The Diamond Caper

by Peter Mayle

  Philippe stretched, and looked at his watch. “I’m free for the rest of the day. Do you feel like showing me your new house?”

  —

  The antique door had been hung, the knocker attached, the windows fitted, and the exterior flagstones laid. Suddenly, the house had begun to look less like a bomb site and more like what a pompous real estate agent might describe as a desirable residence. Philippe couldn’t get over the view, and became more and more thoughtful as he was shown around the inside of the house.

  “What a wonderful spot,” he said. “Are you going to have a housewarming party?”

  “Certainly,” said Sam. “The two of us, Mimi and you, and Francis. And maybe Alphonse in the kitchen. That’s it.”

  “Of course,” said Philippe. “I can understand that, even if I don’t see much of it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Low-profile behavior.” There was a moment of hesitation before Philippe spoke again. “Would you think of making an exception? Mimi and I are going to get married in September, and this would be a sensational place for an after-wedding party.”

  Elena and Sam looked at each other, and they both smiled. “On one condition,” said Elena. “We get invited.”

  —

  It had been a more than usually tiring day for Coco—starting in Nice, with side trips to Marseille and Cassis—and she was suffering from an overdose of impatient clients and whining workmen. By the time she got back to her office that evening, all she wanted was complete silence and a glass of good red wine.

  She slipped off her shoes, went out to the terrace, and sat down with a sigh of relief. As if on cue, her cell phone rang.

  It was Kathy Fitzgerald, bubbling with gratitude. “It was so sweet of you to have that cute Monsieur Gregoire come around. He went through the whole house, just making sure that everything was OK. What a great guy.”

  Coco took a sip of wine to help her recover from her surprise. “I hope he wasn’t a nuisance?”

  “Not at all. He said that things could go wrong even when we weren’t living in the house, and he wanted to make sure we hadn’t moved back in and found problems.” Kathy continued in this way for several minutes, praising Gregoire’s conscientious attention to detail, his efficiency, and, of course, his cuteness.

  Coco was shaking her head as she put down the phone. What the hell did he think he was doing? She thought of calling him, but abandoned the idea in favor of another glass of wine. Gregoire could wait until tomorrow.

  Chapter 15

  The three of them had gathered in Philippe’s apartment, a block away from the Corniche, for a meeting of what Sam called the Marseille Sports and Social Club. At the top of the list of subjects to be discussed was the police report that Madame Castellaci had passed on to Elena after the robbery.

  It made unexciting reading. The first page set the scene: address, owners’ names, detailed description of the premises, date and approximate time of the robbery, estimated value of the stolen diamonds. With these formalities out of the way, it was time for page two, where the optimistic reader might have hoped to find some imaginative theories about how the thief had managed to enter the building, ransack the wall safe, and escape without leaving anything that resembled a clue. But imagination was in short supply, and this page merely catalogued the details of the security equipment, from the number and positioning of the electronic alarms to the impenetrable thickness of the door of the waterproof, fireproof wall safe. And then to the third and final page, rather grandly headed “Methodology and Conclusions.”

  This was a litany of officialese, describing what had been done in the course of the investigation. The members of the Castellaci domestic staff had been “extensively questioned,” and their alibis had been “thoroughly verified.” The premises had been “rigorously searched,” unfortunately without finding anything except an empty safe; and so it went on, with one dead end followed by another. The conclusion, such as it was, stated that “further investigations will be conducted as and when appropriate.”

  “Well,” said Sam, “that’s about what we expected. And it doesn’t get us anywhere. We’ll see when we get the other two reports, but I guess they’ll be pretty much the same.” He turned to Elena. “Over to you, Madame Sherlock. It’s time we tried your idea.”

  Elena nodded. “OK, but I’m not going to make the call with you two hanging over me. I need a little space. Philippe, where’s your bathroom?”

  Philippe showed her into the bathroom, apologizing for the lack of a comfortable chair.

