by Peter Mayle
“I promise,” said Sam. “And I hope you will accept these cigars as a mark of my gratitude for your help.”
The beam on Hervé’s face was answer enough.
—
It was lunchtime on Cap Ferrat, once the domain of King Leopold of the Belgians, and now, after Monaco, the most expensive real estate on the coast. Kathy Fitzgerald had invited Coco to come over, and there were many important subjects to discuss. First, the houseguests would need to know the names of the support group that was so essential whenever and wherever the rich go on vacation: hairdressers and manicurists, the latest fashionable chef, tai chi instructors, masseuses, and, most crucial of all, a doctor who spoke English. There was also an obligatory update on the Riviera gossip, and finally, the guest list for the upcoming party.
Monique, the Fitzgeralds’ cook, had prepared what Kathy called a snack de luxe lunch: roasted mixed vegetables with rosemary and thyme, and a mousse of goat cheese with balsamic vinegar. Thus fortified, the ladies turned their attention to the main business of the day, the party. Coco went through the list she had prepared of possible guests: Armand and Edouard, a charming gay couple who worked in the world of fashion in Paris; Nina de Montfort, a serial heiress, and her latest youthful admirer; the Osbornes, Coco’s young English clients; Alain Laffont, who played eight-goal handicap polo when he wasn’t busy selling high-end real estate, and his girlfriend Stanislavska, the Czech model; Hubert, a cosmetic surgeon, and his wife Éloise (known rather unkindly to some as Madame Botox); Coco’s father, Alex, of course; and Elena and Sam. “Sounds like a fun group,” said Kathy. “And they all speak English? I don’t want any French wallflowers.”
Coco laughed. “Don’t worry. They all speak English, and none of them except my father is over forty. Oh, and Nina—her real age is a state secret; she’s been thirty-nine for years. I think you’ll really get on with Elena and Sam—they’re American, and I’m fixing up a little house they’ve bought near Marseille. So they’re almost neighbors.”
“That’s great. Could I ask you to take care of the invitations? For the twenty-third?”
“Of course.”
—
Later that afternoon, Coco started making her calls. The combination of Cap Ferrat and wealthy Americans appealed, for different reasons, to all the names on her list, and by the time she called Elena she hadn’t had a single refusal.
“I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” she said to Elena. “Kathy and Fitz are nice people, and the other guests are—well, they’re interesting. I know all of them, and it should be an amusing evening.”
When Elena passed on the news to Sam, he immediately thought of Philippe. “High society on the Riviera,” he said. “They might like to see themselves in Salut! What do you think?”
Chapter 13
Sam’s nostrils twitched, and he opened one bleary eye to see, on the bedside table, a tray with a large cup of café crème and a plump croissant.
Elena emerged from the bathroom, dressed and brisk and clearly impatient for the day to begin. “In case you were wondering,” she said, “I was the breakfast fairy. I went down to the kitchen when I woke up.”
Sam sat up, took a bite of his croissant, and reached for the coffee. “You’re a princess. Tell me, are we in a hurry, or is it just that you couldn’t sleep?”
“We have an early meeting with Coco, remember?”
He saw that Elena was tapping her watch. “OK, OK, I’m coming.”
They had fallen into the habit of walking from Le Pharo to their house, a twenty-five-minute stroll, mostly along a narrow, rocky path. It was still too early for the sun to be any more than pleasantly warm. The sea was without a wrinkle, and the Marseille seagulls—as big as geese, the locals would tell you—were wheeling and floating in the deep blue sky.
“This beats commuting,” said Sam. “What’s on the menu this morning?”
“Coco wants to show us an antique front door she’s found, and she’d like you to see the finish she’s suggesting for your shower. Then there’s the usual stack of details to go over for the kitchen. And I have to decide where I want the bidet in my bathroom.”
As they got closer, they could hear their house being worked on before they could see it—the rasp of a stone-cutter trimming a flagstone, the grumbling monotone of the cement mixer, the occasional shout from the workmen, snatches of music coming from a radio.
