The Vintage Caper

by Peter Mayle

  “Aha!” said Vial. “There he is, your colleague, hard at work. A busy bee, non? I hope he has found something to interest him?”

  “Fabulous,” said Sam. “Absolutely fabulous. A quite extraordinary collection.”

  “But you should see the whites,” said Sophie. “The Burgundies! The Yquem! Monsieur Vial has given me the education of a lifetime.”

  Vial preened.

  “I can’t wait to see them,” said Sam. “But I feel we’ve taken up too much of Monsieur Vial’s time already today. Can I ask a big favor? Can we come back?”

  “Of course.” Vial fished in his pocket and brought out a card. “Here is the number of my portable. Oh, I remind myself-Monsieur Reboul called from Corsica to make sure you have everything you need.”

  After a prolonged exchange of effusive thanks from Sophie and Sam and charmingly modest disclaimers from Vial, they left the twilight of the cellar and emerged blinking into the late-afternoon sun.

  They said little on their way back to the hotel, both digesting what they had seen during the past two and a half hours.

  “Philippe said he’d meet us here,” Sophie said as they came to the hotel driveway. “He can’t wait to hear what we found. He says it’s like a roman policier-you know, a police story.”

  Sam stopped abruptly. “Does he have any contacts with the police down here? Solid contacts? Cops he meets for a drink now and then?”

  “I’m sure. They all do, the journalists. Look, he’s here already.” She pointed to Philippe’s black scooter, half-hidden in the shrubbery that lined the drive. “Why do you ask about the police?”

  “It’s just a thought, but I’m beginning to feel we may need them.”

  Seventeen

  Philippe was on the phone, pacing around the lobby, his free hand going back and forth, up and down, side to side, as if conducting an invisible symphony orchestra. He was dressed, as usual, in military hand-me-downs, the pride of place going to a vintage combat jacket with hell on wheels stenciled across the back in dripping, blood-red capital letters. Seeing Sophie and Sam, he terminated his call with an instant dismissal, barely having time to mutter “Au’voir” before the phone was back in his pocket. Sam had often noticed that the French, who like nothing better than to talk, have a brusque, almost brutal way of ending their phone conversations. No lingering farewells for them; odd, for such a loquacious race.

  “Alors? Alors?” Philippe was feverish with curiosity, and after kissing Sophie with a perfunctory peck on each cheek, turned to Sam. “What did you find?”

  “Plenty,” said Sam. “I’ll explain everything, but first I need to get some stuff from my room. Can you find us a table in the bar? I won’t be long.”

  When he joined them five minutes later, it was with an armful of papers-his notes, Reboul’s dossier, and a slim folder with material he’d brought over from L.A. He dropped everything on the table and placed his camera on top of the pile.

  Philippe had put himself in charge of refreshments. “Sophie tells me you like rosé,” he said, taking a bottle of Tavel from the ice bucket and filling their glasses. “Voilà, Domaine de la Mordorée.” He made a bouquet out of his fingertips and kissed them. “Don’t let it stop you talking.”

  “Thanks. OK, we’ll take the good news first: we were looking for six wines from specific years, and I’ve seen them. They’re all there, and thanks to Sophie I was able to get photographs of them.” Sam tapped the camera. “But don’t get too excited. It is good news, but it’s nothing more than a start. The problem is that there were more than a hundred thousand bottles produced of each of the wines, except Yquem. And even there, production was around eighty thousand. So there’s no shortage of wine around from those vintages, and Reboul’s bottles could have been picked up quite legitimately over the years. OK? Now, if Vial keeps his records as well as he keeps the cellar, there should be receipts for everything. But that’s where we have another problem: we can’t ask to see those receipts without giving the game away. Also, we should never forget that Reboul didn’t get rich by being stupid. If he’s our guy, you can bet your life he will have organized dummy paperwork to hide behind, something that would give him the chance of saying he bought the wine in good faith. Liechtenstein, Nassau, Hong Kong, the Caymans-he could have gone through any of them. There are thousands of funny little companies around the world that can provide any documentation you want, for a fee. Then they disappear. Tracing them can take years. Ask the IRS.” Sam stopped to taste his wine.

