Peter Mayle - The Vintage Caper

Sam let out a soft whistle. “This place could give the White House an inferiority complex.”

They stopped to take it in. The building in front of them at the far end of the lawn was colossal-a three-story, three-sided pile, with the two shorter sides enclosing a graveled forecourt. Almost lost in a corner of the forecourt were half a dozen black limousines parked in a precise row, and by the light streaming through the ground-floor windows they could see a knot of uniformed chauffeurs, chatting and smoking as they waited in the cool night air.

“Party time,” said Sam. He looked at his watch. “We’d better not hang around. The guests may start coming out.”

They were turning to leave when they were hit in the face by the beam of a powerful flashlight. A security guard and a German shepherd came out of the night toward them. Neither of them looked welcoming.

Sam could feel Sophie freeze beside him. He took a deep breath, held up his hands, and smiled into the glare. “Hi. We’re kind of lost. Do you speak English?”

“ Que faites-vous ici?”

“No, I guess you don’t speak English.”

The dog whined softly, and pulled his leash taut.

“We’re looking for our hotel,” said Sam. “The Sofitel. Hotel Sofitel?” He waved his arms, doing his best to seem like the kind of man who could lose one of the most conspicuous hotels in Marseille.

The guard came a little closer. He looked every bit as menacing as his dog. Sam wondered if they took it in turns to bite. With a jerk of his head, the guard pointed the beam of his flashlight down the path. “Au bout du chemin. Puis à gauche.”

“Gauche -that’s left. Right? Gracias -no, wait- merci.” Sam turned to Sophie. “I’ve had it with these goddamn languages. Next year we’re going to Cape Cod.”

The guard’s scowl deepened, and he gestured again with his flashlight, as though trying to sweep them away with the beam. The dog’s teeth gleamed in the light. Sophie took Sam’s arm and started to steer him, still muttering, back down the driveway.

Safely back on the boulevard, Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and started to laugh. “Was that a good snoop? He was not at all gentil , that man.”

“Poor guy,” said Sam. “What a lousy job-walking around all night with a dog is enough to make anyone cranky. I wonder if he’s a permanent fixture, or if he’s just there for the guests. Judging by those chauffeurs, Reboul has some pretty fancy friends. And a pretty fancy house. I’m looking forward to taking a look at the inside.”

They reached the hotel and picked up their keys at the desk. Sophie tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a long day, and Bordeaux seemed a long time ago.

“Are you all set for tomorrow?” asked Sam. “It could be your first day as a book packager. This is where it could get interesting.”

“I’ve never met any book packagers. What do they wear?”

Sam grinned. “Something persuasive. Sleep tight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early?”

“Bright and early.”

Sam stood under the shower and let his thoughts go back over the day. Philippe promised to be a great asset; he was helpful, had a good sense of humor, and was smart enough to see at once the possibilities of a scoop. Also, he gave the impression of being, as Sophie had said, slightly louche . There was a touch of the rogue about him. This was a quality that Sam had no problems identifying with, and he judged it to be a sound basis for a fruitful working relationship. Tomorrow would see if Philippe could deliver the goods on Reboul.

And then there was Sophie, who was altogether more complicated. Sam felt that she was to some extent a prisoner of her background-that very proper French bourgeois background, with its rules of social behavior and strictly observed table manners, its dress code, and its reluctance to embrace anything or anyone that didn’t conform. Sophie might one day be different. She was intelligent, attractive, and a good sport, as she had shown by going with him that evening to the Palais du Pharo. She was in all respects a lovely woman. But, as Sam admitted to himself with a sigh, she wasn’t Elena Morales.

He stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went through to the bedroom. His phone was on the night table next to his watch. He looked at the time. It was midafternoon in L.A., and Sam could imagine Elena, after one of those birdlike lunches at her desk, fending off more calls from Danny Roth and wondering what progress, if any, Sam had made. He was tempted to call. But what could he tell her? The truth? That he wanted to hear her voice? He told himself to wait until tomorrow, when there might be something solid to report.

He spent a mystifying half hour trying to follow a rugby game on French television, and fell asleep with the roar of the crowd in his ears.

Sam went out into the fresh morning air and inspected his breakfast. Neatly arranged on the crisp white cloth that covered the table on his terrace was everything a reasonable man could want at the start of the day: an aromatic pot of café filtre , a large jug of hot milk, two chubby golden croissants, and a copy of the Herald Tribune . He put on his sunglasses, checked that the view was still as fine as it had been yesterday, and sat down with a pleasant sense of well-being. His cell phone rang.

Before answering, he looked at his watch. Sophie was acquiring American habits. “Good morning,” he said. “You’re up early.”

“Old men can’t sleep, Sam. You’ll find out.” The voice was soft, and slightly accented. Axel Schroeder.

Sam took a moment to get over his surprise before answering. “This is a treat, Axel. Good to hear from you. What’s happening?”

“Oh, this and that, Sam. This and that. I thought maybe we should have a drink tonight.” There was a pause. “If you’re still in Paris.”

Fishing, Sam thought. You’ve probably already called the Montalembert and found that I left. “Nothing I’d like better, Axel. But tonight’s not possible.”

“That’s a shame,” said Axel. “I hate to give bad news over the phone.” Sam could hear him sigh. “I’ll make it quick. Without going into details, the word I hear is that Roth set up the wine job.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time in France. You should be back in California. That’s my advice.”

“Thanks, Axel. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.”

Shaking his head, Sam poured his first cup of coffee. He liked Axel, and there were times when he could surprise you-and probably himself-by telling the truth. But not this time, Sam felt sure. It was an encouraging sign. He tore off the end of a croissant and dipped it in his coffee, another French habit he’d picked up; messy, but delicious. He felt the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, and turned to the sports section of the paper.

Eleven o’clock found Sophie, Sam, and Philippe sitting around a table in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby. Sophie had spent the first part of the morning negotiating her way through the protective layers of Reboul’s entourage. She had finally managed to reach his private secretary, only to be told that Monsieur Reboul was with his power-yoga teacher and couldn’t be disturbed. The secretary had promised to call back.

“What did you tell her?” asked Philippe.

Sophie went through the cover story, with Philippe nodding his approval as she described her new incarnation as a book packager.

“That might work,” he said when she had finished. He then took a thick folder from his weather-stained nylon backpack. “ Voilà: Reboul’s file. I printed out the interesting stuff so you don’t need a computer to read it. You’ll see from this how he loves attention, and if there’s a photograph involved he loves it even more. Just like a politician.” He stopped and grimaced. “Well, maybe not that bad. Here, take a look.” He opened the folder and started to spread the contents on the table.