Peter Mayle - The Vintage Caper

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.”

Sam took a reflective sip of his champagne. “There’s something that bothers me about this whole business,” he said, “and that’s motive. If ever there was a man who has everything, it’s Reboul. Success, money, all the trappings. Hot-and-cold-running girlfriends, a private palace, a private jet, a yacht-and, God knows, more than enough wine to last him the rest of his life.” He paused, and looked at Philippe. “Why did he do it? Why take the risk?”

“But, Sam,” said Philippe, shaking his head, “you don’t understand the French.”

It was a gap in Sam’s education that had already been pointed out to him several times over the past few days. “Right. Sophie already told me. So?”

Philippe continued. “Don’t forget that Chauvin was a Frenchman. We invented chauvinism. Some might even mistake this for arrogance.” At this, Philippe paused to flex his eyebrows, as though astonished that anyone could think such a thing of his countrymen. “We are passionate about our country, our culture, our cooking, our patrimoine . And nobody is more passionate than our friend Reboul. He even pays French taxes, for God’s sake. You’ve read the articles in the dossier. He’s always sounding off about the horrors of globalization, the erosion of French values, the tragedy of French assets falling into foreign hands-businesses, property, and, bien sûr , our best wines. To read about all that premier cru Bordeaux sitting in a cellar in Hollywood-Hollywood, of all places!-would be an affront, an outrage, a bone in his throat. And then, of course, we must not forget another factor, a most important factor: the sporting challenge. Mais oui.” Philippe nodded to himself as he took a sip of champagne.

Sophie and Sam looked puzzled. “Well,” said Sam, “I’m not sure if I buy the idea of robbery for purely patriotic reasons, but let’s say you’re right. Where does sport come into it? Is this something else about the Frenchman that I don’t understand?”

Philippe settled back in his chair, very much the professor bringing enlightenment to a promising student. “No, not this time. It’s more to do with being rich than being French. It’s the feeling a man develops, after many years of wealth and power, that he can have anything he wants and do anything he wants. Folie des grandeurs . He can indulge his little fancies. He can take chances. After all, if anything goes wrong, he can be sure that his money will protect him.” Philippe’s eyes went from Sophie to Sam, trying to assess their reactions. “That, I think you will agree, is true in general. Now we come to the particular. Now we come to Reboul.”

A group of young businessmen-with dark suits, short haircuts, and oversized watches-arrived at the next table. Philippe lowered his voice, so that Sophie and Sam had to lean forward to hear him.

“Reboul set up his empire very efficiently. The businesses are run by men he has worked with for a long time. He trusts them, and pays them well. In return, they deliver profits; year in, year out. The Groupe Reboul runs sur les roulettes , like clockwork-it’s well known for that. As for Reboul himself, what does he do with his time? He attends a few board meetings, just to keep an eye on things; he cultivates contacts; he gives interviews; he hosts a few high-level dinners. He has his soccer team and his yacht to play with. But where is the challenge? He’s done it all. He’s won. He’s bored. I’m convinced of it.”

Sam was nodding. He had met a few billionaires in California with the same problem. Some, the fortunate ones, were able to distract themselves with elaborate projects like the Americas Cup; others went from one corporate acquisition to the next, from one wife to the next, highly competitive, often surprisingly insecure, and occasionally extremely weird. Reboul didn’t appear to suffer from insecurity or weirdness. But boredom? Sam could easily imagine a man like him getting bored.

Philippe’s voice dropped even lower. “And so we have a man with unlimited amounts of money, a man with time on his hands, a man who is devoted, as he is always telling us, to France and everything that is French. What could be more amusing than to play this little game, to plan and execute the perfect robbery that would bring a national treasure back to the land it came from? And then perhaps have his friend the chief of police to a dinner washed down with stolen wine. There is the sport. There is the challenge. Voilà.” Philippe rubbed his hands together and reached for the champagne.

Sam had to admit that he’d known of crimes committed for similarly whimsical reasons. Indeed, he had committed one or two of them himself, a thought that lodged in his mind, waiting to be considered later. “Sophie?” he said. “What do you think?”

Sophie was frowning as she looked at her cousin. “I think Philippe has written his article already. But yes, what he says is possible.” She studied the tiny pinpoints of bubbles rising from the bottom of her glass, and shrugged. “So, my two detectives, what do we do about it?”