by Peter Mayle
In his rented Renault, Sam joined the early-morning traffic going into Marseille. He had forgotten that inside every self-respecting Frenchman lurks the soul of a Formula One driver, and he found himself in the middle of an amateur Grand Prix-tiny cars hurtling along, wheels barely touching the ground, the occupants conducting animated phone conversations while smoking and, if there was a hand free, steering. When he arrived intact at the hotel he offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the patron saint of foreign drivers, and went to find Sophie.
She was finishing breakfast, looking remarkably relaxed for someone who had just conspired in the execution of a crime. “Alors? How did it go?”
“Great. I’ll tell you in the car. Let me get my bag and pay the bill, and then we’ll take a drive. You’re not going to believe this place.”
By 8:30, well before Vial’s working day started at the Palais du Pharo, they were on their way out of Marseille.
Twenty-three
It was turning into one of those spring days that Provence does so well: not too hot, a sky of flawless, endless blue, the fields speckled scarlet with poppies, and the black skeletons of the vines softened by a green blur of new leaves. The atmosphere in Sam’s rented Renault, as it followed Philippe’s van through the countryside, was as lighthearted as the weather. The job was done.
“Now you can go back to Bordeaux,” said Sam, “and get married to Arnaud, and live happily ever after. When’s the wedding?”
“We’re thinking about August, at the château.”
“Do I get an invite?”
“Would you come?”
“Of course I would. I’ve never been to a French wedding. Any plans for the honeymoon? I could show you a good time in L.A.”
Sophie laughed. “What about you? What are you going to do next?”
“Finish up here. Then I guess I’ll go to Paris to brief the people in the Knox office.”
“Are you sure about that? What are you going to tell them?”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to confuse them with the facts. So I thought I’d stick to Philippe’s story. You know, the anonymous tip-off, the fearless reporter following up the clues that lead him back to Roth. The people at Knox won’t ask too many questions once they know they’re not going to have to pay out three million bucks.”
Ahead of them, Philippe’s van was wheezing around the final steep hairpin bend in the mountain road that led up to the plateau and the old house. Sam was looking forward to seeing him when he came to L.A. to interview Roth. They could rent a World War II jeep, hit the army surplus stores, and maybe take in one of those testaments to red-blooded virility, a gun show. It would be interesting to hear a Frenchman’s logic applied to the question of why Americans think it necessary to have a semi-automatic assault rifle to hunt squirrels.
For the second time that morning, Philippe led the way through the house to the cellar, a large canister of raticide under one arm, a stack of cartons, folded flat, under the other. With three of them sharing the work, it took no more than an hour to repack the bottles. When the others had left the cellar, Philippe scattered a generous coating of lethal pellets on the floor, wishing the rats bon appétit before closing the door behind him.
He joined Sophie and Sam outside as they were loading the last of the empty Reboul cartons into the van. These would be left in a garbage dump on the way back to Marseille.
“That’s about it,” Sam said to Philippe. “All we need to do now is find somewhere for Sophie and me to stay tonight. Any ideas?”
Philippe scratched his head, dislodging some more cobweb. “You might be spotted in Marseille, so that’s out, and you don’t want to stay anywhere around here. It’s too remote, and you’d be noticed. Why not try Aix? I’ve heard the Villa Gallici is a nice place.”
And so it proved to be-small, charming, and a two-minute walk from the cafés and other delights of the Cours Mirabeau. But Sam was starting to flag. The adrenaline rush had been replaced by a pervasive, numbing fatigue. Apart from a short nap in the van, he’d been two nights without sleep. He made his excuses to Sophie, went up to his room, and toppled onto his bed fully dressed.
Six hours and a shower later, he felt sufficiently restored to venture out onto the shady terrace of the hotel and wake himself up with a glass of champagne. He turned on his phone and checked it for messages: Elena, wanting a progress report, and Axel Schroeder, fishing again. He decided to save Elena for later, and called Schroeder.
“Axel, it’s Sam.”
“Dear boy, I was beginning to worry about you. I hope you haven’t been working too hard.” He sounded like a doctor practicing his bedside manner.
“You know how it is, Axel. Scratching a living from the parched earth. But I’ve had a stroke of luck.”
There was no reply from Schroeder. It wasn’t necessary. His curiosity was almost audible.
“I found the wine. All of it.”
“Where is it?”
“Safe.”