  Philippe seemed to visibly deflate. “So that’s the end of it,” he said, with a sigh. “No story.”

  “It’s not over yet,” said Sam, and now he was smiling. “Something’s been bugging me all day, and I just remembered what it is.” He sorted through the papers in front of him and pulled out a photocopy. “This is the article in the L.A. Times about Roth’s wine collection. It was picked up by the Herald Tribune, which has an international circulation. So wine buffs all over the world-including our friend Reboul-could have seen it.” He pointed to the main photograph, a little blurred but reasonably distinct. “Now, there’s Roth. See what he’s holding?”

  Philippe peered at the picture. “Pétrus. Looks like a magnum.”

  “That’s right. Can you make out the date on the label?”

  Philippe picked up the photocopy for a closer look. “Nineteen seventy?”

  “Right again. It’s one of the bottles that were stolen, and Roth is holding on to it for dear life with both hands. His prints will be all over it. Now here’s the thing about fingerprints: they keep best in a humid environment, and the humidity level in a professional cellar like Reboul’s will be around eighty percent. Perfect. In those conditions, prints on glass can last for years. Let’s assume we’re going to be lucky, and that nobody’s thought to wipe every bottle. If Roth’s prints are on some of the magnums in Reboul’s cellar, I would argue that’s evidence of theft.”

  There was silence around the table while this had time to sink in.

  “Sam, there’s something else.” Sophie was searching through Reboul’s dossier. She pulled out a picture that showed him posing in front of his private jet. “I thought of it while I was looking at all those bottles with Vial. If you wanted to move a lot of wine from California to Marseille without using shippers, wouldn’t it be, well, convenient, to have your own plane?”

  Sam shook his head, irritated with himself at missing something obvious. “Of course. Private jets tend to get V.I.P. treatment. Limited formalities going out of the States, and probably none for the local hero coming back into Marseille.” He grinned at Sophie. “You’re getting good at this. Can you see the registration number?”

  The three of them took a closer look at the photograph. Reboul was in the foreground, his arms folded, looking serious and businesslike in a dark suit, an industrial titan ready to girdle the earth. Behind him was his jet, sleek and white, with GROUPE REBOUL in large black letters running along the fuselage, and what looked like a streamlined version of the French flag painted on the tail. The shot had been composed, either by design or by accident, so that any sign of the plane’s registration was hidden by Reboul’s body.

  “I guess that doesn’t matter too much,” said Sam. “The company name is probably enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Philippe had recovered his spirits, and was perched on the edge of his chair, leaning forward, his combat boots performing a soft tap-dance on the floor.

  “Any jet using U.S. airspace has to file a flight plan-departure time, destination, estimated time of arrival. The details will be on a computer. I’m pretty sure the company name will be on there too.” He looked at his watch: just after six p.m. in Marseille, nine a.m. in California. “There’s someone in L.A. who might be able to help us. I’ll see if he’s there.” Sam got up, looking for a quiet corner to make the call. “Philippe, while I’m gone, will you think about all the cops you know in Marseille? Friendly cops? We’re going to need one.”

  Lieut
enant Bookman picked up his phone and grunted into it-an ill-humored, dyspeptic grunt, prompted by too much coffee, too much work, and not enough sleep. “Sounding good, Booky. How are you?”

  “I’m feeling like I sound. Where the hell are you?”

  “Marseille. Listen, Booky, I need a big favor. Well, two big favors.”

  A resigned sigh. “And I thought you were going to ask me to come over for lunch. OK, what do you want?”

  “First, a complete set of Danny Roth’s fingerprints. I may have found his wine, but I need proof. Do you have a guy free who could get over to his office today?”

  “For Danny Roth? Are you kidding? They won’t exactly be lining up to volunteer, but I’ll see what I can do. Next?”

  “Not quite so easy. I need to know if a private jet belonging to the Groupe Reboul left the Los Angeles area between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve of last year.”

  “And? Type of jet? Registration? Point of departure?”

  “Well, here’s the problem. I don’t have the registration, and I don’t know which airport it could have left from. But my guess is that it won’t be far from L.A.”

