The Vintage Caper (14 page)

Sam led them over to the bin that contained the magnums of Pétrus. Grosso looked them over as he opened his attaché case and took out a halogen flashlight, a selection of brushes, a flat black box, and a small plastic canister. He sucked his teeth and flexed his fingers.
“On fait toutes les bouteilles?”
He looked at Sam. “All of the bottles?” Sam nodded. “And do you need DNA?” Another nod. Philippe was busy taking notes. He could see his scoop taking shape and, at this crucial stage of the story, the more detail he could pick up the better. He moved closer to Grosso to get a better view of what he was doing.

“Monsieur Grosso,” he said, “I don’t want to distract you, but I’m fascinated. Could you tell me a little about how you do this?”

Without looking up at Philippe, Grosso beckoned him closer. He had laid the first magnum on the ground and was shining his flashlight over it. “First, I do the visual examination,” he said, “to check the surface for prints.” He adjusted the angle of his flashlight. “Some of them can only be seen by the use of oblique light.” He grunted, put the flashlight down, and unscrewed the lid of his canister, tilting it to one side so that Philippe could see the contents. “Metallic flake powder. The flakes are aluminum—they’re the most sensitive, and they lift nicely.” He took one of his brushes, and began to dab on the powder, sparingly, and with a light circular motion. “This is what we call a Zephyr brush; carbon fiber, with a mop head, which is less likely to disturb the print deposit.” He finished with the brush and opened his black box, taking out some strips of clear adhesive tape. “Now I’m going to use this to lift the prints.” Fingers moving with delicate precision, he applied tape to the scattered prints and then peeled off the strips before placing them on a sheet of clear acetate. “
Voilà
. You see? With this technique, there’s no need to take photographs.” The first magnum was replaced. Grosso moved on to the second.

Sam had been watching the ritual. It seemed to him agonizingly slow. He tapped Philippe on the shoulder and said, in a whisper, “Is there any way you can get him to speed things up?”

Philippe knelt on the floor next to Grosso to ask him. Sam couldn’t hear what he said in response, but it sounded more like a growl than an answer, and Philippe was grinning as he looked up at Sam.

“He said, ‘I can’t dance faster than the music.’ I think that means we should leave him alone to get on with it.”

Sam told himself that Grosso’s painstaking progress would seem even slower if he just stood there watching, and so he wandered off, down to the far end of the cellar. His eye was caught by a big pile of cartons neatly stacked in a corner and half-hidden behind Vial’s golf cart. The cartons were marked with the ornate script he always thought of as vineyard copperplate:
Domaine Reboul, St. Helena, California
. He remembered Vial referring without any great enthusiasm to a property in the Napa Valley, and opened one of the cartons to see what kind of label he used for his American wine. But the carton was empty. So was the next one, and the one after that.

He called the hotel to see if he’d received a delivery from FedEx. Nothing yet. Doing his best to be patient, he retired to the impressive surroundings of the Rue de Corton-Charlemagne and turned over once again the questions that had been occupying a corner of his mind for the past few days: If the prints matched, what would he do? Confront Vial? Get the police officially involved? Pass the problem on to Elena and the people at Knox Insurance? All of the above? None of them?

The minutes passed; on leaden feet, but they passed. The next time he looked at his watch it was still not quite two o’clock. He went back to see how Grosso was getting on among the magnums. Only four to go.

Sophie had said she’d duck into the ladies’ restroom and call when she and Vial were about to leave the restaurant.

Grosso continued; cool, calm, methodical.

“But this is quite delicious,” said Sophie, after her first sip of Beaumes-de-Venise. “Halfway between sweet and dry. Lovely.” She raised an appreciative glass to Vial, who was nodding and smiling at her reaction. Not surprisingly, he had some comments to make about the wine’s pedigree.

