The oldest part of Marseille, once the home of fishermen, Corsicans, and Italians, it became a hiding place during the war for Jewish refugees and others trying to escape from the Nazis. In a particularly thorough act of retribution, the Nazis ordered the area to be evacuated in 1943, and then blew most of it up.

“Philippe knows many stories about that time,” said Sophie. “After the war, the
quartier
was rebuilt—I would say not very beautifully—and now the people who live here are mostly Arabs.”

They were crossing the quay at the end of the Vieux Port, making their way through the knots of tourists and students who were waiting for the ferry that would take them to the Château d’If. A row of old men, blinking like lizards in the sun, perched on a low wall looking at girls. A couple of dogs sniffed around the area where the fish market had been that morning. Infants in strollers took the air while their mothers chatted. It was a wholesome, peaceful scene, and Sam felt distinctly let down.

“It doesn’t seem very dangerous to me,” he said. “Where are all the muggers? Don’t they work on Fridays? I still haven’t had my pocket picked and you still have your handbag, and we’ve been in Marseille for nearly an hour. These guys are losing their touch.”

Sophie patted his arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll ask Philippe. He can tell you where to go for a good—how do you say—mug?” She stopped to consult the map. “We need to find the Montée des Acoules, just before the cathedral. And look, this is interesting. Our closest neighbor is Reboul.” She pointed to the map, and there was the Palais du Pharo, only a few hundred meters from the hotel.

The atmosphere changed as soon as they left the breezy, open spaces bordering the port. The sun disappeared. The Montée was steep and gloomy and narrow, barely the width of a car. Buildings that might have had a certain shabby charm in the sunshine looked merely drab. The only signs of life were the spicy wafts of cooking and the wail of North African pop music that came from the windows of the houses they passed. They turned left into an alley.

“I think the bar is at the end of this street,” said Sophie, “in
a placette
with no name. I don’t know how Philippe finds these places.”

“These
louche
guys always know the best addresses. But to be fair, you said he wanted us to see something
typiquement marseillais.”

This caused Sophie to produce a pout with sound effects, blowing out a disdainful gust of air between pursed lips. It was a quintessentially French performance, and one that Sam had tried to emulate many times without much success. Somehow, his pouts always sounded more like flatulence than disdain. He had come to the conclusion that one needed Gallic lips.

They walked on to the end of the alley and out into a tiny square. In the middle stood a small but determined plane tree that had managed to survive despite its close-fitting collar of concrete. And in one corner, its windows covered with inspirational soccer slogans daubed in white paint—
ALLEZ LES BLEUS!
and
DROIT AU BUT!
being the favorites—was the bar. Faded letters above the entrance announced it as Le Sporting. Parked outside was a dusty black Peugeot motor scooter.

Sam pushed the door open, causing the dense haze of tobacco smoke to quiver in the current of fresh air. Conversation stopped. A group of men with ravaged, rutted faces looked up from their card game. Two others turned from the bar to stare. The only smile in the room came from a burly, dark-haired figure—a great bear of a man—sitting at a table in the corner. He stood up, spreading his arms wide, and bore down on Sophie.
“Ah, ma petite cousine,”
he said, kissing her with great enthusiasm twice on each cheek,
“enfin à Marseille. Bienvenue, bienvenue.”
He turned his attention to Sam and changed languages. “And you must be American Sam.” He seized Sam’s hand and pumped it energetically. “Welcome to Marseille. What do you drink?” He leaned close and dropped his voice.
“Entre nous
, I would avoid the wine of the house if you want to live through the day. Pastis, perhaps? Beer? Or there is an excellent Corsican whisky. Sit down, sit down.”

Sam took a look around. The décor had long ago seen better days. Most of the checkered tiles on the floor had worn through to the concrete. The ceiling, once white, was a deep, nicotine-stained brown. The tables and chairs were shiny with age. But maybe it had hidden virtues.

“Nice place,” said Sam. “Do they do weddings?”

“Only funerals,” said Philippe with a grin. “Apart from that, it’s quiet. Very discreet. I use it for meeting local politicians who don’t want to be seen talking to the press.”

“Don’t they have phones?”

