The Vintage Caper

relief that the city accepted Reboul’s offer to rent the Palais du Pharo for his personal use. Papers were signed on Saint Napoléon’s Day 1993, and Reboul moved in.
    It was a sad little story, Sam thought as he closed the book. If an emperor couldn’t get a house built in ten years, what hope was there for the rest of us?
    The early-evening breeze coming off the sea had turned chilly, and he went inside to change into a suit and tie for the meeting. He checked his new camera and put half a dozen business cards in his top pocket. These were printed only with his name and address. There were no details about his occupation, since this had a way of changing from job to job. With a final adjustment of his tie—a Harvard Club knockoff—he went down to meet Sophie in the lobby.
    She was already there when Sam stepped out of the elevator, and she was talking to an extremely attentive concierge, who clearly appreciated what she was wearing. It was the Frenchwoman’s version of a business suit—that is, a skirt just the modest side of short, with a hint of lacy décolleté visible beneath the fitted jacket.
    When she saw Sam, Sophie turned toward him, one hand on her hip, her eyebrows raised. “So? Will this do?”
    Sam nodded his head and grinned. “You’re a credit to the publishing business. In fact, you’d be a sensation in the publishing business.”
    “I’ve just asked the concierge to call for a taxi,” she said. “Twenty meters is about all I can manage in these shoes.”
    Sam looked at the shoes. It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. “I understand perfectly,” he said. He offered Sophie his arm. “Let’s go. This is Reboul’s lucky night.”

Fourteen

    The iron gates swung open to let the taxi through. Standing some fifty meters inside the gates, at the very edge of the driveway, was a larger-than-life-size statue of a woman clad in the flowing robes of ancient Greece. Her blind marble gaze was fixed on the huge building in the distance, her arms outstretched as if trying to touch it.
    The driver nodded toward her as they passed. “Empress Eugénie,” he said. “La pauvre . This is about as close as she ever got to her palace.”
    Waiting on the front steps as the taxi pulled up was a young man in a dark suit, his head respectfully tilted in welcome. He guided them through the entrance and along a gleaming avenue of honey-colored herringbone parquet that led to a pair of tall double doors. These he threw open with a flourish before melting away, leaving Sophie and Sam almost blinded by the torrent of evening sunlight that streamed through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Framed by one of these windows was the silhouette of Reboul, his back to the room and a cell phone to his ear.
    Sophie nudged Sam. “He doesn’t know we’re here.”
    “Sure he does,” said Sam. “He’s just letting us know how busy he is. They do it all the time in L.A.” He turned, and closed the double doors behind him with a firm thump. The sound seemed to be enough to attract the silhouette’s attention, and Reboul, still heavily backlit, put away his phone and came across to greet them.
    He was short, slim, and immaculate. He had thick white hair, beautifully cut en brosse , and wore a shirt of the palest blue, a tie that Sam, a student of these arcane signals, recognized as the official neckwear of the Guards Club in London, and a dark-blue silk suit. His face was the color of oiled teak, and his bright brown eyes became even brighter at the sight of Sophie.
    “Bienvenue, madame,” he said, bending over to kiss her hand and take in her décolleté before turning to Sam. “Et vous êtes Monsieur …”
    “Levitt. Sam Levitt. Good to meet you. Thanks a lot for seeing us.” He shook Reboul’s hand and gave him one of his business cards.
    “Ah,” said Reboul. “You would prefer that we speak English.”
    “That’s kind of you,” said Sam. “My French is not as good as it should be.”
    Reboul shrugged. “No problem. Today, everyone in business must know English. All my employees speak it. Soon, I suppose, we’ll have to learn Chinese.” He looked down at Sam’s card, and cocked a bushy white eyebrow. “A château in Los Angeles? How chic.”
    “A modest place,” said Sam with a smile. “But it’s home.”
    Reboul extended a hand toward the row of windows. “Come. Let me show you my sunset. I’m told it’s the best in Marseille.”
    His sunset, thought Sam. It was wonderful how