The Diamond Caper

by Peter Mayle

  “Don’t worry,” said Sam, “I absolutely understand. But if we could take a look around the house, it would help the report I’m putting together for our people in the States.”

  “Of course,” said Johnson, who seemed relieved to be able to offer this small consolation. He took them inside for a guided tour.

  It was while they were in the library that Johnson stepped away from them to take a phone call.

  “Sam, I’ve had a thought.” Philippe’s voice was low and conspiratorial. “This house is beautiful—a terrific subject for the magazine, and a friendly piece might help him sell it. What do you think?”

  Sam looked over at Johnson, still deep in conversation. “I think he’d like that. Why not ask him?”

  —

  “He loved the idea,” a jubilant Philippe said as they drove away from the house, making a careful detour to avoid Percy, who had escaped his kennel and was lurking on the drive. “He’s going to call me as soon as he’s checked it out with ‘she who must be obeyed’—I guess that’s his wife—and then we’ll fix a date for Mimi and me to go back for an all-day shoot. How about that?”

  “I think you’ve had more luck than I had. This place is just like the other two—stuffed with security gadgets, and a safe that looks like something out of a bank vault.”

  “Well, at least we tried.” Philippe glanced at his friend. “Don’t get depressed. It was always a long shot.”

  —

  When Sam and Elena arrived back at Le Pharo, they found that Reboul’s petite amie, Monica Chung, had just arrived from Hong Kong, and Reboul was full of plans for outings and adventures—Corsica, the Côte d’Azur, the Casino at Monte Carlo (like most Chinese, she loved to gamble), maybe even a weekend or two in Paris. Elena and Sam had never seen him in such high spirits, and it was contagious, putting an end to Sam’s lingering sense of anticlimax.

  “Are we going to be allowed to see her?” asked Elena. “Or are you keeping her to yourself?”

  “Before she comes down, tell me, how was today? Clues? Breakthroughs? Any mysteries solved?”

  “I wish,” said Sam. “But it was more like a dead end, case closed. Same as the other two. Maybe I should drop the whole thing, and take up golf.”

  Elena rolled her eyes. “I don’t think I could stand the excitement.”

  Further discussion of Sam’s future plans was interrupted by the arrival of Monica, dressed for the occasion in a cream silk cheongsam. As Elena and Sam remembered from their first meeting a couple of years earlier, she was a remarkably beautiful woman, almost a miniature, with delicate features and shining black hair. It was hard to imagine her as one of Hong Kong’s toughest businesswomen. The sight of her reminded Elena and Sam of the evening, some time ago, when Reboul had told them about the new love of his life.

  Monica was the last in line of the Hong Kong Chungs. Her father, known in the local business world as King Chung, doted on his daughter, spoiled her shamelessly, and was determined that she would one day take over the running of the Chung empire. As part of her introduction to the world outside Hong Kong he had sent her, at the age of twenty, to Europe.

  She had been amused by London, despite the weather, and impressed by Rome. But when she arrived in Paris, she was hooked—by its beauty, by its ambience, and, most of all, by some of its masculine inhabitants. Unfortunately for her father’s hopes of marrying her off to a pillar of Hong Kong society, she had discovered Frenchmen. Their charm, their elegance, those tantalizing whiffs of expensive aftershave—she loved it all. Her quick trip to Paris turned into a six-month stay, and by the time she stepped off the plane at Hong Kong International, her accompanied baggage included a fiancé, Jean-Luc Descartes, a graduate of the École Nationale d’Administration, with a promising future in French politics.

  It was a relationship, as Monica’s father had quickly pointed out, with a fundamental problem: Jean-Luc’s future was in Paris; Monica’s was in Hong Kong. There followed an uneasy period of trial—romantic reunions in Paris or Hong Kong followed by returns to real life. It couldn’t work, and it didn’t. The periods apart became longer. Jean-Luc met someone in Paris, Monica met someone in Hong Kong, and eventually each of them married. Jean-Luc was now the father of three children, and Monica was now a divorced woman dedicated to her numerous companies. And then she met Francis Reboul, who was on a business trip to Hong Kong. Her fondness for Frenchmen, dormant for many years, resurfaced and bloomed, and they were now working out a way of spending more and more time together.