“You’re enjoying all this,” said Sam. “I’m glad you and Coco are getting along.”
“She’s terrific. She explains everything, and she’s great on all the details. I think we got lucky.”
They arrived at the house to find Coco, dressed for work as usual in white dungarees, supervising two workmen who had unloaded the antique door from their truck and were now leaning it up against the wall next to the empty doorway. Coco was considering it, head cocked to one side, when she realized that her clients had arrived.
“I think that works,” she said, coming over for the exchange of good-morning kisses. “Do you like it? My father found it in Paris. He’s taking quite an interest in my work recently.”
It was a simple, substantial door that dated, so Coco thought, from the late eighteenth century. The years had been kind to the wood, a rich, dark blond oak, and it might have been made to complement the sun-bleached walls of the house. Elena and Sam both loved it.
“By the time you come again we’ll have put it up. But it was missing one thing,” said Coco. She went over and picked up an object that was propped against the door. “Here—a little housewarming gift.” It was a bronze door-knocker in the form of a slender female hand, hinged at the wrist, holding a bronze ball. “It’s a bit later than the door—I guess nineteenth century—but I think they go well together.”
The rest of the morning passed in a pleasant blur of details and suggestions, all of which were covered in a list that Coco had prepared for them, and by the time they were getting ready to go and find some lunch they had, once again, mentally moved in.
Elena took a photograph of Sam holding up the doorknocker to see how it looked against the door. “I can’t believe how fast the work is going,” she said. “Are you happy with everything?”
Sam nodded and grinned. “Especially your bidet. I’m thrilled with your bidet.”
—
Philippe’s call came as they were finishing a café lunch down by the Vieux Port. “Here’s a bit of luck,” he said. “My friend Loulou knows one of the guys in Nice who worked on the Castellaci case, so I’m hoping we can make a start there. He’s going to get us all the paperwork.”
“Very good,” said Sam. “How are you fixed for time?”
“This week’s shot. There’s a new nightclub opening in Cannes, a charity ball in Monte Carlo, and then down to Saint-Tropez for a swimsuit-and-Champagne fashion show on the beach, where there’s always a good chance of accidental nudity.”
“Accidental?”
“You’d be amazed how often accidents happen when there’s a camera around. Anyway, the week after that should be less busy. I’ll call Loulou’s guy and see if I can make an appointment for us.”
Sam was shaking his head as he finished the call. “I think Philippe’s found his vocation. He’s now a student of accidental nudity.”
—
Alex Dumas picked up a cab at Nice Airport for the short trip to Le Negresco. Thanks to Coco’s influence, a suite had been made available to him for the price of a single room, and despite the fact that he was an extremely wealthy man, modest savings like this were important to him. He had never forgotten those early poverty-stricken days when he had struggled for every cent. His father, a minor civil servant, had died young, leaving Alex to supplement the small family income. He’d worked as a waiter and a bartender before striking up an instant rapport with one of his customers, an elderly antique dealer who promptly hired him as an assistant. The dealer felt he’d found a son. Alex felt he’d found a father. He subsequently inherited the business, and never looked
back.
Coco had prepared the hotel staff for her father’s visit, and he was treated like an old and valued client. The doorman, in his Negresco uniform of top hat and scarlet and blue frock coat, took Dumas’s suitcase from the taxi and was evidently delighted to see him. So was the welcoming committee at the front desk. Even the bellboy who took the suitcase up to his suite seemed to have been counting the moments until his arrival.
As for his accommodation, he could hardly have hoped for anything better. The view alone—of the Promenade des Anglais and the endless blue of the Mediterranean—was, he thought, worth the cost of the suite. And someone had left an ice bucket and a bottle of Dom Perignon on the coffee table. How kind and thoughtful. Dumas opened the envelope that had been delivered with the Champagne. The note inside was from Coco: Papa—Save some of this for me. I’ll be with you about six-thirty. C xx.
