by Peter Mayle
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.
“Elena, don’t bite,” he said. “It’s me. Your man in the field.”
Sam could hear her take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sam, I’m sorry. But I’ve just had the daily earful from Danny Roth. I thought it was him calling back. He’s always doing that. I think he knows it drives me crazy.” Elena followed this with a short but blistering tirade in Spanish, ending with a fusillade of expletives and another deep breath. “I needed that. OK, now tell me what’s happening.”
“The good news is that I’m pretty sure we’ve found the wine. Roth’s fingerprints are on some of the bottles in Reboul’s cellar, and the guy who did the match works for the police down here. So it’s solid evidence.”
“That’s wonderful, Sam. Great work. Congratulations.” But she didn’t sound ready to celebrate just yet. “Tell me I’m wrong, but I get the feeling there’s some bad news as well.”
“Could be. Reboul may have done it, but he’s smart. It’s more than likely he’s covered his tracks with fake invoices and all kinds of paperwork. If that’s what we find he’s done, we can say hello to the lawyers, and I don’t have to tell you what that means: a million bucks in legal fees, and the case tied up for months. Maybe years.”
“Not to mention a lawsuit to decide who pays the legal fees.”
“Exactly. The problem is we won’t know how he’s covered himself until we make a move on him, and then there’s no going back. So I’m beginning to have a few thoughts about plan B.”
“Does it involve homicide and a well-known L.A. entertainment lawyer? Can I come?”
“You know me, Elena. I don’t do homicides. Listen, there’s something I need to know. In a case like this, what’s the bottom line? What do you absolutely have to have in order to avoid paying out that claim?”
“OK. It boils down to three things: discovery, identification, and condition. We have to know the whereabouts of the stolen goods. We need cast-iron confirmation that they are the stolen goods. And we have to be satisfied that they are still in good condition; ideally, the same condition they were in when stolen. There are dozens of supplementary details, but essentially if those three points stack up, then we’re off the hook.”
“And who does all the checking? Is it you or is it Roth?”
“Are you kidding? Would you take Roth’s word for anything? You know that old saying, ‘Good morning, he lied’? Well, that’s Danny Roth. No, the verification is done by us-in this case, by me and a couple of experts-and then we get Roth to sign off on it. And then I push him over a cliff.”
“Thank you, Ms. Morales. That will be all. I’ll be in touch.”
“What’s plan B?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know about it. Good night, Elena.”
“Good night, Sam.”
Twenty
The night was dragging, as if the clocks had slowed down, and Sam’s mind was far too busy to let him sleep. Scotch, normally a sure soporific, had no effect. Even a CNN special on the renaissance of the Nigerian banking system was unable to work its soothing magic. He was wide, wide awake.
He put on a sweater and went out onto his terrace, hoping the sharp night air would succeed where whisky and television had failed. He stared at the moon hanging above the Vieux Port. Almost full. He checked his watch. Almost three a.m. He wondered where he’d be this time tomorrow. He wondered if it would work, if he’d thought of everything. And he wondered if the others would go along with it.
Dawn found him still on the terrace; cold and stiff, but not at all tired. In fact, he felt as though his sleepless night had given him a shot of adrenaline, and he was impatient to get on with the day. He called room service to order breakfast, and stood under a scalding shower until his skin started to redden through its California tan.
He did his best to dawdle over coffee and the Herald Tribune, but it was still too early to call Sophie and Philippe. He decided to take a walk, and on leaving the hotel instinctively turned right, in the direction of the Palais du Pharo.
The great iron gates hadn’t yet been opened for the day,
and he stood looking through the black bars toward the immense green carpet of lawn that led up to the house. Vial wouldn’t be in his cellar much before ten, and the domestic staff who worked for Reboul would be taking advantage of his absence in Corsica to have an extra half hour in bed. It was surprisingly quiet for a spot so close to the center of the city. Behind him, he could hear the murmur of traffic as Marseille hurried about its early-morning business, and the mournful hoot of a ship’s siren coming from the direction of the docks beyond the Vieux Port. The sound prompted him to set off down the hill to the Quai des Belges, to see the catch of the day being set out for the fish market.
The fishing boats normally get in between 8:00 and 8:30 a.m., but the ladies of the market are there before them, their stands empty and waiting and freshly scrubbed. A traditional feature of the market-almost a tourist attraction in itself-is the often ripe vocabulary of these ladies, delivered with relish by voices powerful enough to compete with a force-eight mistral. Sam regretted that his level of French wasn’t quite high enough, or perhaps low enough, and most of the unprintable nuances escaped him. He thought he’d like to come back with Philippe as his interpreter.
The boats had started to tie up to the quay, and the badinage of the ladies increased in volume, accompanied by the soft slap of fish being arranged on the stands, eyes still bright and scales gleaming. In ones and twos, the first customers started to arrive. In the time-honored manner of the French when shopping for anything edible, they looked deeply suspicious as they went from one stand to the next-peering into the eyes of a rascasse, sniffing the gills of a galinette, weighing the attractions of a grilled daurade against the delights of a bouillabaisse.
Sam’s first and only encounter with this legendary dish-an experience that still made him shudder-had been in New Orleans, when he had been persuaded to try something called bouillabaisse Créole. It had been sufficiently nasty to make him ask the waiter about the ingredients. These turned out to include flour, oysters, margarine, and chicken broth. It was an odd mixture for a fish stew. He promised himself a genuine bouillabaisse one day. It was another reason to return to Marseille, a city he found himself liking more and more.