  Monica was smiling as she went up to Elena and Sam. “Lovely to see you again. And now Francis tells me you’re going to be our new neighbors. That’s wonderful. Perhaps you can keep him out of trouble with all those Marseille ladies.”

  “Francis,” said Elena, “you’re blushing.”

  “I always blush when I’m thirsty. Champagne, anyone?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Sam. “Have we finished the Chinese rosé?”

  —

  Philippe’s call came through as Elena and Sam were getting ready for bed. “It’s all set,” he said, “and so we’re going over next week. Johnson said his wife thought it sounded like a jolly good wheeze.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Tell me something, Sam. You’ve met more English people than I have. They all say that English is a global language, but they seem to use a special dialect. I mean, what is this good wheeze? And why is it jolly? Ils sont bizarres, les anglais.”

  “They certainly are. I think it must be the English climate. It does peculiar things to people. Have you ever watched cricket? Very strange.”

  —

  Kathy Fitzgerald put down the phone and punched the air in triumph before going in search of her husband. She found him with Frank Dillon in the living room, where they were sipping their Scotch, smoking their cigars, watching CNN, and bemoaning the state of the world.

  “Fitz! Good news!”

  “Go tell CNN, sweetheart. They need it.”

  “No, seriously—Coco just called, and she’s managed to get us all into that hotel on the beach at Saint-Tropez. The manager’s a friend of hers, so she persuaded him to move a few people around to make room for us. Isn’t that great?”

  Fitz smiled at his wife’s enthusiasm. This vacation was turning out pretty well, he thought. The houseguests were all happy to go off in the morning, coming back in the evening in time for a drink before dinner. Such a welcome change from last year’s guests, who had hung around the house all the time, waiting to be entertained. He had come to dread what he called the early-morning inquisition—“What are we going to do today?”—as if he were the entertainment director of a resort camp. This year, thank God, was different. Even so, an excursion to Saint-Tropez would make a very pleasant break.

  He patted the seat next to him, and Kathy joined him on the couch, kissing his forehead as she sat down. It did him good to see her so happy.

  Chapter 19

  Sam, who was prone to the occasional twinge of guilt after eating too much and exercising too little, had begun to run every day. His attempts to interest Elena in joining him having been loudly dismissed, he had recruited as a running companion Nemo, the chef’s dog, the only gourmet mongrel in Provence. In the morning, the two of them would set off along the narrow footpath that led to Elena and Sam’s house, with Nemo bounding ahead and Sam doing his best to bound behind him.

  Despite the early hour—usually between 7:30 and 8:30—there were always workers on site already hard at it, banging, drilling, sawing, cursing, and whistling. And there was always Claude, the chef de chantier, to point out all the latest marvels that he and his team had accomplished since Sam’s last visit, which had been all of twenty-four hours before.

  Reboul, every time Sam updated him, had been amazed by the speed of progress. “Where do these guys think they are? This is Provence, for heaven’s sake. If they keep up this pace, they’ll ruin the region’s reputation.”

  It was true that the work had so far gone unusually smoo
thly: terraces had been laid around the house, doors and windows installed, kitchen and bathrooms almost there, and floors refinished. It wouldn’t be long before the painters moved in. Meanwhile, Elena was racing around furniture stores like a woman possessed.

  Sam and Nemo were at the house catching their breath when Philippe called. He and Mimi were setting off for Cap d’Antibes to spend the day taking photographs of the Johnson house. “Just wanted to check with you,” he said. “Is there anything you specially want us to cover?”

  “I can’t think of anything I didn’t see when we had a look around the other day. Just concentrate on getting the stuff for your piece.”

  “D’accord. What are you doing today?”

  “Improving my Provençal education. Francis wants to introduce Monica to boules, and so we’re all going to watch a game in Marseille this evening. Will that be fun?”