Philippe clicked his tongue. “Phones can be tapped. You should know that, living in America.” He turned around and called toward the bar.
“Mimine, s’il te plaît? On est presque mort de soif.”

“J’arrive, j’arrive.”
Mimine’s voice, a pleasant light baritone, came from behind a wooden bead curtain at the back of the bar, immediately followed by its owner. She was an impressive sight: over six feet in her high heels, a curly mop of the kind of red hair that glows in the dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, enormous gold hoop earrings, and a truly monumental bosom, much of it visible, with the rest struggling to escape from an orange tank top two sizes too small. She stood by the table, hands on hips, her eyes fixed on Sam. Nodding toward him, she spoke to Philippe—a torrent of words delivered at breakneck speed in an accent that sounded vaguely like French, ending with a throaty cackle. Philippe laughed. Sophie blushed. Sam hadn’t understood a word.

“Mimine likes the look of you,” said Philippe, still laughing. “I won’t tell you what she suggested, but don’t worry. You’re safe as long as you stay with me.”

They ordered, and Mimine took much more time than necessary bending over to place Sam’s pastis in front of him. For the first time in his life, he was being leered at. It was odd, but not altogether unpleasant.

“Now, Philippe,” said Sophie, “stop laughing. Enough of this foolishness. Sam will tell you why we have come to Marseille.”

Starting with the robbery in Los Angeles and ending with the discovery of Florian Vial’s business cards in Bordeaux, Sam went through everything that he thought Philippe needed to know. The big man paid close attention, asking the occasional question and making notes from time to time. When Sam had finished, Philippe sat in silence for a few moments, tapping his pen on his notebook.

“Bon
. Well, I can get you everything we have on Reboul, which is a lot. It’s not enough, though, is it?”

Sam shook his head. “We need to see him.”

“If he’s here in Marseille, that’s no problem. He can never resist an interview. Of course, you must have a good story.”

“And we need to see his wine cellar.”

“Ah. In that case, you must have a very good story.” Philippe smiled, and tapped his notebook again. “And talking of stories, there may be something in this for me.” He shrugged. “You never know.”

“What do you mean?”

“A scoop, my dear Sam. Isn’t that the word? Let’s say your investigation leads to something interesting—a little
scandale
involving the richest man in Marseille. This would be frontpage news, and I would not want to share the front page with another journalist. You understand?”

“Don’t worry, Philippe. We’ll keep it in the family. You help us, and in return you get the exclusive.” Sam extended his hand across the table. “It’s a deal.”

The two men shook hands, and Philippe got to his feet. “I’ll go back to the office and start on Reboul’s dossier. Are you going to stay here?” He winked at Sam. “I’m sure Mimine will take care of you.”

“You must forgive my cousin,” said Sophie, standing up and shaking her head. “Sometimes I wonder how we could be related.”

Outside the bar, Philippe unlocked the padlock on his scooter and settled himself on the saddle. “The only way to get around Marseille,” he said, gunning the throttle.
“A bientôt, mes enfants.”
And with a wave, he clattered off down the alley, his untidy bulk balanced on two tiny wheels.

Twelve

“So what we’re looking for,” said Sam, “is a cover story, something that will get us into Reboul’s cellar for long enough to see exactly what he’s got in there. He has a lot of wine, so that could take a couple of hours. Maybe more. We’ll need to take notes, and we may need to get photographs. Oh, and it has to be a story that can’t be checked quickly.” He nodded his approval to the waiter, who applied his corkscrew to the bottle. “Not easy. Are you feeling creative?”

They had decided to eat in the hotel restaurant, which offered the local fish, the local white wine from Cassis, and a front-row view of the local sunset over the Vieux Port. It was still early, and apart from a table of businessmen taking their briefcases and marketing plans out for a festive dinner they had the restaurant to themselves.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Sophie. “If what Philippe says is true, to see Reboul is not a problem. We could say we were doing a profile of him for a magazine …” She stopped. Sam was already shaking his head.

“He’d want to know the name of the magazine, and his people would probably want to call the magazine editor to make sure it wasn’t going to be a hatchet job. In any case, interviewing Reboul is just a smoke screen, the means to an end. It’s really the cellar we want to see. The wines.”

