by Peter Mayle
On the court, the players had gathered around the winning boule, either to celebrate or to start a litany of outraged disputes and arm-waving that looked set to continue all evening.
“This will go on until they get thirsty,” said Reboul. “But you get the idea. It’s not the quietest of games.”
Elena finished her drink. “I love it,” she said. “All of it. Sam, we could have a court at the house. But why aren’t there any women playing?”
“Who knows?” said Sam. “Maybe they’re getting ready to console the losers.”
Chapter 20
“These are very good,” said Philippe. “The magazine’s going to love them.”
He and Mimi were going through the photographs she had taken of the Johnson house, and they were extremely inviting. The rooms looked spacious and elegant, the terraces shady and cool, and the views were spectacular.
“Did he tell you how much they want when they sell it?” asked Mimi.
“Not exactly, although he did mutter at one point about eight or ten million. Whether that was a fair guess or a mixture of booze and optimism is hard to say. But houses around here are certainly not bargains.”
Mimi had stopped at one of the interior shots, and had bent closer to the screen for another look. “That’s odd,” she said. “I hadn’t really noticed it at the time. Look.” She tilted the computer so that Philippe had a clearer view. It was a handsome image showing Johnson’s large, leather-topped desk, furnished with the various trimmings—silver letter-opener, Lalique owl paperweight, red Economist desk diary, mahogany in-tray—of a prosperous executive’s office. But Mimi’s finger was pointing lower down, at the bottom of the photograph, which showed the main desk drawer. The handle was bronze, in the shape of a woman’s hand, hinged at the wrist.
Mimi was frowning and shaking her head. “I’m sure I’ve seen that before, but I can’t think where.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll come to you. Let’s go back to the exteriors.”
They continued to go through the shots, picking out the best for the article. Once they had agreed on the selection, they sent one set of photographs to the Johnsons for their approval; a second set went to Claudine, the features editor of Salut!, at the magazine’s Nice office.
With the day’s work done, they went off to meet Elena and Sam at their house. Mimi had never seen it, but she had liked Philippe’s idea of having their wedding party there, and this evening they were going to work out some of the details.
They arrived at the house to be greeted by a buzz of activity, with the sounds of workmen in full cry coming through the open front door. Inside, having sidestepped a thoughtful electrician scratching his head as he brooded over a spaghetti of wiring, they found Elena and Sam hunched in front of a set of plans in what would shortly be a fully fitted kitchen.
“Thank the Lord you’re here,” said Sam. “I got completely lost somewhere between ceramic hobs and steam ovens. My kitchen experience is pretty much limited to toasters and frying pans.”
“This will help,” said Philippe. He hoisted onto the table a large freezer bag. Inside were two bottles of chilled rosé, four glasses, and a corkscrew.
“I think you’ve saved Sam’s life,” said Elena. “I was about to throw him off the cliff. Why is it that men get so grouchy about kitchens?”
With their glasses filled, Elena took them on a guided tour, suggesting possible spots for drinks, a buffet supper, and dancing. Mimi was thrilled with it all, especially the terraces that went around three sides of the house. For the party, Elena had planned to put up white canvas awnings to provide shade from the sun or shelter from, God forbid, any rain.
Mimi was also most impressed by the standard of finish and the attention to detail inside the house, and Elena was quick to give credit where it was due.
“It’s Coco,” she said. “She’s been amazing—never forgets anything, keeps every last detail in one of her little notebooks. The workmen would do anything for her and, of course, she speaks perfect English. What a lucky find. She even bought us a housewarming gift. Come and take a look.” They stopped outside the front door, and Elena demonstrated the knocker. “She thinks it might be eighteenth-century, and it really works with the door.”
Mimi took a close look. It was exactly the same—even down to the shape of the woman’s hand—as the handle on Johnson’s desk drawer. Larger, obviously, but the similarity was unmistakable. “It’s beautiful. So is the door. It’s going to be a lovely house.”