  “You tell me after you’ve watched the game.”

  —

  After a swim, Sam felt strong enough for a much-delayed discussion with Elena about furniture, and the rest of the morning passed in a blur of fabric swatches and pages clipped from magazines. Sam’s decorative instincts ran to muted tones and strict simplicity; Elena had a fondness for brighter colors and picturesque clutter. In the end, they agreed to ask Coco to act as referee.

  —

  Over at the house on Cap d’Antibes, the shoot was going well. Mrs. Johnson, after welcoming Mimi and Philippe, had disappeared into the garden, fully armed with her pruning shears and several sprays to counter everything from greenfly to the gluttonous caterpillar. JJ was left in charge, which was clearly his favorite position. He had assumed the dual responsibilities of client and art director, pointing out possible subjects for Mimi to photograph while emphasizing to Philippe the merits of various paintings and pieces of furniture and the high standard of workmanship throughout. He was also at pains to show them both the extensive security installations, including the safe in his library. It was hidden behind a range of bookshelves that swung open at the touch of a concealed button, although, for obvious reasons, this was not to be photographed.

  In every way it was an impressive house, and Philippe hardly stopped taking notes. By the end of the morning, Mimi was satisfied that she had finished with the interior; in the afternoon, she wanted to cover the garden—especially those glorious roses—the pool, and the views. By the time they sat down to lunch on the terrace, there was a general feeling that it had been a most productive morning.

  Lunch, which JJ had described as “a bit of a picnic,” turned out to be stuffed courgette flowers, lobster, a cheese board fit for a three-star restaurant, and chocolate mousse. Philippe had some difficulty resisting the wines, which started with Chassagne-Montrachet and ended with a ’91 Château d’Yquem, and Johnson’s example didn’t help. His thirst was spectacular—“going through the wine list,” as he said—and the more he drank the more he talked, mostly about himself and his brilliant career in London’s stock exchange. Angie, his wife, had obviously heard it all before, and left after the lobster to attend to pressing business in the garden.

  Mimi was the next to escape, saying that she had to catch the afternoon light, leaving Philippe smiling and nodding at JJ’s exploits. But eventually the wine did its work, and JJ went off, much to Philippe’s relief, for what he called “a little shuteye.”

  Philippe found Mimi perched in a tree, her camera lens scanning the views. She peered at him through the leaves. “Is it safe to come down, or is he still talking?”

  “He went off for a nap. How’s it going?”

  “Just about done. I think I’ve got some good stuff—everywhere you look is like an Impressionist painting. Should make a great piece.” Mimi changed lenses. “One last shot of the pool, now that the light’s softer, and that’s it.”

  Ten minutes later, they went in search of Angie to make their goodbyes, and to offer their thanks and apologies for having taken so long. “But it will be worth it,” said Mimi. “You’ll see when we send you the photographs.”

  —

  “What do you think I should wear for a boules match?” Elena had just come out of the shower, and had a towel wrapped round her.

  Sam studied her for a moment. “What you’ve got on looks pretty good. Maybe a hat, just to finish it off?”

  Elena went to the dressing room, shaking her head.

  —

  Le Cochonnet, more of an institution than a mere bar, is in the western suburbs of Marseille, far from the elegant boutiques and restaurants of the city center. It is not a place for those who consider boules as nothing more than an amusing way to pass an afternoon. Here it is played by men with an addiction to the game, les hommes sérieux. Passions run high. Money has been known to change hands. Amateurs are advised to watch, but not to play. This introduction was passed on to the others by Reboul during the drive over from Le Pharo; he also gave them a brief guide to the rules of the game.

