The Diamond Caper

by Peter Mayle

  With a final flourish of the guitar, the music had stopped, to be replaced by a roll of the drums. Stanislavska, who had been a frequent visitor to the bar, was standing in the middle of the floor, one arm raised. Slowly, she bent forward and took hold of the hem of her long dress. More drumrolls as, inch by inch, she pulled the dress up to her hips and kicked off her shoes.

  “Is this the cabaret?” said Sam.

  “Well, I don’t think she’s going to sing.”

  She didn’t. Instead, she performed a slow-motion split to a rapt, mainly masculine audience. One last drumroll, and she was finished, her head bowed down. There was a brief silence, and then a burst of applause as she stood up, bowed, picked up her shoes, and sauntered off the floor.

  “Well, that definitely beats singing,” said Sam. “What do you think she does for an encore?”

  —

  A few minutes after midnight, Mimi and Sam were talking to Kathy when they saw a car coming down the driveway. Mimi started checking her camera.

  Sam was squinting into the headlights as the car pulled up. “This is a hell of a time to arrive at a party.”

  Kathy smiled. “These aren’t guests. It’s the security service. Great guys—they come by every hour all through the night.” She turned to Mimi. “I’m sure they’d love a picture.” She beckoned them to get out of the car.

  Mimi placed the men on the side of the driveway between two of the flambeaux. “Alors,” she said. “Look fierce.”

  The two men put on their sunglasses, puffed out their chests, scowled, and folded their arms. “Perfect,” said Mimi. “I’ll give the shots to Madame Fitzgerald.”

  By the time they had rejoined the party, it was beginning to wind down. The band was playing one slow, romantic tune after another, and it was time for the first farewells. Once again the night air was filled with the sound of air kisses, murmured vows of friendship, and the exchange of invitations to lunches and dinners that often mark the last moments of a successful party.

  But for Fitz, the evening wasn’t over. He had raided his private bar and found a 1936 Cognac that he said would be the only fitting way to end the day. His exhausted houseguests declined, having already had too much of a good thing, and so they left Fitz with Kathy, Mimi, Elena, Philippe, and Sam.

  The flambeaux were flickering, the moon was up, the scent of the flowers as smooth and intoxicating as the Cognac; it was one of those rare moments of shared well-being, and there was a long, contented silence, finally broken by Fitz.

  “Great evening,” he said. “I thought all you girls looked terrific.” He looked over at Kathy and winked. “Good to see all those jewels get an outing.”

  “Certainly was,” said Sam. “That was quite a display.” He took a thoughtful sip of Cognac. “I hope you won’t mind my saying this, but I wouldn’t recommend that you take them down to Saint-Tropez. There have been one or two incidents on the coast with hotel safes that weren’t too safe.”

  Kathy was nodding. “You’re so right. That’s why I’ve told the girls we’ll all have to make do with beach jewelry, and leave the Sunday-best stuff here. Fitz had this safe installed—it’s as big as a coffin, with a door six inches thick. Plus, there are those security guys. Anyone tries to break in, they’re here in two minutes. So I think we’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” said Sam. “Oh, before I forget. There’s a great beach restaurant not far from where you’ll be staying, Le Club 55. Very informal—you can have lunch in your bikini.”

  Fitz grinned, and patted his stomach. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Chapter 24

  Sam and Reboul had fallen into the agreeable habit of having breakfast together, when they would gossip like two Marseille fishwives about what they had been doing and whom they had met. This morning, the day after the party, there was no shortage of suitable subjects: Nina de Montfort’s cleavage; Stanislavska’s memorable split; Hubert, the frustrated crooner; the stunning display of diamonds worn by Kathy and her houseguests; and the decision to leave the jewels in an empty house during the weekend.

  “It’s all making me think my hunch is right,” said Sam. “Coco arranged the weekend in Saint-Tropez but said she couldn’t come with them. And another thing—she seems to have a very close relationship with her father, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he were somehow involved. It’s always good to have an accomplice you can trust.”

  Reboul looked up, his croissant halfway to his mouth. “What would he do? Hold her handbag while she was opening safes?”

