The Vintage Caper

Sam’s turn. The very best people would be commissioned, he assured Reboul. The text would be assigned to an internationally respected wine writer—Hugh Johnson came to mind, obviously—perhaps with a foreword by Robert Parker; the photographs were to be taken by Halliwell or Duchamp, both of whom were generally regarded as masters. The overall appearance of the book would be supervised by Ettore Pozzuolo, a design genius and publishing legend. In other words, no expense would be spared. This was going to be nothing short of a bible for wine lovers. Here, Sam corrected himself. It would be the bible for wine lovers, and there were millions of these throughout the world. Naturally, said Sam, Reboul would be given full approval of the text and photographs used, with Madame Costes acting as the liaison between writer, photographer, and the Palais du Pharo. She would at all times be available for consultation.
    Reboul pulled at the lobe of one leathery ear as he thought. He was aware that he was being flattered, but that never worried him. It was, he thought, not a bad idea, not bad at all. It was the kind of book that he himself would find interesting. And as long as his right of content approval was written into an agreement, there could be no embarrassing surprises when the book was published. It would be yet another testament to his success—the tycoon with a palate of gold. And not least of the attractions was the prospect of many cozy editorial meetings with the enchanting Madame Costes, who was looking at him so hopefully.
    He made up his mind. “Very well,” he said. “I agree. Not for personal publicity, of course, but because I am always looking for opportunities to beat the drum for France and everything French. It’s a hobby of mine. I suppose I’m an old-fashioned patriot.” He paused to let this noble sentiment sink in before continuing. “Now then. As my secretary told you, I leave early tomorrow morning for a few days in Corsica. But you have no need of me at this stage. The man you should see is Monsieur Vial. He has been in charge of my cellar for almost thirty years. There are several thousand bottles, and I sometimes think he knows each one of them personally. There is nobody better to give you the guided tour.” Reboul nodded, and said again, “Yes, Vial is the man you must see.”
    As he was speaking, Sophie’s expression had turned from hope to delight. She leaned forward to put her hand on Reboul’s arm. “Thank you,” she said. “You won’t regret it, I promise you.”
    Reboul patted her hand. “I’m sure I won’t, my dear.” He looked across at the ever-hovering young man. “Dominique will make the arrangements for you to meet Vial tomorrow. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. Dominique will take you back to your hotel.”
    On their way out, they almost bumped into Reboul’s next appointment, a tall, sleek girl wearing large, dark sunglasses—in case the sun should magically reappear for an encore—and leaving in her wake a drift of scent.
    “Shalimar,” said Sophie with a disapproving sniff, “and far too much of it.”
    Standing on the steps outside the entrance waiting for the car, Sam put his arm around Sophie’s shoulder and squeezed. “You were sensational,” he said. “I thought for a moment you were going to sit on his lap.”
    Sophie laughed. “I think he thought so too. He’s quite the ladies’ man.” She pursed her lips. “Although perhaps a little short.”
    “Not a problem, believe me. If he stood on his wallet he’d be taller than both of us put together.”
    A long, gleaming black Peugeot pulled up in front of the steps, and Dominique leaped out to open the rear doors.
    “Just down the road, please,” said Sam. “The Sofitel.”
    As they reached the end of the drive, the car stopped next to the statue of Empress Eugénie. Dominique lowered his window, stretched out a hand, and pressed a button that was concealed in a fold of Eugénie’s marble robes. The electric gates swung open. With a murmured “Merci, madame,” Dominique turned onto the boulevard, and, minutes later, they were back at the hotel.
    “I don’t know about you,” said Sam to Sophie, as the car pulled away, “but I think we’ve earned another drink. I’ll race you to the bar.”
    As they crossed the lobby, a large, disheveled figure hurried over to intercept them, his eyebrows raised, his shoulders hunched, his hands spread wide. A human