Schroeder took his time to reply. “Sam, we need to talk. I happen to know a couple of people who would be very, very interested.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“No risk, and we could split the proceeds.”
“Axel, you set it up, didn’t you?”
“Sixty-forty, in your favor. A nice piece of change.”
“Maybe next time, you old scoundrel.”
Schroeder chuckled. “Worth a try, dear boy. You know where to reach me if you change your mind. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Sam looked out across the terrace. Tables had been set for dinner, and he felt a powerful urge for a steak, rare and bloody, and a bottle of good red wine. He’d call Sophie and ask her to join him. But first, Elena.
After congratulating him, she wanted to know all the details.
“Elena, it’s not something I want to talk about on the phone. How soon can you get over here?”
“Forget it, Sam. That’s why Knox has a French office full of French people. They do France. How soon can you be in Paris?”
“I’m planning to be there sometime tomorrow evening.”
“At the Montalembert?”
“Yes. At the Montalembert. Elena…”
But she was all brisk and businesslike. “I’ll arrange for someone from Knox to contact you there. Great job, Sam. Well done. Roth doesn’t deserve it, but my CEO will be a happy guy. I’m going to tell him right now.”
The call had left Sam feeling flat, and another glass of champagne did little to lift his spirits. The terrace was beginning to fill up with hotel guests and one or two flirtatious couples from Aix. Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time, which made Sam feel flatter still. Sophie wasn’t answering her phone, and the prospect of eating alone, usually something he enjoyed, held no attraction for him tonight. But there was nothing else for it. And so he spent the evening with his steak, his wine, and his thoughts.
When he met Sophie for breakfast the next morning, she explained why she’d been out of touch. Assuming that Sam would sleep through the night, she had gone to see one of those poignant, emotionally exhausting films so beloved by French directors. It had made her weep buckets, always a good sign. She had enjoyed it enormously.
“And so today,” she said, “Philippe has suggested a farewell lunch before we go to the airport. He knows a little place on the port at Cassis where they do a correct bouillabaisse. It’s not too far-less than an hour’s drive. Does that sound good for you?”
It did. After a long night’s sleep, Sam’s disposition was improving by the minute, and it was helped even more by his first sight of Cassis. A village on the sea is a magical sight on a sunny day; a village on the sea with twelve excellent vineyards in its back garden is enough to make a man want to throw away his passport and stay forever.
Philippe was already installed on the terrace at Nino, a restaurant with the thoughtful addition of three guest rooms, in case lunch should be followed by an irresistible desire to have a siesta. A
lthough it was still early, the terrace overlooking the port was almost full, reflecting an uncharacteristic regard for punctuality. For the most part, the Provençal might be relaxed, even cavalier about timekeeping, but his appetite is not; the stomach must be served at noon. When he looked around, Sam could see napkins already being tucked into shirt collars as menus were studied and the relative merits of a gigot of monkfish or a grilled daurade were pondered in between sips of the chilled local wine. A serious business, lunch.
“I thought we might celebrate with a glass of champagne,” said Philippe, “but this is not the place to drink champagne. Here, one must drink a village wine.” He plucked a bottle from the ice bucket at his side and displayed the label. “Domaine du Paternel. A treasure.” He poured the wine and raised his glass. “To our next meeting, wherever that may be. Today, Cassis. Tomorrow”-with a wink and a waggle of the eyebrows directed at Sam-“Los Angeles?”
The lunch was long and convivial and the bouillabaisse superb, but despite the lure of a siesta upstairs they managed to get to the airport with time enough to have a final coffee.
Their few days together had been, as Philippe said, vraiment chanu, the best possible time, which he assured the others was high praise indeed coming from a native of Marseille. And so, with much garlic-scented kissing and embracing and promises to meet up in Bordeaux for Sophie’s wedding, they went their separate ways: Sophie to Bordeaux, Sam to Paris, and Philippe back to working on his scoop. He already had the first part written in his head: the tip-off, the discovery of the wine in its remote hiding place, and the realization that he had stumbled onto a treasure trove. The options to develop the story after that were many and fascinating. Philippe could see a very entertaining few weeks ahead of him.
From his window seat, Sam took one final look at the Mediterranean as the plane turned its back on the sun and headed north. For once, he was less than exhilarated at the thought of going to Paris. Despite its occasional patches of squalor, he had found Marseille to be a fascinating and very engaging city, a city of enormous character. It had a tough charm that appealed to him, and the people were good-natured and friendly. How far Marseille’s lurid reputation was from its reality.