  “I don’t know. But somebody has to get rid of the diamonds.”

  “So what are you going to do? Tell Hervé? I don’t think he’ll get too excited about a hunch.”

  “I know that. But I have an idea. If we can catch her with the jewels, that should be enough for Hervé.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me—at first, anyway. But I’ll need some police help.”

  “Hmm. Well, OK. You get your idea ready, and I’ll call Hervé.”

  “Could you ask him for a favor?”

  “I already am. What is it now?”

  “Could he run a check on Alex Dumas?”

  —

  That evening, Hervé seemed to be in a mood to indulge Sam—helped, no doubt, by a glass of Marseille’s best pastis and one of Havana’s finest cigars. “Alright, Sam. I’m ready to be amused. What is this idea?”

  “I guess I should explain how I got there. First, those three unsolved robberies were all carried out in houses that Coco Dumas had renovated, and none of them showed any signs of unlawful entry—no tampering with the alarm systems, no forcing of any doors, not even any fingerprints. This means, obviously, that the thief had all the necessary keys and codes. Coco had been in a position, one way or another, to get these. She ordered all the security equipment and she supervised its installation. She might even have set the codes herself—just another detail her clients didn’t have to worry about; or perhaps she said she needed the codes in case her clients forgot them.”

  Sam paused to take a drink. Hervé watched him, a half-smile on his face, as though he were enjoying the entertainment. “Carry on, Sam. Carry on.”

  “OK, so we now come to what I’m convinced will be the next robbery, the Fitzgerald house, which Coco also renovated. Why? Three reasons: thanks to her, the house will be empty over the weekend; next, she turned down an invitation to go with the Fitzgeralds and their guests; and finally, as I saw at the party last night, the amount of jewelry on display was enough to stock a boutique. And it will all be left in the house.”

  Hervé, still smiling, said, “So what is this idea?”

  “I’d like to stake out the house. When I see Coco go in, I call the police—someone recommended by you—and ask them to meet me at the Negresco, where we pick up Coco and the jewels.”

  Hervé had started to shake his head. “Why wait? Why not pick her up coming out of the house?”

  “Because if I’m right about her father being involved, she’ll be going back to the Negresco, where he’s staying. And if he’s part of the crime, we need to catch him as well.”

  Hervé was now looking thoughtful. He reached into a pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. “These are the results of the check we did on Alex Dumas.” He pushed the paper across the table to Sam. “There’s something in there that I have to say would fit your story. The last paragraph, down at the bottom.”

  Sam found the paragraph under the heading “Business Interests,” which included real estate in Thailand and New York, a share of a lumber company in Canada, and “various directorships” of firms in Antwerp.

  “Antwerp?” said Sam. “That’s where old diamonds go for facelifts.”

  “Exactly,” said Hervé. “Recut, repolished, reidentified, just like new. And a great many of them. More than $16 billion worth of polished diamonds go through the Antwerp exchanges every year.”

  “And Alex Dumas does business there.”

  Hervé grinned. “I t
hought you might be interested. Now listen, Sam. I think you might have something. But I can’t take the case over—it’s not my turf. What I can do is arrange for you to meet my young friend Angus Laffitte—Capitaine Laffitte, to give him his proper title—who’s based in Nice. If you can convince him, I’m sure he’ll give you what you want. I’ll call him this evening and get back to you with the time.”

  “Angus? Is that a usual name in Nice?”

  “Scottish mother.”

  —

  Lying in bed later, Sam and Elena were having what Sam had come to think of as one of their frozen moments. He had been full of excitement that Hervé had been convinced. But Elena had listened to his account with a stony face, and when he had mentioned the possible involvement of Alex Dumas, she had turned on him. “Anyone else you think might be involved? Francis? Mimi and Philippe? This whole thing is ridiculous. Give it up. Get a life.”

  “I know you like Coco. So do I. But you have to admit that it looks pretty bad for her. Anyway, I’m nearly there. The crunch comes this weekend. So bear with me, OK?”

