“That would suggest a crime. Wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Yes, you’re right.” Andreis nodded and sighed. This was not something he wanted to get involved in. Poking your nose into the affairs of powerful and influential men had a way of ending badly for the owner of the nose. On the other hand, he didn’t see how he could ignore it. It obviously had the makings of a big story. And the man sitting opposite him was a journalist; he wasn’t going to let it go. Andreis sighed again, the virtuoso sigh of a man faced with a decision he’d rather not make.
“OK. I’ll tell you what I can do. I can let you have a print man for a couple of hours, but only if you guarantee that Reboul and his people are kept out of it, at least until we’ve checked the prints. Can you promise that?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“The last thing I need is Reboul calling his old friend the préfet de police to complain about the inappropriate use of official resources. So don’t screw up.” Andreis took a pen from his pocket, jotted down a name and number on a beer mat, and pushed it across to Philippe. “Grosso. We’ve worked together for twenty years. He’s reliable, he’s quick, and he’s discreet. I’ll have a word with him tonight. You can call him in the morning.”
“It might work,” said Sam. “If it were Reboul, I’m sure it would work. But with Vial? I don’t know. Does he have a twinkle in his eye?”
Sophie took another piece of bread from the basket and used it to polish the last rich drops of bourride-Marseille’s pungent fish soup-from her plate. They were having dinner in a fish restaurant by the port, and the topic of the evening was Florian Vial: how to get him out of the cellar while the bottles were being checked for prints.
Sophie’s suggestion was simplicity itself: she would take him to lunch, a special lunch, to thank him for his help. Sam would be left in charge of the cellar, officially to catch up on the white wines he’d missed on the first visit; unofficially, to point out the suspected stolen bottles for the man who would be taking the prints.
It was true that the idea depended on Vial’s being susceptible to a pretty woman, but here Sophie was optimistic. After all, Vial was French. And as she explained, Frenchmen of Vial’s background and age had been brought up to appreciate the opposite sex, to enjoy their company, and to be gallant when dealing with them. She knew several men of a similar type in Bordeaux-charming, attentive, pleasantly flirtatious. They were gentlemen who liked women. Perhaps they would never go quite so far as to pinch a woman’s bottom, but they’d certainly think about it. And they would never pass up the chance of a good lunch with an attractive companion.
There was an amused expression on Sophie’s face as she looked over at Sam. He’d been wrestling with calmars à l’encre, tiny squid cooked in their ink, and judging by the dark stains on the napkin tucked into his shirt collar the squid had not surrendered without a fight.
“The problem is, Sam, that you don’t understand French men. You’ll see. It will be fine. Let me call Philippe to ask him if there’s a good restaurant not far from the Palais.” She took her napkin, moistened a corner of it with water from the ice bucket, and passed it over to him. “Here. You look as if you’re wearing black lipstick.” She left Sam to clean up and order coffee while she called her cousin.
The next morning, they arrived at the cellar a little after 10:30 to find Vial full of the joys of spring. A colleague in Beaune had just called to tell him that he had been selected to be the guest of honor at a dinner given by the Chevaliers du Tastevin. It was a considerable mark of respect, even more so because all the fine old traditions were going to be observed. The dinner-an intimate affair with invitations restricted to two hundred prominent Burgundians-would take place in the Clos de Vougeot, the headquarters of the Chevaliers du Tastevin. The Chevaliers would be wearing their ceremonial long red robes for the occasion. Music would be provided by the Joyeux Bourgignons, those masters of the drinking song. And the wines, needless to say, would be copious and exquisite.
Vial’s high good humor was tempered only slightly by the prospect of having to give a speech, but Sophie reassured him. “To hear you talk about wine,” she said, “is like hearing poetry. I could listen all day.” Before the flustered Vial could recover from the compliment, Sophie went on. “But Florian-if I may-this has fallen very well. I was going to ask you to lunch today, to thank you for all your help. And now we can celebrate at the same time. It’s such beautiful weather, I thought we might get a table on the terrace at Péron. You will say yes, won’t you?” This time, Sam was certain that she actually did flutter her eyelashes.
Vial made a point of consulting his diary, but he was clearly delighted, and he put up only token resistance and the merest semblance of regret when Sophie told him that Sam would have to stay behind to finish the work he still had to do among the white wines.
The next two hours passed slowly. Vial took Sophie off to introduce her to the glories of Reboul’s red wines, with particular emphasis, this morning, on the Burgundies, where he could gain some inspiration for his forthcoming speech. Meanwhile, Sam found a distant corner among the champagnes where he could use his phone.
“Philippe? Sophie tells me that you’ve found a guy to take the prints. A plainclothes guy, I hope.”
Philippe chuckled. “Of course. You know what they say, my friend: if you want something done, ask a journalist. I spoke to him this morning. He says he’s ready when we are.”
“Well, today’s the day. Lunchtime, around 12:45, and not before. Is that OK?”
“How do we get in?”
“The main gates are left open during the day, and you don’t have to go anywhere near the house. Come to the delivery area in front of the cellar. It’s marked, on the left of the drive. I’ll let you in. And Philippe?”
“What?”
“Just make sure you don’t turn up in a police car.”
It would be difficult to imagine a more agreeable place to have lunch on a fine sunny day than the terrace at Péron. High on the Corniche Kennedy, the restaurant offers an irresistible combination of fresh fish, fresh air, and a glittering view of the Frioul islands and the Château d’If. It is a setting to sharpen the appetite and bring on a holiday mood, and it had an instant effect on Florian Vial’s sense of chivalry. Waving aside the waiter, he insisted on pulling out Sophie’s chair and making sure she was comfortably settled before sitting down himself.
He rubbed his hands and took a deep breath of sea air. “Delightful, delightful. What an excellent choice, my dear madame. This is a real treat.”
Sophie inclined her head. “Please call me Sophie. I thought perhaps we might start with a glass of champagne? But then you must choose the wine. I’m sure you have some little local favorites.”
This set Vial off, as Sophie guessed it would, on a verbal tour of Provençal vineyards. “There have been vines here,” he began, “since 600 b.c., when the Phocians founded Marseille.” And from there, interrupted only by the arrival of champagne and menus, he took Sophie from Cassis to Bandol and beyond, going east to Palette and west to Bellet, with a lengthy detour to visit the underappreciated wines of the Languedoc. The man was a walking encyclopedia, Sophie thought, and he had an enthusiasm for his subject that she found infectious and rather endearing.
They chose from the menu, and Vial selected a bone-dry white from Cassis to accompany the loup de mer. Sophie took advantage of the pause to ask Vial about himself, and his years with Reboul.
It was, as Vial said, a happy story with a tragic beginning. Thirty-five years ago, when Reboul was working on his early deals, he hired Vial’s father as the financial director of what was then a fairly small company. The two men became friends. The company flourished. Young Florian, an only child, was showing signs of promise at university. The future looked rosy.