In her office in another part of the hotel, Coco was on the phone to Kathy Fitzgerald. Their calls had become more and more frequent—they spoke at least once a day—as Coco did what she could to help Kathy with the preparations for the party.
“Something’s come up,” said Coco, “which might be fun. I was talking to Elena and Sam, those nice Americans. They have a friend, Philippe, who is the Riviera correspondent for Salut!—you know, that glossy social magazine. Sam said he thought that Philippe would love to come with his photographer and do a piece on your party. How do you feel about that?”
Kathy hesitated for at least two seconds. “Wow! What a great souvenir of the evening. Could you fix that up?”
“Of course. I think Philippe would want to meet you before the party. Would that be OK?”
“Sure—and Coco, thanks so much for all your help. I really appreciate it.”
—
Sam’s early-evening call found Philippe and Mimi in the empty gloom of Le Club Croisette, the most recent addition to the nightlife of Cannes. As Philippe had explained to the club’s owner, Mimi always liked to take a quick look at the space before she came in to do the shoot. The owner was delivering a breathless, and seemingly endless, recital of all the celebrities who had been invited to the club’s opening later that night. The call, brief as it was, came as a welcome interruption.
“Practicing your pole dancing for tonight? How’s the club?”
“It’s fine. But Sam, I’m a little busy right now.”
“I’ll make it quick. Keep the evening of the twenty-third free. We’ve got a nice little gig for you. I’ll call you later.”
Philippe turned back to the club’s owner. “Do you think she’s really going to come, Carla Bruni?”
When their reconnaissance ended, Mimi and Philippe were having an early dinner at Miramar Plage, a beach restaurant on the Croisette.
“Well,” said Philippe, “what did you think of it?”
Mimi took a sip of wine and looked out at the sun slipping down toward the horizon. “I don’t know. Compared to this…”—she waved an arm at the view—“it’s difficult to get excited about a dark hole in the ground, no matter how much they’ve spent tarting it up to make it look glamorous. These places are always depressing when they’re empty; they look better when they’re jammed with people. But don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll get some good shots.”
Philippe’s phone rang. It was Sam calling back with a few details of the Fitzgerald party, and the guests whom Coco had invited. “Sounds like an interesting bunch of people,” he said, “and I know that Elena would love to see Mimi again, but you’ve been keeping her so busy lately. How about it?”
Philippe thought for a moment. The party sounded a little thin on major celebrities, but the glamour of Cap Ferrat was always a plus, and rich Americans having a good time would be a change from Europeans and Russians misbehaving. “OK,” he said. “Why not?”
Chapter 14
Despite the demands placed on him as the chronicler of les people, Philippe found that he still had time to think about his scoop—the exclusive revelation of the true story behind the unsolved robberies. This in turn led him to refine an idea that had been in the back of his mind for some time: a series that featured the homes of the rich and famous. Now, he thought, the robberies could add another dimension to that idea. It was obvious that the victims of those robberies were, if not famous, certainly rich. And the mysterious circumstances surrounding the robberies had the makings of the kind of story that the readers of Salut! would find irresistible.
The problem, of course, would be persuading the owners to give him access to their homes. His old ally, human nature, would help; he was still astonished that the lure of celebrity was potent enough to make people agree to all kinds of invasions of their privacy. But this time, he would probably need something more, a rational excuse for them to throw open their front doors. It was time, he decided, to share his thoughts with Sam.
It was the morning after the swimsuit fashion show at Saint-Tropez when they met for coffee at Le Pharo.
“How was it?” said Sam.
Philippe shook his head. “Amazing. After the first half-hour the bikini tops started dropping like leaves in autumn. Perfectly tanned bosoms everywhere—you’d have loved it.”
Sam grinned. “Sounds like a tough job, but I guess somebody had to do it. Now, what’s this idea you want to talk about?”