  Elena’s answer was a snort of disdain, and she turned her back to him. They both slept poorly that night.

  —

  Sam was up early the next morning, and on the autoroute leading to Nice before the sun was fully up. His appointment with Laffitte wasn’t until eleven o’clock, so he’d have time for breakfast and what he hoped would be a reconciliation with Elena over the phone.

  Breakfast, on the terrace of a quiet café overlooking the sea, was a pleasure. The attempted reconciliation was not. Elena’s voice was chilly and distant from the moment she picked up the phone. This nonsense had become an obsession, she said. Even worse, he was targeting someone whom Elena considered a friend. How could he do that? But before he had a chance to defend himself, she said, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and hung up.

  Sam ordered a second coffee, and pondered the ups and downs of their relationship. From past experience, if he was proved to be right he knew that Elena would accept it, and might even apologize. If not, he could expect a severe scolding followed by several frigid days and lonely nights—one more reason why he’d better not be wrong.

  —

  The office of Capitaine Laffitte was in the Commissariat Central de Police, an imposing blockhouse on the Avenue Maréchal Foch. Laffitte was also imposing—a big, broad-shouldered man with a military haircut and a handshake like a vice. His voice came as a surprise: perfect English softened by a Scottish accent.

  “Sit yourself down, laddie, and tell me all about it. Hervé’s given me the general idea, but the devil is in the details. I want to hear everything.”

  For the next half hour, Sam went through what he knew and what he thought was going to happen. Laffitte paid close attention, making notes and asking occasionally for clarification. When Sam had finished, Laffitte sat back in his chair, a frown of concentration on his face.

  “Very good,” he said. “I just have one wee question. If your theory is correct, when do you think she’ll make her move?”

  “It has to be tomorrow. The Fitzgeralds are leaving tomorrow morning to go to Saint-Tropez. The Dumas are leaving on Sunday for Paris, which gets them conveniently out of the way when the robbery is discovered. That leaves Saturday. During the day, the gardener and the maid will be there, so it has to be Saturday night.”

  “Which means we don’t have much time.” Laffitte reached for his phone. “Can you come back this afternoon? I’m going to need a couple more bodies, and I’d like you to be there when I brief them.”

  Sam used the time to check in at the Hôtel Westminster, on the Promenade des Anglais, and have a quick lunch at a small beach restaurant. He was starting to feel nervous. Laffitte seemed to be confident, and now there was no going back. Coco had to turn up.

  Laffitte thought there was every chance that she would; indeed, he was beginning to count on it. If he could be the officer who solved three perfect robberies, and prevented a fourth, his future would look very bright—maybe he’d even get a promotion to commandant. He looked at his watch. The two men he had chosen would arrive any minute, and so would Sam, he was sure. Americans were always punctual.

  They arrived almost together, and Sam was introduced to René and Marc, two burly, keen-looking young men with regulation military haircuts.

  They greeted Sam in English, and were amused when he expressed surprise. “Everyone in Nice speaks a little English,” said Marc. “It’s good for business.”

  The three of them sat down in front of Laffitte’s desk, and he began his briefing, going through all that Sam had told him before moving on to what he called the fun and games of Saturday night.

  “I’ll go to the house with Sam. When we see her come out, I’ll call you. That’ll give you plenty of time to get over to the Negresco. Stay well away from the entrance, on the opposite side of the road, and wait for us there. When we arrive, we’ll have a wee meeting with the night manager; I want him to come up to her apartment with us. I’ll have a warrant if he needs persuading. Once we have the jewels, we pick up the father and off we go. OK? Any questions?”

  “What about equipment?” René asked. “Firearms?”

  Laffitte laughed and shook his head “Nothing like that. We’ll have binoculars, and you should have handcuffs. But that’s about it.”

  —

  Sam went back to the Westminster that evening, suddenly feeling exhausted. It had been a long, trying day. He thought about calling Elena, but decided he couldn’t take another dose of disapproval, so he found the hotel bar, had two large Scotches, and went to bed.