“The name of the grape, so the historians tell us, comes from the Italian
moscato
. That is to say, musk. Now, musk is very highly thought of among deer.” Vial permitted himself a roguish twitch of the eyebrows. “It is the scent with which they—how shall I put it?—issue an invitation to deer of the opposite sex. Indeed, musk is also used as an ingredient in perfumes which, when worn by us humans, are supposed to have a similar effect.” He picked up his glass, held it up to his nose, and took a long, considered sniff. “Delicate, very feminine—and yes, a hint of musk. Many sweet wines are fortified, but Beaumes-de-Venise is not. This gives it a gentler, more subtle taste than, for instance, the
muscat
of Frontignan.” He took a sip and leaned back in his chair, his eyes going from Sophie to the view, and back to Sophie. With a shrug of reluctance, he looked at his watch.

“I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our lunch,” he said. “But I had no idea of the time. How it has flown by. I’m afraid we should be getting back.”

“A quick coffee before we go,” Sophie said. “I’ll order it on my way to the ladies’ room.”

Closing the door of the stall behind her, she checked the time as she waited for Sam to answer her call. Just past 2:15. “Has he finished?”

“Packing up now. Five minutes more, and they’ll be out of here. Have a cognac or something.”

“Five minutes, Sam. No longer.”

In fact, dealing with the remains of the Beaumes-de-Venise, the coffee, and the bill took the best part of ten minutes, and by the time they arrived back at the cellar it was as they had left it, empty except for Sam. As they went through the door, they could hear him whistling “La Vie en rose.”

Nineteen

Sophie and Sam were setting off to walk back to their hotel. Behind them, the figure of Vial was framed in the cellar doorway. He waved as he watched them go down the drive and through the iron gates.

“How was lunch?” Sam asked.

“I think he enjoyed it.” Sophie stopped to rummage in her handbag for her sunglasses. “Actually, I’m sure he did—I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked so many times. But the whole thing made me uncomfortable. You know? He’s a sweet man. And basically, lunch was a trap.”

Sam watched two seagulls bickering in midair over the ownership of a scrap of fish. “Would you feel differently if Vial and Reboul were a couple of bastards?”

“Of course.” She turned toward Sam and shrugged. “I know. It’s not logical. A crime’s a crime, no matter who committed it.”

They walked on in a thoughtful silence. When they reached the hotel, Sam went to the front desk. He came back to Sophie holding up a FedEx envelope. “The answer to all our questions,” he said with a rueful grin. “Or maybe not.”

Sam opened the envelope and took out the contents. Clipped to an official L.A.P.D. fingerprint sheet was a handwritten note in Bookman’s hurried scrawl:

Sam—

Here are the prints. The guys who took them were disappointed that they didn’t have to use force. Roth is not their favorite citizen
.

A Dassault Falcon registered to the Groupe Reboul left Santa Barbara airport on December 27
for JFK. Ultimate destination Marseille. Flight plan details available if necessary
.

Good luck
.

P.S. I’ve taken a look at the French Laundry’s wine list. Start saving up
.

With a nod of the head, Sam passed the note to Sophie. “Congratulations—you’ve just been promoted to detective. It looks as though you could be right about the plane. It’s only circumstantial evidence, but the timing’s a perfect fit.” He put the print sheet back in its envelope and reached for his phone. “We’d better get this to Philippe.”

• • •

Grosso put down his magnifying glass and looked up from the sheet of Roth’s prints he’d been studying. “Nice and clean,” he said to Philippe. “There shouldn’t be any problems. I’ll let you know.” He stood up and went toward the door of his office.

Philippe was having difficulty concealing his impatience or controlling his feet, which seemed to have lives of their own as they beat an urgent tattoo on the floor. “When do you think—”

Grosso cut him off with a wag of his finger. “This is not something one can do in a couple of minutes. You’re looking for an unambiguous match, aren’t you?”

Philippe nodded.

“Unambiguous,” Grosso said again. “That means it has to be perfect. There can be no doubt, otherwise it won’t stand up as evidence. I have to
know
it’s a match, not just think it’s a match. You understand? The process takes time.” Grosso signaled the end of the meeting by opening the door. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m sure, one way or another.”