Mimi didn’t mention it again until they were in the car. “It’s starting to bother me,” she said. “I know I’ve seen that hand somewhere else, not just the Johnson house.”
“Another knocker?”
“No—I’m sure it was a miniature.”
Later that evening, they were celebrating a rare night away from les people by going to bed early and watching an old Truffaut movie on television. As one poignant moment was following another, Philippe abruptly got up and went to his office, coming back with his laptop. “I just remembered something. The photographs I took at the Castellaci house.”
“Is this going to be more exciting than Truffaut?”
“Could be.” He opened the Castellaci file and began clicking through the photographs. “Et voilà! That’s where you’ve seen it. Take a look.” He passed the laptop across to Mimi. And there, partly obscured by shadow, was the door of a closet in Madame Castellaci’s dressing room. The closet handle was a miniature bronze female hand, hinged at the wrist.
“We need to make a couple of calls,” said Philippe. “It’s too late now; we’ll make them in the morning.” The final moments of Truffaut passed by unwatched.
—
Was it coincidence? A new decorative fad? Mimi and Philippe were still discussing it over breakfast the following morning, an impatient Philippe repeatedly consulting his watch until he felt he could make his calls. And then Mimi’s phone rang.
It was Claudine, and she was extravagantly pleased. “Sweetie! I’m thrilled! The photos are divine! So perfect for Salut!” And on she went, every sentence an exclamation of joy, culminating with an invitation for them both to come to Nice right away, where they could go over a few details before a celebration lunch.
Needless to say, Mimi was flattered and excited. Philippe had shaved in honor of the occasion, and it was a happy two-hour drive that brought them to Claudine’s office, situated—naturellement—on the Promenade des Anglais, where Claudine herself was waiting to greet them. She was, as one would expect from a woman working on the fringes of fashion and celebrity, relentlessly chic—the latest coiffure, this season’s perky summer dress, and the most avant-garde shoes. She admitted to being thirty-nine, that wonderfully elastic age, and she was determined to stay thirty-nine for several years to come.
“So,” she said, taking both of Mimi’s hands in hers, “at last I meet the genius behind the lens! Come and have a glass of Champagne.” She led them into her office, a shrine to celebrity, with photographs of les people lining the walls.
The Champagne was poured, the toasts were made, and then the photographs, which had been printed up and pinned to the wall, were inspected and gushed over. It was Philippe who interrupted by mentioning that the owners had decided to sell. There was a sudden silence before Claudine, scenting an exclusive, suggested that Salut! could break the news that this magnificent property was for sale. That is, if the owners agreed. She looked at Philippe, eyebrows raised. He took the hint and took out his phone.
“Mr. Johnson, it’s Philippe Davin. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all, dear boy, not at all. In fact, I was going to call you to say how much we like the snaps. Couldn’t have done better myself—they should put another million on the price.”
“I’m delighted you’re pleased. Mr. Johnson, I’m in a meeting at the moment with the magazine’s editor, and she’s had a very good idea—an exclusive that would include the information that the house is for sale. In effect, it woul
d be like a six-page ad.”
Johnson hardly hesitated. “Splendid idea,” he said. “Tell your editor to get in touch with me—there’ll probably be some paperwork to sort out. You can’t blow your nose here in France without an official piece of paper.”
“One last thing,” said Philippe. “The magazine would like to give the decorator a mention, if that’s OK with you.”
“By all means. Lovely gal, perfect English, Coco something.”
“Dumas?”
“That’s it. Coco Dumas.”
Claudine was so pleased with the call that she almost forgot to check her makeup before they left the office to go to a nearby restaurant. As Mimi said later, it was like having lunch with royalty. The headwaiter fawned over Claudine, the chef came out of his kitchen to give her his personal recommendations, and the sommelier came to the table cradling a bottle of her favorite wine.
“It looks like they know you here,” said Philippe to Claudine.
“It’s our little canteen,” she said. “So close to the office, and they’re all so sweet.”