  Elena perched on the toilet seat. “This’ll do fine—I’m not planning on a long stay. Could you close the door on your way out?”

  Five minutes passed. Sam and Philippe, pacing up and down the living room, agreed that this was a hopeful sign. At least the Castellacis hadn’t told Elena to get lost. And when, a few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, it was with a broad smile on her face.

  “There you are, boys. If you need something done, ask a woman to do it. By the way, Philippe, it’s time you changed those towels.”

  Philippe winced, then waved a hand at her, as if to say that he was far too busy to attend to minor domestic details.

  “That’s terrific. I want to hear all about it,” said Sam, giving Elena a hug. “But not on an empty stomach. How about lunch?”

  “How about Chez Marcel?”

  —

  Settled around a table on the restaurant terrace, the menus considered and dealt with, a bottle of Corsican rosé in the ice bucket, the postmortem on Elena’s phone call could begin.

  “Luckily,” she said, “the housekeeper picked up the phone. If it had been the husband, I think he’d have told me to get lost. So now it’s me and Madame Castellaci, and she’s altogether more reasonable. We chatted for a couple of minutes, and she told me her husband’s in New York this week for a linguine festival organized by the Italian tourist board. Bet you’re both sorry you missed that.” Elena paused for a sip of wine. “Then she asked me why I’d called, and I got going on the story. Sam, you’d have been embarrassed—although, knowing you, maybe not. I told her that one of the keenest brains in the insurance business had been sent over from L.A. with a brief to upgrade the security arrangements for all Knox clients in Europe. This is a man revered by other insurance executives who know him—and there are very few of those, because he prides himself on his personal discretion—for his ability to outthink the criminal mind. It is this exceptional talent that helps him provide such effective security solutions for his clients.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Sam. “Then she asked where was he when we needed him.”

  “I didn’t give her a chance. I went on to say that this genius had just arrived in Nice, and would very much appreciate the opportunity to come with me and our CSP to see her.” She looked at Sam and Philippe, clearly pleased to see their puzzled faces. “You boys wouldn’t know what a CSP is, because I just made it up; it stands for ‘crime scene photographer,’ and it’s our excuse for having Philippe with us. Anyway, she was all for it, and she suggested Thursday morning.”

  “What about the husband?”

  “I asked. She said this would be a nice surprise for him.”

  Sam and Philippe raised their glasses to Elena just as Julie, the chef’s wife, appeared with their first course. Guided by Philippe, they were having one of the Chez Marcel specialties, fried aubergines with a coulis of tomato and basil. And like all house specialties, this had to have a detailed presentation, delivered by Julie and translated by Philippe.

  The aubergines are cut into thick slices, arranged in layers with salt from the Camargue between each layer, and left overnight to drain. In the morning, each slice of aubergine is dried, deep-fried in olive oil, and drained again on absorbent paper. Then, la touche finale, the slices are arranged in the shape of a daisy, with the coulis of tomato with fresh basil and olive oil poured into the middle. Bon appétit!

  In unison, Philippe and Julie kissed
their fingertips, glasses were refilled, and conversation was resumed.

  Elena tasted her aubergine with a little sigh of satisfaction. “You’ll have to dress for this visit, you know. Dark suit and a tie for you, Sam. And something a little more formal than a Salut! T-shirt for Philippe.”

  “What about you?” said Sam. “Shorts and high heels?”

  “Of course. Isn’t this delicious?”

  And so were the courses that followed: simple but perfect lamb chops, with potatoes roasted, in the Provençal way, in olive oil; and to finish, homemade iced nougat with lavender honey from the local bees.

  Over coffee, they were starting to go over the details of their meeting when Sam turned to Elena. “There’s one thing that bothers me about all this,” he said, “and that’s how you feel about it. I mean, what we’re doing may not qualify as a serious crime, but it’s certainly misrepresentation, possibly fraud, and perhaps not what a well-brought-up young lady can feel comfortable with. Have you thought about that?”

