by Peter Mayle
They pulled up and parked fifty yards past the hotel entrance. Marc and René met them as they were getting out of the car, and confirmed seeing a black Fiat 500 going into the hotel’s private parking area ten minutes earlier.
The night manager, a suave and helpful young man, clearly welcomed the stimulating distraction of a police visit investigating what Laffitte described to him as “a most delicate matter.” He did, however, insist that he accompany them—quoting hotel regulations—to Coco’s apartment.
Coco opened the door. She was holding a glass of wine, and had kicked off her shoes, as women often do after a hard day’s work. She looked at Sam with astonishment. “Sam? What are you doing here? Who are these people?”
“I’m afraid they’re police. Can we come in and talk to you?”
“What about?”
Laffitte stepped forward. “Madame, we have a warrant, and we need to talk to you. Please.”
“This is outrageous. But if you must come in, come in.”
She stood in front of the table, hands on hips, and glared at them. “Now what?”
Laffitte sighed. “I’m sure you know why we’re here. We saw you entering the Fitzgerald house on Cap Ferrat earlier this evening.”
“So?”
“What were you doing there?”
“That’s none of your business. But if you must know, I was doing a favor for the owners.” She took out her cell phone and scrolled down to Kathy’s message. “Here. Listen.” She passed the phone to Laffitte, moving aside as she did so and revealing a small backpack lying on the table behind her. Sam saw that Laffitte had noticed it.
He finished listening to the message. “Do you normally do this kind of thing at night?”
Coco shrugged. “I was in Antibes all day, and then I went out to dinner. After that, I went to the house. Look, this is really unacceptable. Please go.”
“Of course,” said Lafitte. “Oh, before I do, perhaps you would let me see what is in that backpack.”
Coco picked up the backpack, and very deliberately took out the contents: a flashlight, a box of tissues, some keys, and a pair of black cotton gloves. She turned the empty bag inside out and tossed it at Laffitte. “Satisfied?”
“You know what?” Sam whispered to Laffitte. “We’re in the wrong room. She must have stopped off on the way.”
Laffitte took Marc and René aside. “You stay with her here. She is not to leave this room and she is not to use the phone. Is that clear?”
Sam, Laffitte, and the night manager, who had been watching everything with bemused curiosity, went down to reception, where they confirmed that Alex Dumas was still in residence.
“This time we’re not knocking,” Laffitte said to the night manager. “Bring a master key.”
“I couldn’t do that. Hotel regulations forbid it, unless the circumstances are exceptional.”
“Believe me, they are,” said Laffitte. “Let’s go.”
In the elevator going up to the Dumas suite, Laffitte turned to Sam and winked. “Nearly there.” Sam crossed his fingers.
They tiptoed across from the elevator, the key was turned, the door flung open. And there was Alex Dumas, a look of shock on his face, made grotesque by the jeweler’s loupe screwed into one eye. A pile of diamonds was on the table in front of him.
Sam felt an enormous surge of relief. “Well, I’ll be damned. Where did all those come from? Room service?”
Chapter 25
Elena’s voice came down the line like a cold shower. “So you were right and I was wrong, OK?”
Sam sighed. “Sorry about that. I won’t let it happen again. Look, I’ll be back later today. Can we talk about it then?” There was no answer. “Elena?” But she had ended the call; it was a disappointing start to what Sam felt was going to be a disappointing day. After the elation of the previous night, with congratulations coming thick and fast from Laffitte and his men, he now had the task of passing the news on to Reboul. It could be another very uncomfortable moment, despite Reboul’s feeling that Coco would do almost anything for money. This time, he thought, it was best dealt with in person.
But first, Laffitte had asked him to come to his office before returning to Marseille. Sam checked out of the hotel and stopped for coffee and a croissant before making his way to the Commissariat Central, where he found Laffitte, not surprisingly, in the best of spirits.
“Ah, there you are, Sherlock,” said Laffitte, giving Sam a bear hug. “Found some more clues? Now let’s see—what have I got to tell you?”
He scratched his head and shuffled some papers on his desk. “The top laddies here are delighted, as you can imagine, and so is Hervé. They’d all like to show their appreciation in due course. I’ll be calling the Fitzgeralds later today to tell them the good news. And we shall be having a long chat with Dumas père et fille this afternoon to find out what they did with the jewels from the other three robberies. Our colleagues in Antwerp are already working on all the Dumas connections. So it promises to be an interesting day. I’ll keep you posted. But before you go, I’d like to go over what you can tell me about those other three robberies.”