  “Great. That’s a real help. Last time I looked, there were nine hundred and seventy-four airports of various sizes in California. And you want me to tell you if a private aircraft with no known registration left one of these nine hundred and seventy-four airports during a seven-day period? You want the pilot’s golf handicap and next of kin while we’re at it? How about his blood type?”

  “Booky, you love a challenge. You know you do. And I’m prepared to offer an inducement. When I get back, we’ll go up to Yountville and have dinner at the French Laundry. Foie gras au torchon, my friend. Venison chops. The works-and any wine on the list. Your choice, my treat.”

  There was a silent, thoughtful moment during which Sam could almost hear, very faintly, the sound of Bookman’s taste buds quivering to attention. “Let me get this straight,” said the lieutenant. “Are you attempting to bribe a member of the Los Angeles Police Department?”

  “Guess so.”

  “That’s what I thought. OK, give me whatever details you can about the plane, and the address where you’re staying. I’ll FedEx the prints and anything else I can find. Do I assume it’s urgent? Dumb question. Everything’s urgent.”

  Walking back to rejoin the others in the bar, his mind racing, Sam felt the familiar tingle of excitement and impatience that he always felt when jobs started to get interesting. The next step would depend on Philippe, and there was no doubt he was keen to help. But did he have the contacts? And would he be able to twist the necessary arms?

  Sam gave them a thumbs-up as he got back to the table. “With a bit of luck, we should have Roth’s prints by tomorrow morning, and maybe something on Reboul’s plane.” He sat down and reached for his glass. “This is where you come in, Philippe. This is where you earn your scoop.” Philippe made an effort to look suitably stern and determined. Sam took a long sip of wine before continuing. “What we have to do next is to check the magnums of Pétrus for prints. It won’t take long, no more than an hour or so, but I can’t do it. If it’s going to be used as evidence, it needs to be done by a pro. Which means the police.” He looked at Philippe, his eyebrows raised. “And we need to get the print expert in and out of the cellar without causing any suspicion. In other words, without Vial knowing. If he smells a rat, we might as well pack up and go home.”

  Philippe had been fidgeting in his chair, waiting for his turn to speak. “We might be lucky with the police,” he said. “I have a contact, going back a few years now.” He squinted into the distance, pushing a hand through his hair. “It was when I was taking a look at some of the rackets operated by the Union Corse. They’re the boys from Corsica, a local version of the Mafia. The paper likes to keep an eye on them from time to time. Anyway, they weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary, just the usual stuff: drugs, illegal immigrants from North Africa, extortion down at the docks, protection in the city, that kind of thing.

  “In those days there was a club where a lot of them used to go to throw their money around and impress the girls. And it wasn’t just money they threw around. There was plenty of coke and heroin, too.” He stopped to take a copious swig of wine.

  “One of the girls-very sweet, very innocent-fell for the wrong guy. He got her on heroin. I often used to see her in the club, and she was a mess. And what made it worse was the way he treated her.” He made a face and shook his head. “I was all set to get the police in and do a big story, and then I found out something that made me think again. It turned out that the girl’s father was a cop-an inspector in the Marseille police department. You can imagine what a story that would have made.

  “Well, I decided not to do it. I persuaded the girl to let me take her to a clinic run by a friend of mine, and then I went to see the father. His name’s Andreis. He’s a good man. We still have lunch a couple of times a year. I don’t say we’re close, but I have some credit there.”

  This was a side of her louche cousin that Sophie had never seen. “Chapeau, Philippe,” she said. “Good for you. What happened to the girl?”

  “It ended well. She married a doctor she met at the clinic, and I’m godfather to their little girl.” Philippe stared at his empty glass with surprise, as though major evaporation had taken place while he wasn’t looking.

  Sam poured him some more wine. “Do you think he’d lend us one of his forensic guys for an hour or so?”

  “I can ask. But he’ll want to know the background, and I’ll have to tell him.”

  Sam shrugged. “That’s fine. We’re not really going to be doing anything illegal. Tell him it’s just a standard check, a routine procedure carried out by a conscientious and discreet insurance company that doesn’t want to cause unnecessary annoyance or embarrassment. That’s why we don’t think it’s worth bothering Reboul. Do you think he’ll buy that? You can promise him that there’ll be no theft, no breaking and entering.” Sam paused to reconsider. “Well, no breaking and entering as long as we can get Vial out of the way for a couple of hours. That’s next on the list. Any ideas?” He raised his glass to Sophie and Philippe. “Here’s to inspiration.”