  —

  He slept late, and he was still half asleep on his way to the shower before he started to think about the robbery. Tonight was the night, and it promised to be a day that would strain his patience. He ordered breakfast and the newspaper. He sat out on the terrace of his room and stared at the sunlight on the sea. He called Elena’s number and left a message on her voice mail. When midday finally arrived, he called the hotel in Saint-Tropez to make sure that the Fitzgeralds and their guests had arrived. He watched CNN until he could take no more bad news. And he looked at his watch, again and again, only to find that the hands seemed to be stuck.

  Finally, it was 10:00 p.m., time to meet Laffitte in the hotel lobby. He had abandoned his uniform for dark pants and a windbreaker. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck, and Sam caught a glimpse of the handcuffs attached to his belt.

  “En forme?” said Laffitte. “It’s a perfect night for robbers—no moon, and plenty of cloud cover. Shall we go?”

  They got into a small, unmarked car for the short drive to Cap Ferrat, with Sam showing the way to the Fitzgerald house. They drove past the entrance, around a bend, and parked in a thick pool of shadow. Walking back to the house, Laffitte stopped to try out his binoculars. “Pretty good,” he said. “German army issue, infrared night vision. We shouldn’t have any trouble recognizing her. Now we need to find somewhere to wait.”

  By now, they had almost reached the entrance gates, and with a grunt of satisfaction Laffitte stepped off the narrow road. “See those oleanders? They’ll be fine.” They pushed their way into the middle of the clump, the leafy branches closing behind them. They would be invisible from the other side of the road.

  And then started the hard part—the wait. A car passed, the music from its radio hanging in the air for a few seconds before silence returned. They saw movement farther up the road: an elderly Labrador, doing its evening rounds.

  Just after 10:30, they were jolted alert by the sight of a small van pulling into the entrance, going up the driveway, and parking in front of the main double doors. Two men got out, both with lit flashlights. “The security guys,” said Sam. “I was told they come by every hour.”

  The men separated, each taking a different side of the house, and set off around the back, toward the pool area, before rejoining one another by the van and driving off. The entire visit was over in less than f
ive minutes.

  The night was very still, and Sam was starting to have doubts. “Relax,” said Laffitte. “She’s got all night.”

  Half an hour passed, and then they heard the sound of a car coming around the bend, slowing down, and turning into the entrance. It was a black Fiat 500, the most welcome sight Sam had seen all day; he recognized Coco’s car from her many visits to their house in Marseille. “That’s her,” he said. Laffitte had his binoculars trained on the car as a female arm appeared and the entry code was tapped in. The gates swung open, and the Fiat drove up to the house and parked in the shadows. Coco got out, unlocked the front door, and disappeared inside the house.

  “Quel culot,” said Laffitte. “What a nerve! Suppose someone sees her?”

  “Knowing her,” said Sam, “I’m sure she’ll have thought of that.”

  She had. On her cell phone was a message from Kathy Fitzgerald asking her to drop by and check in on the house when she had time. In fact, the message was left from Paris just before Kathy and Fitz came down, but Coco had arranged to have any mention of the date doctored and made inaudible. The message was timeless.

  Laffitte had his binoculars up again, searching for any signs of light or movement, but the house remained dark and still. “At least she’s careful indoors,” said Laffitte. “I have a feeling this part won’t take too long.”

  Sam checked his watch. Coco had been in the house for eight minutes. Another five minutes went by before the front door opened and Coco got into her car and drove down the driveway and through the gateway, pausing to check that the gate had closed behind her before she turned into the road.

  “So far so good,” said Laffitte, taking out his phone and tapping in a number as they walked back to their car. “Marc? It looks as though she’s done the job. She’s just left the house. Keep an eye out for her car, a black Fiat 500. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Everything OK? Good.” He turned back to Sam. “This is the part I like best: catching them.”

  During the drive back, Sam resisted the unworthy temptation to call Elena, instead listening to Laffitte planning what he was going to say to the hotel’s night manager. “There might be some resistance,” he said. “A top hotel like the Negresco doesn’t like the police rushing around the corridors at night. It tends to make the guests nervous.”