“Packing up now. Five minutes more, and they’ll be out of here. Have a cognac or something.”

“Five minutes, Sam. No longer.”

In fact, dealing with the remains of the Beaumes-de-Venise, the coffee, and the bill took the best part of ten minutes, and by the time they arrived back at the cellar it was as they had left it, empty except for Sam. As they went through the door, they could hear him whistling “ La Vie en rose.”

Nineteen

Sophie and Sam were setting off to walk back to their hotel. Behind them, the figure of Vial was framed in the cellar doorway. He waved as he watched them go down the drive and through the iron gates.

“How was lunch?” Sam asked.

“I think he enjoyed it.” Sophie stopped to rummage in her handbag for her sunglasses. “Actually, I’m sure he did-I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked so many times. But the whole thing made me uncomfortable. You know? He’s a sweet man. And basically, lunch was a trap.”

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.”