  Elena reached over to give Sam’s hand a squeeze. “Of course I have. But you have to remember all those years I’ve spent in the insurance business. I’ve found that clients lie all the time, and usually the richer they are the bigger the lies. That’s not an excuse for doing what we’re doing, but it’s a reason. And here’s another one: I’d be surprised if we didn’t find that at least one of these three robberies was an inside job, a self-inflicted scam. Now, that’s a crime, and I’d be happy to play a part in solving it. And besides—are we doing any real harm? I don’t think so. In other words, to answer your question, I’m quite comfortable.”

  —

  Madame Castellaci’s housekeeper let them in and took them through to the living room, where madame was waiting to receive them. As instructed by Elena, Sam was in a dark-blue suit with a sober tie, and Philippe had forsaken his T-shirt for a respectable white linen jacket and freshly pressed jeans. Slung over his shoulder was Mimi’s Nikon. Elena, in her business black, made the introductions.

  “Very well,” said Madame Castellaci. “Your colleague Ms. Morales has already explained the purpose of your visit. Where do you want to start?”

  The tour of inspection began with the safe. Sam, in his role of security expert, tested the combination lock and instructed Philippe to take photographs of the safe with its door open and closed. They then moved on to check the alarm devices and the wiring in each room and the level of protection provided by the windows and shutters, with Philippe taking photographs and Sam making copious notes as they moved through the house. An hour had gone by before they arrived back where they started, at the front door. Madame Castellaci had watched with interest but without comment until Sam put away his notebook.

  “So,” she said, “have you seen enough? Now what happens?”

  Sam smiled. “A lot of thinking, and some research. You have a conventional alarm system. Unfortunately, a professional thief doesn’t operate by conventional rules. Whoever robbed you will have studied all the existing systems, and worked out how to bypass them. You tell me that your system was installed four years ago; is that right?” Madame Castellaci nodded. “Well, I’m afraid that technology can change a lot in four years, and the fact is that the professional thief is usually one step ahead of the security industry. He also knows that very few people have their alarm systems checked and updated every year. How about you?”

  “Well, we’ve been meaning to, but…”

  “I know,” said Sam. “As long as there aren’t any obvious problems, people don’t bother. But let me tell you about what I’m working on at the moment, with a company in California. It’s a device no bigger than a pack of cigarettes that links you to your alarm system when you’re away from your house. The slightest interference with the system will activate the device; a buzzer will sound, in your pocket or handbag, and you can immediately call the police. With luck, they’ll get there while the thief is still busy.”

  “Won’t he know that he’s set something off?”

  Sam shook his head. “The only person who will know is you. It may not be the ultimate solution, but it’ll help, and the people in California are perfecting it right now. It should be available by Christmas.”

  —

  “Sam, I’m impressed,” said Elena. “Where did that idea come from?” They had stopped in at a café not far from the Castellaci house.

  “Childhood research. I think it was in an old Dick Tracy comic book. Although, come to think of it, perhaps it was a techno bore I met last year in L.A. telling me how smart his new phone was. But I prefer to have Dick Tracy get the credit.”

  Chapter 16

  Philippe and Mimi pulled up outside the Cap Ferrat house just before 10:00 a.m., the time that Sam had fixed for their visit. Kathy Fitzgerald, in a high state of excitement, was already waiting for them on the front terrace. She was waving as she came up to greet them.

  “Hi! This is great!” A sudden horrifying thought made her pause and frown. “Do you parler anglais? Sam didn’t say.”

  Philippe reassured her, perhaps exaggerating just a little his slight American accent, and introduced Mimi, who, he said “speaks better English than me.”

  “Than I,” said Mimi, with a smile. Her English grammar was considerably more polished than Philippe’s.

  Kathy was visibly relieved. “That’s great,” she said again. “Now, I’m sure you guys would like a cup of coffee before we get started.” She led the way to a table on the terrace where Odette, the Fitzgeralds’ housemaid, was arranging cups, saucers, coffeepot, and croissants. The three of them settled down around the table for some discreet mutual inspection.

