The Vintage Caper

grimaced. “Well, maybe not that bad. Here, take a look.” He opened the folder and started to spread the contents on the table.
    There was Reboul the master builder in a hard hat on one of his construction sites; Reboul the newspaper magnate, sleeves rolled up in what looked like a newsroom; Reboul in a soccer shirt, chatting to members of the Olympique de Marseille team; Reboul in a frayed straw hat, secateurs at the ready, communing with a bunch of grapes; Reboul the aviator about to board his private jet; Reboul the sea dog at the helm of his yacht; and, in a variety of outfits that ranged from a business suit to T-shirt and shorts, Reboul the proud homeowner, chez lui in the Palais du Pharo. One study of particular interest was Reboul the connoisseur, holding a glass of wine to the light in front of racks of bottles that stretched away into the far distance; this was presumably his cellar.
    Sam half expected to come across pictures of Reboul in his pajamas, but perhaps the great man didn’t have time for sleep. “Busy guy,” said Sam. “Does he have his own personal photographer?”
    Philippe grinned. “At least one. Editors who know him well sometimes don’t even bother to send a photographer when they’re doing a piece.”
    “How about a wife? Is there a Madame Reboul?”
    “There was. She died years ago, and he never remarried. That’s not to say he doesn’t have one or two petites amies.” Philippe shuffled through the articles until he found a photograph of Reboul and a striking young woman who was several inches taller than he was. “Little men with big wallets,” said Philippe. “They’re always the most frisky, and they always go for tall women. Isn’t that right, Sophie?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
    She made a face, but before she could reply her phone rang. The two men watched as she got up and moved away to take the call. It was brief, and it was positive. There was a wide smile on Sophie’s face as she came back to the table. “Six-thirty this evening,” she said. “It has to be tonight, because he’s taking his boat to Corsica tomorrow, and he’ll be away for a few days.”
    “Terrific,” said Sam. “Well done. You have a great future as a book packager. Now, what do we need for this evening? I’d better get a camera.”
    “I need to find an outfit,” said Sophie. “Something businesslike.”
    Philippe looked at his watch. “I need lunch. In fact, I will perish without lunch,” he said. “I know this place, typiquement marseillais . We can talk while we eat.”
    The taxi dropped them on the corner of the Rue de Village, a side street off the Rue de Rome. Philippe led the way to what appeared to be an ordinary butcher’s shop, its window decorated with a panorama of beef, lamb, and veal. He stopped short at the entrance and turned to Sam. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian?” He answered his own question with a shake of his head. “I forget. You’re American. Of course you love meat. And here we have the best meat in Marseille.”
    As they went through the door, Sam could hear the buzz of conversation drifting through from the back of the shop. A young man came out to greet them, survived a vigorous embrace from Philippe, and took them into a small, crowded room dappled with light filtering through the leaves of the giant bougainvillea that sprawled across the glass roof. Philippe was looking around, nodding and smiling at several of the other customers. “Everybody here is from Marseille,” he said to Sam, with some satisfaction. “You’re probably their first American.” Sam had been studying the surroundings, which owed a substantial debt to the bovine school of interior decoration. Depictions of a large, stately, black-and-white cow named La Belle were everywhere, on paintings and place mats, salt cellars and pepper shakers and menus. “I guess we know what we’re going to eat,” said Sam. “Any special recommendations?”
    Philippe closed his menu with a snap. “Bresaola to start, with hearts of artichoke, sun-dried tomatoes, and Parmesan. Then the beef cheeks, which they do here with a slice of foie gras on top. And a fondant au chocolat . That will see us through until dinner. Trust me.”
    As they were making their way through lunch, one perfect mouthful after another, Philippe turned his attentions to Sophie. It had been too long since they had seen one another, he felt, and he wanted to catch up. After one or two harmless questions