Philippe threaded his scooter through the tangle of traffic around the Vieux Port and headed up the hill toward the Sofitel, his mind racing. This was the final piece of the puzzle. If the prints matched, the story would almost write itself. To be sure, there would have to be some judicious editing, a little shading of the facts here and there. Sophie and Sam would probably not want their names mentioned, and there was the question of Inspector Andreis and his involvement. But, in well-worn journalistic style, any small omissions of this kind could always be justified by invoking the reporter’s first commandment: thou shalt not reveal the names of thy sources (which even trumps that other hoary old favorite: the public has a right to know). Philippe felt a surge of optimism. It was all beginning to look very promising. He pulled up outside the hotel in an expansive mood, flourished a five-euro note, and told the startled doorman to park his scooter.

Looking for something to help them kill time, Sophie and Sam had decided to become tourists for the remainder of the afternoon and had taken a taxi up to Notre-Dame de la Garde, the basilica that dominates Marseille. Known locally as La Bonne Mère, and crowned by a thirty-foot-high statue of the Madonna and Child swathed in gold leaf, it is home to an astonishing collection of ex-votos. These have been donated over the centuries by sailors and fishermen who have narrowly escaped death at sea, and they come in many forms: marble plaques, mosaics, collages, scale models, paintings, life belts, flags, figurines—the interior walls of the church are smothered in them. Their common theme is gratitude, frequently expressed very simply.
“Merci, Bonne Mère”
is the message that one sees over and over again.

Sophie found these souvenirs of near misses fascinating, and often very touching; reminders of death, and celebrations of life. For Sam, whose experience of life at sea had been brief and bilious, they also brought back very vividly his profound dislike of boats. Not only were they cramped, damp, and uncomfortable; they lurched around in a capricious way, and they had a habit of sinking. After contemplating a particularly evocative painting of a three-master in high seas about to capsize, he went across to Sophie. “Isn’t dry land wonderful?” he murmured. “I’ll wait for you outside. I’m worried that if I stay here much longer I’ll get seasick.”

He had spent an hour in the semi-gloom of the church, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the glare of the early-evening sun, and a few moments more to take in the view. Even though his time in Marseille had been amply decorated with postcard views—from various points in the hotel or from Reboul’s living room in the Palais du Pharo—what he saw from the esplanade in front of La Bonne Mère was quite breathtaking: looking north, the Vieux Port, and the old
quartier
of Le Panier; looking west, the stylish nineteenth-century villas of Le Roucas Blanc, and the beaches of the Prado; and to the south, a ripple of tiled rooftops leading to the shimmering sweep of the sea. He was wondering if Reboul ever came up here to compare this view with what he had at home, when his phone rang.

“Sam? Where are you?” Philippe’s voice was low and urgent, almost a whisper.

“On top of the world. The big church with the view.”

“Well, get back to the hotel. We need to talk.”

“What’s happened?”

“Grosso just called. On three of the magnums, the prints correspond to Roth’s. He says there’s no doubt about it: an unambiguous match.”

Sam wasn’t sure whether he was pleased or disappointed, and during the taxi ride it became clear that Sophie, too, had very mixed feelings. But when they got back to the hotel, it was to find a man untroubled by doubts or misgivings. Philippe had settled himself at a corner table with
three flûtes
and a loaded ice bucket. The glint of gold foil on the neck of the bottle was a sure sign of champagne.

Philippe got to his feet with a smile almost as wide as his open arms. “So,
mes chers
, we have solved the case, no? We have proof.” He bent down to administer to the champagne, filling the
flûtes
with exaggerated care before passing them around. Raising his own glass and inclining his head toward the others, he said, “Congratulations to us all. This is going to be some surprise for Reboul, eh? Oh, I forgot to tell you—I have a good contact at the airport. Perhaps he can find out for us what was brought in by Reboul’s plane from California last December. You know, it’s funny. One thing leads to another, and then—
-pouf!
—all kinds of secrets come out.”

Sam took a reflective sip of his champagne. “There’s something that bothers me about this whole business,” he said, “and that’s motive. If ever there was a man who has everything, it’s Reboul. Success, money, all the trappings. Hot-and-cold-running girlfriends, a private palace, a private jet, a yacht—and, God knows, more than enough wine to last him the rest of his life.” He paused, and looked at Philippe. “Why did he do it? Why take the risk?”

“But, Sam,” said Philippe, shaking his head, “you don’t understand the French.”

