“He said, ‘I can’t dance faster than the music.’ I think that means we should leave him alone to get on with it.”
Sam told himself that Grosso’s painstaking progress would seem even slower if he just stood there watching, and so he wandered off, down to the far end of the cellar. His eye was caught by a big pile of cartons neatly stacked in a corner and half-hidden behind Vial’s golf cart. The cartons were marked with the ornate script he always thought of as vineyard copperplate: Domaine Reboul, St. Helena, California. He remembered Vial referring without any great enthusiasm to a property in the Napa Valley, and opened one of the cartons to see what kind of label he used for his American wine. But the carton was empty. So was the next one, and the one after that.
He called the hotel to see if he’d received a delivery from FedEx. Nothing yet. Doing his best to be patient, he retired to the impressive surroundings of the Rue de Corton-Charlemagne and turned over once again the questions that had been occupying a corner of his mind for the past few days: If the prints matched, what would he do? Confront Vial? Get the police officially involved? Pass the problem on to Elena and the people at Knox Insurance? All of the above? None of them?
The minutes passed; on leaden feet, but they passed. The next time he looked at his watch it was still not quite two o’clock. He went back to see how Grosso was getting on among the magnums. Only four to go.
Sophie had said she’d duck into the ladies’ restroom and call when she and Vial were about to leave the restaurant.
Grosso continued; cool, calm, methodical.
“But this is quite delicious,” said Sophie, after her first sip of Beaumes-de-Venise. “Halfway between sweet and dry. Lovely.” She raised an appreciative glass to Vial, who was nodding and smiling at her reaction. Not surprisingly, he had some comments to make about the wine’s pedigree.
“The name of the grape, so the historians tell us, comes from the Italian moscato. That is to say, musk. Now, musk is very highly thought of among deer.” Vial permitted himself a roguish twitch of the eyebrows. “It is the scent with which they-how shall I put it?-issue an invitation to deer of the opposite sex. Indeed, musk is also used as an ingredient in perfumes which, when worn by us humans, are supposed to have a similar effect.” He picked up his glass, held it up to his nose, and took a long, considered sniff. “Delicate, very feminine-and yes, a hint of musk. Many sweet wines are fortified, but Beaumes-de-Venise is not. This gives it a gentler, more subtle taste than, for instance, the muscat of Frontignan.” He took a sip and leaned back in his chair, his eyes going from Sophie to the view, and back to Sophie. With a shrug of reluctance, he looked at his watch.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our lunch,” he said. “But I had no idea of the time. How it has flown by. I’m afraid we should be getting back.”
“A quick coffee before we go,” Sophie said. “I’ll order it on my way to the ladies’ room.”
Closing the door of the stall behind her, she checked the time as she waited for Sam to answer her call. Just past 2:15. “Has he finished?”
“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 scrawclass="underline"
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.