Cloud cover settled in over central France, and the plane landed in a monochrome Paris, layers of gray superimposed on layers of gray from ground to sky. It was strange to think that the sharp, crystalline light of Provence was only an hour away. The Marseillais would be leaving work about now, gathering on café terraces for apéritifs and gossip while they watched the sun go down. Philippe would be bent over his notes in one of the little bars he used as an office. As Sam’s taxi swerved and sprinted its way down the Boulevard Raspail toward the hotel, he felt an early twinge of nostalgia.
He dropped his suitcase on the bed and hung up his jacket. A quick shower would take away the rumpled feeling he always had after a plane trip, and he was halfway out of his trousers when the room phone rang. He hopped across on one leg to answer it.
“So tell me-what does a girl have to do to get a drink in this place?”
His heart jumped at the sound of her voice. “Elena? It’s you? You’re here?”
“Who else were you expecting?”
Standing there, a broad smile on his face, his pants around his ankles, he was the happiest man in Paris.
Twenty-four
The other inhabitants of the Chateau Marmont had either already gone to work or were still in bed. Sam had the pool to himself. He’d completed his daily self-appointed task of twenty laps, and now stood dripping in the morning sun.
Life was good, he thought, as he toweled his hair dry. He and Elena had finally given up sparring with each other and were moving cautiously and pleasurably toward some form of commitment. He looked forward to introducing her to Philippe, who was going to be in town the following week to interview the man he called Monsieur “Rot.” (No matter how well he spoke English, he shared with many of his countrymen a difficulty when it came to pronouncing th.) And there were one or two interesting possibilities on the horizon. All he needed to make the morning perfect was coffee.
He pulled on his bathrobe and made his way through the barbered, glossy jungle that separates the pool from the main hotel building, stopping at the front desk to pick up a copy of the L.A. Times.
“Mr. Levitt?” It was one of the affable young men behind the desk. “We’ve been calling your apartment. You have a visitor. A gentleman. We put him at your table in the corner.”
Bookman again, Sam thought. He often dropped by for breakfast when he was in the neighborhood. Looking for clues, he always said. Sam strolled across the garden, glancing at the day’s headlines as he went. When he looked up from the paper, a half smile already on his face, he stopped as though he’d walked into a wall.
Smiling back, nodding, immaculate in a putty-colored linen suit, Francis Reboul got to his feet and extended his hand.
“I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this,” Reboul said as he sat down and gestured for Sam to do the same. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee for us.” He poured for both of them. “There’s nothing like that first cup after a swim, is there?”
Sam, feeling at a distinct sartorial disadvantage, was struggling to get over his surprise. He looked across at the neighboring tables, checking for large men in dark suits.
Reboul had read his mind, and was shaking his head. “No bodyguards,” he said. “I thought it would be more comfortable with just the two of us.” He sat back in his chair, completely at ease, his eyes bright with amusement in his mahogany face. “How fortunate that I kept the card you gave me. As I recall, you were in the publishing business the last time we met.” He dipped a sugar cube in his coffee and sucked it thoughtfully. “But somehow I feel that literature might be a little tame for a man with your rather special talents. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you’ve made a career move. Would it be indiscreet of me to ask what you’re doing now?”
Sam hesitated for a moment. He was rarely at a loss for words, but Reboul had him completely off balance. “Well,” he said. “The book business is pretty slow right now, so I’m sort of resting between assignments.”
“Excellent,” said Reboul. He seemed genuinely pleased. “If you’re not too busy, I have a proposition that might interest you. But first you must tell me something, just entre nous.” He leaned forward, both elbows on the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands, his expression intent. “How did you do it?”
Acknowledgments
I am most grateful to Anthony Barton, of Château Léoville Barton, for selecting the wines that I arranged to have stolen. Seldom has an author received such prompt, expert, and delicious advice.
My thanks also to David Charlton, my fingerprint mentor, who was kind enough to fill in some of the many gaps in my forensic education.
And finally, mille mercis to Ailie Collins, whose efficiency and constant good humor have been such an enormous help over the years.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Mayle has lived in Provence, with his wife and their two dogs, for many years. He is a Chevalier in the Légion d’Honneur.
***
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