An hour later, Sam was on his way back to Marseille, for once not looking forward to seeing Reboul. But at least the moment was delayed. It was a Sunday, and Sunday lunch at Le Pharo was a well-established ritual. Reboul would invite half a dozen friends, Alphonse would excel himself in the kitchen, and lunch would extend until well into the afternoon. Private and delicate conversations were, for the moment, out of the question.
Sam found himself sitting between Monica and Reboul’s aunt Laura, who had come over from Corsica, where Sam had met her, for a weekend in the city. To Sam’s relief, he saw that Elena was out of range, next to Reboul at the far end of the table.
Monica and Laura were perfect lunchtime companions, charming and amusing. The food was up to Alphonse’s high standard, the wines flowed freely, and Sam began to relax. By four o’clock, when the guests had started to make their farewells, he was feeling a little more optimistic.
He waited until Reboul had said goodbye to the last guest before cornering him.
“Francis, we need to talk.”
Reboul smiled, and shook his head. “Sam, do you think Elena wouldn’t have told me?”
“I suppose I might have guessed. What can I say? I’m very, very sorry it turned out like this.”
Reboul sighed. “As I once said to you, Coco was always obsessed with money; it was like an addiction, and I think her father’s just the same. It’s a great pity. She’s such a talented woman. She doesn’t need to steal. Of course I’m sad, but I’m not really surprised. Come with me, bring a Cognac, and tell me all about it.” He led the way to a far corner of the terrace, and Sam could almost feel Elena’s eyes on him.
Reboul was still shaking his head when they sat back down. “What a silly girl. I still find it hard to believe.”
“Tell me, Francis—how was Elena when she told you? Sad? Angry?”
“Both. Sad because she’d lost a friend, angry at what Coco had done, and also because there’s no possibility of innocence; the two of them were caught with the goods. End of story.”
“You know that Elena is furious with me over this?”
Reboul smiled. “I don’t think that will last long. But if I were you I would tread carefully for the next day or two. Maybe a little peace offering wouldn’t hurt.”
—
Sam’s cell phone went off early the next morning. It was Kathy Fitzgerald, ecstatic with gratitude. Laffitte had told her everything. The jewels were being returned to her, under a police escort, later in the day, and Fitz had a great idea for a thank-you gift. He was already on the phone to his man in Paris to arrange delivery. Kathy would call back in the afternoon to fix a time.
Relations between Elena and Sam were edging back to normal; she had even kissed him on the nose before getting up, and he thought he had come up with the peace offering that Reboul had suggested. Life was looking a lit
tle more rosy. He decided to spread some of the happiness in Philippe’s direction.
“Would you like some good news?”
“Always,” said Philippe.
“We got Coco and her father and the jewels on Saturday night. How about that?”
“Well, congratulations—you did it. I have to say there were times when I had my doubts. You have to tell me everything.”
“Before I do, here’s an idea you might like: a sequel to the piece you did on the party. You know—the jewel robbery that failed. You’d have to get the Fitzgeralds’ agreement, obviously, but it could be fun.”
“Great. You know what might go with it? That shot Mimi took of all the ladies wearing their jewels, with the same shot side by side, over a caption that says, ‘Before and After.’ No jewels missing. What do you think?”
“Off you go, but don’t forget to clear it with Kathy. And you might want to give the police a nod—Capitaine Laffitte, in the Nice Commissariat.”
“I’m on my way. Talk to you later.”
Elena emerged from the bathroom, and gave Sam his first smile in twenty-four hours.
“I don’t think I told you,” she said. “Monica and I are having a girls’ day out in Marseille. We’ll be back in time for a drink this evening. See you then.”
“I shall count the moments,” said Sam, and was rewarded with his second smile of the day. Things were definitely looking up.
Once Elena had left, his first stop was the kitchen, where he spent a very productive half hour with Alphonse. From there, he took Alphonse over to the house, now free of workmen, where he spent the morning being taught how to operate the equipment: the induction hob, the streamlined multifunction cooker, the separate steam oven—all the chef’s essentials that he had so carefully avoided throughout his life.
Alphonse left just before noon, and his exhausted pupil was having a restorative glass of rosé in the sunshine when his phone beeped. Kathy was calling back, as promised, and sounded more excited than ever. Fitz had pulled out all the stops, and express delivery was guaranteed for the following morning. Was that OK? In fact, it fitted in very well with Sam’s plans. He gave Kathy the address and promised to call as soon as the delivery had been made.
His afternoon passed in a blur of activity, but by the time he left the house in the early evening he was confident that his little peace offering would put him back in Elena’s good graces.