After Philippe had finished, Sam was silent and thoughtful for a few moments. “Well,” he said finally, “it’s not a bad idea, but I don’t know if the owners would want to be reminded of a lousy experience. You’re right—we need to find a serious reason to get them to let you in.”
“You two look like you’re plotting. Can I join in?” It was Elena, back from a morning swim and desperate for coffee. She filled a cup from the cafetière and looked at them expectantly. Sam took her through Philippe’s idea, and repeated his own reaction.
Elena nodded. “I can see the problem. I suppose the obvious thing to do would be to give it a try—you know, ask them how they feel about having their homes photographed.”
Sam nodded slowly and turned to Philippe. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Philippe looked blank. “Our favorite insurance executive, Ms. Morales, already knows two of the victims—that couple in Nice, the Castellacis. How about asking them?” They both looked at Elena.
She shook her head. “We could try. But why would they want to say yes? What’s in it for them?”
Sam sighed. “That’s the big question. The last thing they would want, I guess, is to become celebrities for being robbed. And let’s not forget the main reason for wanting to get into these places is not—forgive me, Philippe—to do an article for Salut! It’s to see if we can pick up anything that would help us get somewhere with these robberies.”
Elena was frowning as she removed her sunglasses and, in a somewhat absentminded way, started to polish them on the corner of her towel. “I’m beginning to get an idea,” she said. “Supposing I asked the Castellacis if I could introduce them to Knox Insurance’s top investigator, the European claims inspector, Mr. Sam Levitt? And supposing Mr. Levitt was working on a new security project that would make homes more burglar-proof than they had ever been before?”
“Isn’t it a little late for that?” said Sam. “I mean, the thief has already paid them a visit. The diamonds are gone. The damage has already been done.”
“Of course. But the diamonds will probably be replaced. And besides, they have other stuff that has to be insured. We could tell the Castellacis that if they agree to help us, we would install the new system for free once it’s been perfected. We might also say there’s a chance that their premium would be reduced, which would appeal to that miserable little bastard of a husband.”
Sam leaned over and kissed her. “There’s nothing I love more than an intelligent woman with great legs and criminal tendencies.”
The rest of the morning was spent discussing and elaborating Elena’s idea, and by the time Reboul’s chef came out shortly after noon to count the heads for lunch, they all
felt that they had something to work with. As long as the Castellacis could be persuaded to agree.
—
Reboul himself had come back after a hard morning of banging heads in the office, and was delighted to find that he had three companions who could join him for lunch. He was in better spirits than they had seen him in for a long time, and the reason for this was revealed when the first glasses of rosé had made their appearance. His long-distance lady friend, Monica Chung, had agreed to take a break from her business in Hong Kong and spend the summer with him in Provence.
“I’m so happy for you,” said Elena to Reboul as they made their way to the table. “I remember Monica. She’s lovely.”
“Not only that,” said Reboul, “but she’s a wonderful cook, so I’m hoping that Alphonse will let her into his kitchen from time to time.”
And there was Alphonse, waiting for them at the head of the table. In addition to his duties as chef, he took great pleasure in announcing, often in great detail, what his guests were about to eat. This had led Sam to call him the Living Menu.
Alphonse tapped the rim of a wineglass with a knife. “Today, we start with a seasonal encouragement for the taste buds, a summer soup of chilled melon. The melons, to be sure, come from Cavaillon, melon capital of the world. And then to follow, a dish very popular with our friends in Corsica: bresaola—very fine slices of air-cured beef, served with olive oil, a sauce of melted Gorgonzola cheese, and baby roasted potatoes. And to finish, a two-tone chocolate mousse with a tiny whirl of vanilla on top. Et voilà!” After a short pause for applause, he returned to the kitchen.
Sam and Philippe brought Reboul up to date with their progress on the robberies; Elena brought him up to date with the progress on the house. By the time he left them having coffee on the terrace, he was almost giddy with information, and was looking forward to a peaceful afternoon in the office.