Sophie’s experience of deceit and bluff was limited to the occasional socially delicate dinner party in Bordeaux, but she found she was enjoying the challenge of inventing a credible piece of fiction. “I know,” she said. “You are a rich American who wants to make a wonderful cellar—in a hurry, of course, like all rich Americans—and I am your consultant. We come to Reboul for inspiration, because we have heard he has one of the best cellars in France.”

Sam was frowning. “But what’s in it for him? Why should he help two strangers?”

“Because he likes to be flattered.” Sophie shrugged. “All men do—successful men most of all.”

“Sure. But it’s not enough of a reason, not for someone who loves publicity. And we know he loves publicity. He doesn’t seem the kind of guy who does good deeds in secret.”

Sam was about to pour the wine when he paused, the bottle halfway between the ice bucket and Sophie’s glass. “What was that you said just now? About Reboul having one of the best cellars in France?”

Sophie nodded. “So?”

“You say ‘best cellar’ to me and I think of a book. You know, a best seller. Now, suppose we were putting together a book. A big, glossy, expensive book. A book that’s all about the best cellars in France—no, make that the best cellars in the world—and we wanted to include Reboul’s cellar.” Sam was so taken up with his thoughts that he was oblivious to the dripping bottle in his hand and the patient waiter at his shoulder. “And why? Because it has everything: a great collection of wines, an extraordinary setting for a cellar, a fascinating and successful owner, everything. All of which, of course—and particularly the owner—would be photographed for the book by one of the world’s top photographers. So Reboul would get his flattery, but it would
be public
flattery. And we’d have a reason to spend as long as we wanted in his cellar. Long enough to make notes. Long enough to take reference photographs.” Sam sat back and gave up the bottle to the hovering waiter who had been waiting to fill their glasses. “What do you think?”

“Promising,” said Sophie. “Actually, very good. But I have a big question. Who are we? I mean, which publishing company do we work for? Surely Reboul would want to know.”

Sam found himself slipping into French ways, and gave Sophie a vigorous wag of his index finger. “We’re not publishers. We’re independent book packagers. We have an idea for a book. Let’s say we call it
The World’s Best Cellars
. Next, we commission people to write the text and take the photographs. We make up a dummy, and then we sell publishing rights to the highest bidder among the big international publishers. Bertelsmann, Hachette, Taschen, Phaidon—companies like that.”

“How do you know all these things?”

Sam thought back to his one and only brush with the publishing business. “A couple of years ago, I happened to be on a job in Frankfurt during the book fair. It’s a zoo, but it’s a big deal—publishers from all over the world go there to buy and sell. I got to know a few of the publishing people who took over the hotel bar every night. Boy, can those guys drink. They talked. I listened. I learned a lot. It was pretty interesting.”

As Sophie and Sam made their slow and enjoyable way through sea bass with fennel, some fresh goat cheese with
tapénade
, and a rosemary sorbet, they bounced the idea back and forth, testing it for problems and adding a few embellishments. By the time coffee arrived, they felt they had a story that would stand up. In the morning, Sophie would get Reboul’s office number from Philippe and, with luck, make an appointment. Sam would buy a camera and polish up their presentation.

“And I’ve just thought of the perfect way to end the evening,” he said as he signed the check. “A moonlit snoop.”

Sophie gave him a sideways look. “What is snoop?”

Sam tapped his nose and winked. “A clandestine reconnaissance. I thought it might be interesting to stroll up the road and take a look at our neighbor’s house. Want to come?”

“Why not? I’ve never been on a snoop before.”

Leaving the hotel, they turned up the hill and followed the Boulevard Charles Livon until they came to a pair of massive iron gates, which had been left open. A driveway led up through the darkness toward a distant glow, presumably coming from the house.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” said Sam. “A one-man gated community.” He set off up the drive, a slightly nervous Sophie one step behind.

She tugged at his sleeve. “Sam? What do we say if someone stops us?”

“First, we stop whispering. Then we say—oh, I don’t know, perhaps we’re a couple of innocent American tourists and we thought this was a public park. But remember, we don’t speak French. Smile a lot. You’ll be fine.”

As they moved farther up the driveway, the sound of traffic from the boulevard dropped to a muted rumble. Another two hundred yards found them at the end of a clipped lawn the size of a football field, and beyond it, ablaze with lights, the home of Francis Reboul.