It was a gap in Sam’s education that had already been pointed out to him several times over the past few days. “Right. Sophie already told me. So?”

Philippe continued. “Don’t forget that Chauvin was a Frenchman. We
invented
chauvinism. Some might even mistake this for arrogance.” At this, Philippe paused to flex his eyebrows, as though astonished that anyone could think such a thing of his countrymen. “We are passionate about our country, our culture, our cooking, our
patrimoine
. And nobody is more passionate than our friend Reboul. He even pays French taxes, for God’s sake. You’ve read the articles in the dossier. He’s always sounding off about the horrors of globalization, the erosion of French values, the tragedy of French assets falling into foreign hands—businesses, property, and,
bien sûr
, our best wines. To read about all that
premier cru
Bordeaux sitting in a cellar in Hollywood—Hollywood, of all places!—would be an affront, an outrage, a bone in his throat. And then, of course, we must not forget another factor, a most important factor: the sporting challenge.
Mais oui.”
Philippe nodded to himself as he took a sip of champagne.

Sophie and Sam looked puzzled. “Well,” said Sam, “I’m not sure if I buy the idea of robbery for purely patriotic reasons, but let’s say you’re right. Where does sport come into it? Is this something else about the Frenchman that I don’t understand?”

Philippe settled back in his chair, very much the professor bringing enlightenment to a promising student. “No, not this time. It’s more to do with being rich than being French. It’s the feeling a man develops, after many years of wealth and power, that he can have anything he wants and do anything he wants.
Folie des grandeurs
. He can indulge his little fancies. He can take chances. After all, if anything goes wrong, he can be sure that his money will protect him.” Philippe’s eyes went from Sophie to Sam, trying to assess their reactions. “That, I think you will agree, is true in general. Now we come to the particular. Now we come to Reboul.”

A group of young businessmen—with dark suits, short haircuts, and oversized watches—arrived at the next table. Philippe lowered his voice, so that Sophie and Sam had to lean forward to hear him.

“Reboul set up his empire very efficiently. The businesses are run by men he has worked with for a long time. He trusts them, and pays them well. In return, they deliver profits; year in, year out. The Groupe Reboul runs
sur les roulettes
, like clockwork—it’s well known for that. As for Reboul himself, what does he do with his time? He attends a few board meetings, just to keep an eye on things; he cultivates contacts; he gives interviews; he hosts a few high-level dinners. He has his soccer team and his yacht to play with. But where is the challenge? He’s done it all. He’s won. He’s bored. I’m convinced of it.”

Sam was nodding. He had met a few billionaires in California with the same problem. Some, the fortunate ones, were able to distract themselves with elaborate projects like the Americas Cup; others went from one corporate acquisition to the next, from one wife to the next, highly competitive, often surprisingly insecure, and occasionally extremely weird. Reboul didn’t appear to suffer from insecurity or weirdness. But boredom? Sam could easily imagine a man like him getting bored.

Philippe’s voice dropped even lower. “And so we have a man with unlimited amounts of money, a man with time on his hands, a man who is devoted, as he is always telling us, to France and everything that is French. What could be more amusing than to play this little game, to plan and execute the perfect robbery that would bring a national treasure back to the land it came from? And then perhaps have his friend the chief of police to a dinner washed down with stolen wine. There is the sport. There is the challenge.
Voilà.”
Philippe rubbed his hands together and reached for the champagne.

Sam had to admit that he’d known of crimes committed for similarly whimsical reasons. Indeed, he had committed one or two of them himself, a thought that lodged in his mind, waiting to be considered later. “Sophie?” he said. “What do you think?”

Sophie was frowning as she looked at her cousin. “I think Philippe has written his article already. But yes, what he says is possible.” She studied the tiny pinpoints of bubbles rising from the bottom of her glass, and shrugged. “So, my two detectives, what do we do about it?”

“Let’s sleep on it,” said Sam. “But first, I’d better call L.A. and bring them up to speed.”

There was a steely, hostile edge to Elena’s voice when she picked up Sam’s call. He had heard that tone in her voice before, when things between them had been going wrong, and it always made him want to duck. She was formidable when roused.