  As Philippe said later, Kathy could have been nothing but a wealthy American: glossy blonde hair, immaculate complexion, wonderful teeth, the body of a twenty-year-old, and clothes that managed to look both casual and extremely expensive. Not to be outdone, Mimi was wearing what she called her society photographer’s outfit—a black silk frock coat over a white T-shirt, white jeans, and white leather Tod’s moccasins. Philippe had resisted the lure of his Salut! T-shirts in favor of a dark-blue cotton suit, blue-and-white striped shirt, and, that badge of urban cool, a three-day growth of stubble.

  “OK,” said Kathy. “Let’s start outside. On the night, all the terraces around the house will be lit with those flaming torches you see in Robin Hood movies. There’ll be a bar down there by that far wall, and a cute little band we found in Nice will be playing for anyone who wants to dance. We’ll be serving dinner on the main terrace. God forbid it should rain, but if it does we’ll have tables inside. There’s plenty of space. Shall we take a look?”

  She led them into the house and through double doors that opened onto the living room. Mimi and Philippe stopped at the threshold to take it in.

  “Mon Dieu,” said Mimi.

  “Merde!” said Philippe, which prompted an elbow in the ribs from Mimi.

  The reason for their surprise was the size of the room they were looking at. It was enormous, running the full length of the house, broken up into alcoves on each side. These areas were equipped for a variety of interests and diversions. There was a pool table, a king-sized flat-screen television, a backgammon table, a compact but well-stocked library, an equally well-stocked bar, and, in the center of the room, a quadrangle of huge sofas arranged around a pair of massive teak coffee tables. The room could have been a chaotic mess, but it had been so well thought out and arranged that you could almost forget how big it was.

  “So you see,” Kathy said, “even if it does rain, we have plenty of space for all the guests. This is our kind of everything room. Fitz and I each have our own little offices, of course, but we spend a lot of time in here when we’re not outside.”

  “I can see why,” said Philippe. “It’s a great room. Oh, you just mentioned your husband. I hope we’re going to meet him before the party.”

  “Sure you will, but not this morning. He had to go to Monaco for a meeting. Now Mimi, what else would you
like to see? The pool area, perhaps?”

  “That would be good. And I’d like to take a look around all the terraces. In a setting like this, you never know where people might go. They drift, they have a drink here, they have a drink there—it’s sometimes difficult to know where the action’s going to be.”

  Kathy nodded, as if she knew only too well the trials of a society photographer’s work. She turned to Philippe. “How about you, Philippe? Do you have any prepping to do?”

  “I’d certainly like a guest list, so we don’t spell any names wrong when the piece appears. And I’ll need a few tips from you.”

  Kathy nodded again, thrilled to be part of the creative process. “Whatever you want.”

  “OK. Well, first, let me just say that Salut! isn’t one of those magazines that specializes in hatchet jobs. You know the kind of thing: shots of some guy off in the bushes with another man’s wife. Or anyone who is falling-down drunk. Or fistfights on the dance floor. We leave all that to what the English call the gutter press. All we try to do is show attractive, interesting people in nice clothes having a good time.”

  “I am so pleased to hear that,” said Kathy, who had experienced one or two misgivings about how the strangers she had invited would behave. Strangers or not, they were now promoted. “I mean, these people are friends, so I wouldn’t want to upset them.”

  “Don’t you worry. But here’s where I’ll need your help. You’re going to have to warn us if any of your guests have—how can I put it—special requests.”

  Kathy’s eyebrows went up at this; it sounded slightly suggestive. “Such as?”

  Philippe grinned. “Nothing like that. But, for example, some ladies prefer to be photographed from a certain angle; some men don’t want to be photographed wearing their glasses, or holding a cigarette. These are details, but they’re important. Mimi’s very good at checking these things out, but she prefers unposed shots, which look more natural. So if you could whisper in her ear from time to time, it would be a great help.”