Peter Mayle: The Vintage Caper

He dropped his suitcase on the bed and hung up his jacket. A quick shower would take away the rumpled feeling he always had after a plane trip, and he was halfway out of his trousers when the room phone rang. He hopped across on one leg to answer it.

“So tell me-what does a girl have to do to get a drink in this place?”

His heart jumped at the sound of her voice. “Elena? It’s you? You’re here?”

“Who else were you expecting?”

Standing there, a broad smile on his face, his pants around his ankles, he was the happiest man in Paris.

The other inhabitants of the Chateau Marmont had either already gone to work or were still in bed. Sam had the pool to himself. He’d completed his daily self-appointed task of twenty laps, and now stood dripping in the morning sun.

Life was good, he thought, as he toweled his hair dry. He and Elena had finally given up sparring with each other and were moving cautiously and pleasurably toward some form of commitment. He looked forward to introducing her to Philippe, who was going to be in town the following week to interview the man he called Monsieur “Rot.” (No matter how well he spoke English, he shared with many of his countrymen a difficulty when it came to pronouncing th.) And there were one or two interesting possibilities on the horizon. All he needed to make the morning perfect was coffee.

He pulled on his bathrobe and made his way through the barbered, glossy jungle that separates the pool from the main hotel building, stopping at the front desk to pick up a copy of the L.A. Times .

“Mr. Levitt?” It was one of the affable young men behind the desk. “We’ve been calling your apartment. You have a visitor. A gentleman. We put him at your table in the corner.”

Bookman again, Sam thought. He often dropped by for breakfast when he was in the neighborhood. Looking for clues, he always said. Sam strolled across the garden, glancing at the day’s headlines as he went. When he looked up from the paper, a half smile already on his face, he stopped as though he’d walked into a wall.

Smiling back, nodding, immaculate in a putty-colored linen suit, Francis Reboul got to his feet and extended his hand.

“I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this,” Reboul said as he sat down and gestured for Sam to do the same. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee for us.” He poured for both of them. “There’s nothing like that first cup after a swim, is there?”

Sam, feeling at a distinct sartorial disadvantage, was struggling to get over his surprise. He looked across at the neighboring tables, checking for large men in dark suits.

Reboul had read his mind, and was shaking his head. “No bodyguards,” he said. “I thought it would be more comfortable with just the two of us.” He sat back in his chair, completely at ease, his eyes bright with amusement in his mahogany face. “How fortunate that I kept the card you gave me. As I recall, you were in the publishing business the last time we met.” He dipped a sugar cube in his coffee and sucked it thoughtfully. “But somehow I feel that literature might be a little tame for a man with your rather special talents. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you’ve made a career move. Would it be indiscreet of me to ask what you’re doing now?”

Sam hesitated for a moment. He was rarely at a loss for words, but Reboul had him completely off balance. “Well,” he said. “The book business is pretty slow right now, so I’m sort of resting between assignments.”

“Excellent,” said Reboul. He seemed genuinely pleased. “If you’re not too busy, I have a proposition that might interest you. But first you must tell me something, just entre nous .” He leaned forward, both elbows on the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands, his expression intent. “How did you do it?”

I am most grateful to Anthony Barton, of Château Léoville Barton, for selecting the wines that I arranged to have stolen. Seldom has an author received such prompt, expert, and delicious advice.

My thanks also to David Charlton, my fingerprint mentor, who was kind enough to fill in some of the many gaps in my forensic education.

And finally, mille mercis to Ailie Collins, whose efficiency and constant good humor have been such an enormous help over the years.

Peter Mayle has lived in Provence, with his wife and their two dogs, for many years. He is a Chevalier in the Légion d’Honneur.