  In theory, he told them, it’s very simple. There is a small wooden ball, the but, or cochonnet, that is thrown from one end of the court to the other, a distance of about twelve meters. The first player—there can be one, two, or three on each side—then tries to throw his boule to land as close as possible to the but. His opponents will do their best to remove it, either by a direct hit along the ground, or by bombing from above. Where matters get complicated is when players go to measure the distance of their boules from the but. The closer the throw is to the target ball the better, which you might think is an easy judgment to make. But no. Measurements, usually in millimeters, are hotly disputed. Fingers are wagged, arms are waved, accusations of impaired vision fly back and forth. Measuring gadgets are produced and brandished like weapons. To the observer, it looks as though physical violence is imminent. And yet, ten minutes later, there are the opponents, laughing over their drinks, the best of friends once again.

  “In other words,” said Reboul, “it’s a typically French mixture—drama, posturing, threats, denials, and a drink to finish things off.”

  “Sounds just like Congress back in Washington,” said Sam. “Especially the posturing.”

  They joined a long line of cars parked under a row of plane trees overlooking the boulodrome, a large expanse of clapicette. This is hard-packed, sandy gravel, smooth enough to let the boule run, with just enough bounce and surface irregularity to cause some interesting diversions from the straight line. There was enough space for three courts, all of them busy, and noisy: argument, groans at a misplaced throw, grunts of triumph—and punctuating it all, the metallic clack of boule hitting boule.

  Monica was fascinated. “Well, it doesn’t look too difficult,” she said. “I think I could play this.”

  “Me too,” said Elena. “Looks like fun.”

  “Ah,” said Reboul, “anyone can play boules—that’s one of its charms. But not everyone can play well. You watch these players. They’re twelve meters away from their target, but they’ll hit it nine times out of ten. Now, come with me. I want to introduce you to some very important basic equipment.”

  He led the way into the bar, where they were inspected, first by a group of old men playing cards at a table by the door, and then by two players standing at the bar resting between matches, their boules beside them on the zinc surface. The room was long and low-ceilinged, dominated by a wall of bottles. A cat snoozed on top of an old and dusty television, which was tuned to a replay of an Olympique de Marseille soccer match.

  At the bar, Reboul held up four fingers to the barman, who was obviously used to the signal.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Pastaga?”

  Reboul nodded. “Pastaga.”

  The barman set out four glasses, and poured into each one a generous shot of dark, transparent yellow liquid. He placed ice cubes and a jug of water next to the glasses, and stood back, arms folded, to watch. It was rare to see such elegant women taking this particular drink, and he was interested in their reaction.

  Reboul busied himself a
dding water and ice, and the drinks changed color, from dark yellow to a softer shade, pale and milky. “Voilà,” he said, distributing the glasses, “mother’s milk for every boules player.”

  Monica held her glass up to her nose, and sniffed. “Aniseed?”

  “Pastis,” said Reboul. “Aniseed, with herbs and a little licorice root. Delicious, but be careful—it’s forty-five percent alcohol.”

  Monica and Elena took their first taste, and then another. They approved, raising their glasses to the barman. He smiled and nodded. These people were obviously sympathique. Reaching to a shelf behind him, he took down a small statuette and placed it on the bar, in front of Reboul. It was made from pottery, and showed a young woman in a low-cut red dress, leaning against a tall placard marked “13 à 0 Fanny.”

  Reboul was grinning. “This is Fanny, a famous barmaid many years ago, and a keen student of boules. Now, the game is won by the first player to reach thirteen points. If his opponent fails to score a single point, he has to pay a penalty, and this is where Fanny comes in.” Reboul turned the statuette around, to show that Fanny had pulled her dress up to her waist, revealing a fine pair of naked buttocks. “And there is the penalty: The loser has to kiss Fanny’s—how shall I put it?”

  “Fanny?” said Monica.

  “Exactly, my dear. Apparently, there really was a barmaid named Fanny, who was very much appreciated by the local players.”

  They took their drinks outside and stopped to watch as one player, tossing a boule from hand to hand, took up his position and studied the group of balls clustered around the but. He crouched, his eyes fixed on his target. Slowly, his throwing arm went backwards, paused, and quickly came forward to release the boule in a high, graceful arc that landed among the other boules with a multiple clack, scattering them across the court.

  “This game is vicious,” said Sam. “Maybe even worse than croquet.”