And, somewhat to Philippe’s surprise, the canteen cuisine was excellent: simple, fresh, and tasty. It would have been even better with a glass or two of wine, but as he was driving, and as the autoroute was crawling with gendarmes, he had to settle for San Pellegrino.
—
During the drive back to Marseille, Philippe asked Mimi to make two calls—the first to Madame Castellaci, the second to Monsieur Rimbaud in Monaco. They confirmed what Philippe had now begun to feel was more than just a hunch, and after checking that Elena and Sam would be there, they made their way straight to Le Pharo.
“What’s the panic?” said Sam as he met them on the terrace.
“Thirst,” said Philippe. “Where are you hiding the rosé?”
They settled at a table, with a fine view of the dipping sun, and Philippe delivered his news. “Those three houses that were robbed so professionally? We just found out who renovated them all: Coco Dumas.”
Elena was frowning. “So? She must have done dozens of houses along the coast.”
“Look—I know that she’s your new best friend, but you have to admit that it’s an amazing coincidence. Sam, what do you think?”
“Well, her name didn’t appear on any of the police reports. But then, why would it? Police generally aren’t too interested in interior decorators.” He took a thoughtful sip of wine. “And when you think about it, someone in her position couldn’t be better placed to get into a house. As we know from working with her, she takes care of everything, all the details, from the kitchen drawers to the alarm system. She would know all the codes, because she probably helped to set them. She could easily keep a duplicate set of keys, without the owner knowing. So yes, it’s technically possible that she had something to do with the robberies.”
Elena wasn’t at all convinced. “I think that’s ridiculous. She has a great business. Why risk it?”
“Money,” said Sam. “You’ve seen the figures. The total stolen from those three houses adds up to about twelve million euros, tax free. Not bad for a sideline. Don’t get me wrong—I like Coco, and she’s doing a fine job for us, but these are practically risk-free robberies for someone in her situation.”
“OK, Mr. Smartass, so what are you going to do? Call her up and say, Gotcha?”
“I don’t know.” Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I really don’t know. Anyone got any ideas?”
Chapter 21
It was a perplexed and thoughtful Sam that Reboul found on the terrace that evening—although not too thoughtful to notice that his host was wearing a beautifully cut dinner jacket.
“Ah, Francis. You shouldn’t have dressed up for me.”
Reboul grinned, and stroked the silk lapel of his jacket. “What do you think? Monica had it made for me in Hong Kong, and I’m christening it tonight. We’re going to the opera. Did you know that Marseille has a wonderful opera house? The original one was built in the seventeenth century, on a tennis court. Anyway, tonight it’s La Traviata.” He paused to look more closely at Sam. “You seem very quiet. Are you alright?”
“My friend, you’re not going to like this, but I have to tell you something.” Sam sighed, and stared down at his drink. “I’m beginning to think that Coco Dumas was in some way connected with these unsolved robberies.”
After a long silence, it was Reboul’s turn to sigh. “I’m sorry to say it wouldn’t surprise me. Money for her is an addiction. But tell me, what makes you think she was involved?”
Sam went through it all, starting with the accidental discovery of the miniature hands and moving on to the confirmation by the three different robbery victims that Coco had renovated all three houses. “It’s all too much of a coincidence.”
Reboul shook his head, and poured himself some more wine. “As I’ve told you, Coco and I have a history, and I think I know her well. One of the reasons the relationship ended was her obsession with money. When she realized it wasn’t going to come from marrying me is when it all started to fall apart. So the idea of making millions from stealing her clients’ diamonds without too much risk could easily have appealed to her. Also, I happen to know that her father, whom I met a couple of times, has some kind of business in Antwerp, which is where diamonds often go for a change of identity. So that might have been an added attraction.” He looked over Sam’s shoulder, and stood up. “How delightful—here’s Madame Butterfly.”
It was a smiling, elegant Monica, in a floor-length dress of her favorite cream silk.
“You’re a lucky man,” said Sam.