  They parted company for the evening. Sophie wanted to check in with her office before having room service and an early night. Philippe thought he’d see if Inspector Andreis was at home. Sam, with somewhat mixed emotions, was going to call L.A. again and report on progress to Elena Morales. Their last conversation had ended on a distinctly low note. It was time, Sam felt, for some fences to be mended.

  When he got through to Elena, he received a monosyllabic, frigid greeting. Now he knew what it felt like being a telemarketer on a bad day. He took a deep breath.

  “Elena, I want you to hear me out. First of all, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about Sophie Costes. She’s been a real help, and she’s had a couple of great ideas.” He might have been talking to Siberia, but at least she hadn’t hung up. “Now, what you won’t find on her C.V. is that she’s planning to get married in the fall. He’s called Arnaud-a nice, middle-aged guy from Bordeaux with an elderly mother and two Labradors named Lafite and Latour. Oh, and a château, apparently, but not a very big one.”

  “Is this what you called to tell me?”

  Sam detected a hint of climate change coming down the line. “Partly, yes. I mean, I wanted to put the record straight. I didn’t want you to think I was, well, you know…”

  Elena let him dangle for a moment or two before replying. “OK, Sam. You’ve made your point.” She sounded almost friendly. “So, how’s it going down there?”

  “Promising. I’ll know for sure in a couple of days.” Sam took Elena through what had happened since the first meeting with Reboul: the day with Vial, the discoveries in the cellar, the call to Lieutenant Bookman, and Philippe’s efforts to help in resolving the question of the fingerprints. “In other words,” said Sam as he came to the end of his report, “progress, but nothin
g definite. Nothing yet for Roth to get excited about.”

  At the mention of her client’s name, Elena said something short and sharp in Spanish. It didn’t sound complimentary.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Sam. “You know, you should get away from him, take a few days off. Spoil yourself. They say Paris is pretty nice in the spring.”

  “Let me know about the prints. Oh, and Sam?” Her voice softened. “Thanks for the call.”

  She hung up. Diplomatic relations had been reestablished.

  Eighteen

  Chez Félix, a spacious, well-kept bar on an unremarkable side street, is a brisk two-minute walk from Marseille police headquarters on the Rue de l’Evêché. Thanks to this convenient location, and the added attraction that the bar’s owner is a retired gendarme, Chez Félix has long been a favorite of police officers seeking liquid consolation after a hard day trading punches with the underworld. A popular feature of the bar is the section at the back, which has been divided into three small booths. Here, delicate matters can be discussed in private. It was in one of these booths that Philippe had arranged to meet Inspector Andreis.

  The inspector, lean and grizzled, with the watchful eyes of a man who has seen more than his share of trouble, arrived just as Philippe was taking delivery of two glasses of pastis, a squat, potbellied jug of ice cubes and water, and a small saucer of green olives.

  “I ordered for you,” said Philippe as the two men shook hands. “You’re still drinking Ricard?”

  Andreis nodded and watched as Philippe added water to their glasses, turning the pale-yellow liquid cloudy. “That’s enough,” he said with a grin. “Don’t drown it.”

  Philippe raised his glass. “Let’s drink to retirement,” he said. “How long is it now?”

  “Another eight months, two weeks, and four days.” Andreis looked at his watch. “Plus overtime. And then, thank God, I’m off to Corsica.” He took a creased photograph from his pocket and placed it on the table. It showed a modest stone-built house set in a silvery-green sea of olive trees, planted in orderly lines that radiated out from the house like spokes in a wheel. “Three hundred and sixty-four trees. In a good year, that’s about five hundred liters of oil.” Andreis looked fondly at his future home. “I’ll cultivate my olives, and I’ll spoil my granddaughter. I’ll eat those figatelli sausages and that brocciu cheese, and drink red wine from Patrimonio. I’ll get a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.” He sat back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, stretched, and contemplated the rest of his life with a smile. “But somehow I don’t think you wanted to see me just to hear about my old age.” He cocked his head. Philippe started talking.