“Either,” said Vial, “or both. It doesn’t matter. The important problem for you is how to get up to the dining room.” Arriving at the end of the boulevard, he parked the cart in front of the cellar door. “As you see,” he said, getting out of the cart, “there is another door just here.” He pointed to a low, narrow doorway set into the wall. With the air of a magician who has found not one but two white rabbits in his hat, he pulled open the door and stepped back. “Voilà! The elevator for bottles. It goes up to the back kitchen. There is no turbulence. There is no giddy feelings from climbing up the stairs. The wine arrives composed, relaxed, ready to meet its destiny.”
“It’s what we call a dumbwaiter,” said Sam.
“Exactly,” said Vial, mentally adding another colloquialism to his repertoire. “A dumbwaiter.” He looked again at his watch, and flinched. “Shall we say three o’clock? I will meet you at the delivery door. And I give you a good address on the Vieux Port for lunch.”
Sophie and Sam exchanged glances. “Typiquement marseillais?” said Sophie.
“Mais non, chère madame. A sushi bar.”
Sixteen
They decided to forgo the pleasures of the sushi bar, which turned out to be a dim, crowded room on a side street, for sunshine and a sandwich on the terrace of La Samaritaine, across the road from the port. By the time a carafe of rosé and two jambons beurres had arrived, they were beginning to feel warm again after their subterranean morning among the bottles.
It had been an interesting visit. Vial, although rather too much of the showman for Sophie’s conservative, Bordeaux-bred taste, ran a first-class cellar, beautifully organized and cobweb-free. And he couldn’t have been more helpful. But, as they agreed, he had shown signs of being a little too helpful. Like an oversolicitous waiter, he had never left them alone. He’d been looking over their shoulders, going into raptures about this vineyard or that vintage, and generally being a well-intentioned distraction. It was a problem that needed to be dealt with. Identifying five hundred bottles among many thousands could take several hours and considerable concentration. An afternoon might do it, and they had the map to guide them. Even so, it wouldn’t be easy, and Vial’s hovering presence wouldn’t help.
Sam poured two glasses of wine. A deeper color than the pale rosés that were currently fashionable in L.A., it almost matched the pink of the smoked ham in his sandwich. He raised his glass to the sun, took a sip, and held the wine in his mouth. A taste of summer. After a morning spent mingling with the wine aristocracy, it made a refreshing change to drink something simple, humble, but good-no long pedigree, no historic vintage, no complications, and no wildly inflated price tag. No wonder it was the favorite tipple of Provence.
“You know what?” he said. “When we go back this afternoon, it might be a good idea if we separated. One of us can stay on the white side, the other can check the reds. Vial can’t be in two places at once. What do you think?”
Sophie thought for a moment, then nodded. “Let me take the whites.”
“Sure. Any particular reason?”
“Most of the wines you’re looking for are red. You don’t want Vial watching while you make notes or take pictures. Another thing-I’m from Bordeaux. I know about reds. Champagne and white Burgundy, not so much. So it is normal for me to ask Vial to explain them. He likes to talk, to show what he knows. You saw that this morning. I’m sure I only need to give him this much encouragement”-she held up her finger and thumb, a fraction of an inch apart-“and he’ll talk to me all afternoon. C’est certain.” She was smiling as she looked at Sam over the top of her sunglasses.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“In one way, very much. It’s a lot more amusing than insurance. Just like a game.” She shrugged. “But I’m not sure I want us to win. Do you know what I mean?”
Sam knew exactly. Two or three times in the past, he’d been involved in cases where, for one reason or another, his sympathies lay with the criminal. “Yes, I know what you mean. Reboul and Vial seem like good guys.” He grinned. “But then, good guys can be crooks. Look at me. I used to be one.”
Sophie took in this revelation with no more surprise than if Sam had just told her he once played pro football. He was, after all, American, and anything was possible. “Do you miss it-being a crook?”
“Sometimes.” Sam sat back in his chair and watched an old man as he shuffled slowly across the road, threatening the oncoming traffic with his stick. “When you’re on a caper, you’re very aware of being alive. Intensely alive. I guess that’s the risk, and the adrenaline. And I used to love the planning side of it, putting together a nice clean job: organized down to the last second, properly carried out. No guns, no violence, nobody gets hurt.”
“Except the poor insurance company.”
“Yeah, right. Show me a poor insurance company, and I’ll show you proof that Santa Claus is alive and well and living in Florida. But I get what you’re saying. There’s always a victim.” He thought of Danny Roth, but failed to summon up even a twinge of pity.
Sophie called Philippe to bring him up to date, and then they lingered over the last of the wine and some ferocious jolts of coffee until it was time to head back to the Palais du Pharo. This was it. By the end of the afternoon, they would know that they’d either been wasting their time or that they might be on their way to solving a classic long-distance crime, robbery sans frontières. Not only neat, but endearingly old-fashioned, a throwback to simpler times, before theft was conducted using the marvels of electronics or the twisted talents of lawyers. As they stood in the sun waiting for a taxi, Sam checked his pockets: map, camera, spare battery, notebook, and the list of stolen wines. Five minutes to three. They were all set.
“And how was the sushi?” Vial didn’t wait for an answer to his question before bustling them into his office. “I have arranged to liberate myself for the entire afternoon. Je suis à vous.” He cocked his head expectantly, and Sophie saw her chance.
“There’s so much to see,” she said, “so very much to see, that we thought it would be best if we each looked at half the cellar. I chose the whites, but with one condition.” She gazed at Vial, and for one long moment Sam thought she was actually going to flutter her eyelashes. “Coming from Bordeaux, I am quite familiar with the great reds. However, the great champagnes, the great whites of Burgundy and Sauternes-although I know them by name, of course-are, how can I say, a gap in my education. And so I was hoping that you would…” Her voice tailed off, and her eyes remained fixed on Vial, who instinctively straightened his shoulders and raised a hand to stroke his moustache.
“My dear madame, nothing gives me greater pleasure than sharing what few scraps of knowledge I have with a fellow enthusiast.” He started to move toward the door, a man with a mission. “I propose that we start with champagne and end with Yquem, as one would at a civilized dinner.” Sam had the feeling that this was a line Professor Vial had used on his guided tours many times before.
They were passing through the doorway when Vial stopped suddenly, and turned to Sam. “But I forget my other guest. You will not be lonely? You will not lose yourself? You are sure?”
“I have your excellent map, I’ll have some pretty good bottles to keep me company, and I don’t mind working alone. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Vial needed no persuading. “Bon. Now, dear madame, if you’d like to follow me, we will plunge at once into the champagnes. You will have heard, I’m sure, that champagne was invented by the monk Dom Pérignon, who said when he tasted his divine invention, ‘I am drinking stars.’ Never has there been a better description. He lived to a good age-seventy-seven, I believe, which is a testament to the medicinal qualities of champagne. What is less well known is the unusual relationship of the good monk with one of the neighboring nuns…” As he led Sophie away, his voice rose and fell, but never ceased. She had been right: Vial loved to talk, and he loved a pretty audience.