“I am indeed,” said Reboul, looking at his watch. “But I’m also a late man. We have to go. Sam, let’s have breakfast together tomorrow and we can talk some more.”
—
When Sam found Elena, she was in the kitchen of Le Pharo, paying close attention to Alphonse, who was explaining the finer points of cooking with a steam oven.
“Sam, we must have one of these steam ovens. Simple, healthy, no grease—they’re great.”
Sam nodded wisely, and settled down to wait for the end of the lesson. He was still trying to get used to the idea of Elena as a kitchen goddess. As far as he knew, she had rarely attempted anything more ambitious than a salami sandwich when she was obliged to eat at home. This was a promising development.
They said goodnight to Alphonse and went back to the terrace, where Sam brought Elena up to date on his conversation with Reboul. “What really amazed me was that he didn’t seem shocked, or even very surprised. And he must know her better than anyone.”
Elena had hardly stopped shaking her head since Sam had started talking. “Sam, I’m sorry, but I really don’t believe it. Why are you so obsessed with this, anyway?”
“Look, there’s no such thing as a perfect crime, and this is beyond coincidence. So let’s just say it’s professional curiosity. Indulge me, OK? Come on—let’s go to Chez Marcel for dinner.”
“Promise not to spend the evening talking about it?”
“Promise. It’s your turn. My whole being longs to know more about steam ovens.”
They arrived at the restaurant, and were surprised to find Mimi and Philippe already at a table in the corner, looking unusually glamorous: Mimi in a classic little black dress, and Philippe in a dinner jacket.
“Where’s my camera?” said Sam. “Look at you both. Don’t tell me—you’re going to the opera.”
Philippe grimaced. “I wish we were, but we’re covering a gala evening at the Sofitel. And you won’t believe this: our dear client told us that he didn’t want us to take any photographs of his guests eating—maybe they drool or something—so he suggested that we eat in the hotel kitchen, and come out after dinner. To hell with that. But tell me, how’s the investigation going? Found any clues? Oh, I forgot to tell you: Coco Dumas will be at the Fitzgerald party next week.”
Sam thought he heard a suppressed groan coming from Elena, but before he could take the subject any further, Mimi dr
agged Philippe away to the delights of the gala evening.
Elena was not looking happy when they sat down. “I thought you promised not to talk about it?”
“I didn’t. Not a word. I was just anwering Philippe’s question.”
But Elena’s face remained unsmiling. “Don’t stay mad,” said Sam. “It’s bad for the complexion. Now, I have two secret weapons to cheer you up: First, we will talk about nothing except our dream kitchen. We will leave no stove unturned. We might even think about a kitchen-warming party. And second, I see that tonight there is panna cotta on the menu, with your favorite caramel topping. Do I see the beginnings of a smile?”
He did indeed, and the rest of dinner went according to plan: The kitchen was exhaustively discussed. Decisions were made by Elena, and endorsed by Sam, even though once or twice he wasn’t too sure of what he was endorsing. Smiles reappeared. Warm words were exchanged. By the time they left the restaurant, Sam felt he had regained considerable credit in the Elena Morales bank.
It was one of those early-summer evenings when the air had an almost tangible softness and the stars an extra brilliance. As Elena said, it was too beautiful to go to bed, so they strolled around the Vieux Port until they came to a Corsican café, one of Marseille’s many links with its neighboring island. (Another, less convivial link is the number of Corsicans in Marseille’s police force.)
“I know what you need,” said Sam. “Another coffee and a glass of myrte.”
They sat outside, with an uninterrupted view of the bobbing carpet of boats in the harbor, and conversation turned to Mimi and Philippe’s wedding.
“It should be fun,” said Elena. “I’m sure they have nice friends. I’m looking forward to it. But it’s also made me think about us. I mean, how do you feel about dividing our time between here and L.A.?”
“I have to say that life here gets to you. To be honest, I haven’t thought about L.A. for weeks.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot. And I’ve come to realize that, for me, L.A. means work and Provence means, you know, pleasure.” She looked at Sam, her face a silent question.