He found her back at Le Pharo, on the terrace with Monica and Reboul, looking tired but happy. The day in Marseille had been a great success. The ladies had explored, shopped, lunched, and shopped again. They had discussed their respective partners, of course, and had come to the conclusion that they were both pretty lucky.
Before dinner, there was an impromptu fashion show, with Elena and Monica modeling what they had bought, and Reboul took advantage of a changing-room break to ask Sam how what he called “the Elena situation” was going.
“It’s a little easier,” said Sam. “I’m hoping tomorrow should do it. Are you sure it’s OK if I borrow Alphonse for an hour or so?”
Reboul grinned. “Of course. Do you want to borrow his chef’s hat as well?”
—
The following morning began with a brief negotiation over breakfast.
“I have a little surprise for you,” Sam said to Elena. “I have to be out all morning, but I’ll be through by lunchtime.”
“Can’t I come?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Even if I promise to be adorable?”
“No.”
This brought a pout from Elena, but it was a good-humored pout, and Sam was whistling as he left.
After a quick stop in Marseille, he arrived at the house to set up his peace offering. It was to be a homemade lunch, prepared, with a little help from Alphonse, by Sam. The menu was simple: chilled melon soup, filet mignon with a red wine sauce, salad with balsamic dressing, and Alphonse’s most decadent chocolate tart. The wine was a favorite of Elena’s, a Châteauneuf-du-Pape 2010 Vieux Télégraphe.
Sam had just started to set out the ingredients when he heard the grunt of an engine, and went out to find a delivery truck and two men. Fitz’s gift had arrived—a dozen wooden boxes, which the men stacked with some reverence against the kitchen wall. Sam read the inscriptions on the boxes with mounting astonishment. Two cases of Château Lafite Rothschild. Two cases of Château Latour. Two cases of Romanée-Conti La Tâche. Two cases of Grand Cru Chablis. Two cases of Krug Champagne. And two cases of Château d’Yquem. It added up to the foundation of a truly magnificent wine cellar.
There was also an envelope containing a corkscrew and a one-word note on Fitz’s writing paper: “Enjoy.”
Sam called Kathy at once. She was thrilled that he was thrilled, and the conversation ended with promises to get together as soon as Sam and Elena were free. But meanwhile, there was lunch to prepare.
Sam started outside, at the small table on the terrace that he had chosen for the great event, dressing the table with accessories borrowed from Le Pharo: a thick linen tablecloth and napkins, crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and fine bone china. In the center of the table he placed the bouquet of white roses he had picked up in Marseille. He was standing back admiring his handiwork when he heard the clatter of Alphonse’s van, and the chef bustled up to the table, making several tiny adjustments before turning to Sam. “Voilà—now it is perfect. Come with me.”
He opened the back of his van, gave Sam a large tray, and started to load it. There was a small tureen and a sealed container of melon soup, a jar containing the wine sauce, and a covered dish for the chocolate tart. “You said you would do the steak and salad yourself, yes? Here—you’ll need this.” He hung a long, freshly starched apron around Sam’s neck.
In the kitchen, Alphonse gave Sam strict and detailed instructions about the presentation of the soup and the heating and application of the red wine sauce before wishing Sam bon appétit and heading back to his own kitchen.
Sam looked at his watch. He was relieved that he’d asked Olivier, the chauffeur, to bring Elena over. He needed the extra time for the finishing touches; also, he wanted her first sight of him to be in his apron. Should he have borrowed the chef’s hat? Probably not. Elena wouldn’t be impressed by a hat.
She arrived on the dot at 12:30. Watching from the kitchen window, Sam saw her get out of the car and look around with a puzzled expression on her face. Smoothing his apron, he put two glasses of Champagne on a small silver tray and went out to meet her.
As she saw him, her expression changed to one of amused disbelief. “I was expecting to meet Mr. Levitt. Are you new here?”
“Just helping out, madame. Just helping out. Champagne?”
They touched glasses. “Welcome home,” said Sam.
Elena smiled. “Nice to be back.”
After that, it was as though the old Elena had returned. She admired the table setting, loved the chilled soup, and was most impressed by Sam’s handling of the steak and wine sauce. “That apron suits you,” she said. “We should do this more often.”
“I have to admit it wasn’t totally my own work. Alphonse had a hand in it. In fact, he managed to make the next course without any help from me at all.”
The chocolate tart was followed by coffee, and Sam felt he could now take off his apron. “Would you like anything else?”
Elena looked at him in silence for a moment, and then winked—a slow, inviting wink. “How about a siesta?”
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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.
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