Sam let out a soft whistle. “This place could give the White House an inferiority complex.”

They stopped to take it in. The building in front of them at the far end of the lawn was colossal—a three-story, three-sided pile, with the two shorter sides enclosing a graveled forecourt. Almost lost in a corner of the forecourt were half a dozen black limousines parked in a precise row, and by the light streaming through the ground-floor windows they could see a knot of uniformed chauffeurs, chatting and smoking as they waited in the cool night air.

“Party time,” said Sam. He looked at his watch. “We’d better not hang around. The guests may start coming out.”

They were turning to leave when they were hit in the face by the beam of a powerful flashlight. A security guard and a German shepherd came out of the night toward them. Neither of them looked welcoming.

Sam could feel Sophie freeze beside him. He took a deep breath, held up his hands, and smiled into the glare. “Hi. We’re kind of lost. Do you speak English?”

“
Que faites-vous ici?”

“No, I guess you don’t speak English.”

The dog whined softly, and pulled his leash taut.

“We’re looking for our hotel,” said Sam. “The Sofitel. Hotel Sofitel?” He waved his arms, doing his best to seem like the kind of man who could lose one of the most conspicuous hotels in Marseille.

The guard came a little closer. He looked every bit as menacing as his dog. Sam wondered if they took it in turns to bite. With a jerk of his head, the guard pointed the beam of his flashlight down the path.
“Au bout du chemin. Puis à gauche.”

“Gauche
—that’s left. Right?
Gracias
—no, wait—
merci.”
Sam turned to Sophie. “I’ve had it with these goddamn languages. Next year we’re going to Cape Cod.”

The guard’s scowl deepened, and he gestured again with his flashlight, as though trying to sweep them away with the beam. The dog’s teeth gleamed in the light. Sophie took Sam’s arm and started to steer him, still muttering, back down the driveway.

Safely back on the boulevard, Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and started to laugh. “Was that a good snoop? He was not at all
gentil
, that man.”

“Poor guy,” said Sam. “What a lousy job—walking around all night with a dog is enough to make anyone cranky. I wonder if he’s a permanent fixture, or if he’s just there for the guests. Judging by those chauffeurs, Reboul has some pretty fancy friends. And a pretty fancy house. I’m looking forward to taking a look at the inside.”

They reached the hotel and picked up their keys at the desk. Sophie tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a long day, and Bordeaux seemed a long time ago.

“Are you all set for tomorrow?” asked Sam. “It could be your first day as a book packager. This is where it could get interesting.”

“I’ve never met any book packagers. What do they wear?”

Sam grinned. “Something persuasive. Sleep tight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early?”

“Bright and early.”

Sam stood under the shower and let his thoughts go back over the day. Philippe promised to be a great asset; he was helpful, had a good sense of humor, and was smart enough to see at once the possibilities of a scoop. Also, he gave the impression of being, as Sophie had said, slightly
louche
. There was a touch of the rogue about him. This was a quality that Sam had no problems identifying with, and he judged it to be a sound basis for a fruitful working relationship. Tomorrow would see if Philippe could deliver the goods on Reboul.

And then there was Sophie, who was altogether more complicated. Sam felt that she was to some extent a prisoner of her background—that very proper French bourgeois background, with its rules of social behavior and strictly observed table manners, its dress code, and its reluctance to embrace anything or anyone that didn’t conform. Sophie might one day be different. She was intelligent, attractive, and a good sport, as she had shown by going with him that evening to the Palais du Pharo. She was in all respects a lovely woman. But, as Sam admitted to himself with a sigh, she wasn’t Elena Morales.

He stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went through to the bedroom. His phone was on the night table next to his watch. He looked at the time. It was midafternoon in L.A., and Sam could imagine Elena, after one of those birdlike lunches at her desk, fending off more calls from Danny Roth and wondering what progress, if any, Sam had made. He was tempted to call. But what could he tell her? The truth? That he wanted to hear her voice? He told himself to wait until tomorrow, when there might be something solid to report.

He spent a mystifying half hour trying to follow a rugby game on French television, and fell asleep with the roar of the crowd in his ears.