The Vintage Caper

wine,” he said to Sam, “and that tonight is your moment of glory, your night to flabbergast the guests of Monsieur Reboul, your night to be consumed with cries of ecstasy.” He started the cart and set off up the Boulevard du Palais.
    “Sounds like fun,” said Sam. “Am I a case of red or a case of white?”
    “Either,” said Vial, “or both. It doesn’t matter. The important problem for you is how to get up to the dining room.” Arriving at the end of the boulevard, he parked the cart in front of the cellar door. “As you see,” he said, getting out of the cart, “there is another door just here.” He pointed to a low, narrow doorway set into the wall. With the air of a magician who has found not one but two white rabbits in his hat, he pulled open the door and stepped back. “ Voilà! The elevator for bottles. It goes up to the back kitchen. There is no turbulence. There is no giddy feelings from climbing up the stairs. The wine arrives composed, relaxed, ready to meet its destiny.”
    “It’s what we call a dumbwaiter,” said Sam.
    “Exactly,” said Vial, mentally adding another colloquialism to his repertoire. “A dumbwaiter.” He looked again at his watch, and flinched. “Shall we say three o’clock? I will meet you at the delivery door. And I give you a good address on the Vieux Port for lunch.”
    Sophie and Sam exchanged glances. “Typiquement marseillais?” said Sophie.
    “Mais non, chère madame . A sushi bar.”

Sixteen

    They decided to forgo the pleasures of the sushi bar, which turned out to be a dim, crowded room on a side street, for sunshine and a sandwich on the terrace of La Samaritaine, across the road from the port. By the time a carafe of rosé and two jambons beurres had arrived, they were beginning to feel warm again after their subterranean morning among the bottles.
    It had been an interesting visit. Vial, although rather too much of the showman for Sophie’s conservative, Bordeaux-bred taste, ran a first-class cellar, beautifully organized and cobweb-free. And he couldn’t have been more helpful. But, as they agreed, he had shown signs of being a little too helpful. Like an oversolicitous waiter, he had never left them alone. He’d been looking over their shoulders, going into raptures about this vineyard or that vintage, and generally being a well-intentioned distraction. It was a problem that needed to be dealt with. Identifying five hundred bottles among many thousands could take several hours and considerable concentration. An afternoon might do it, and they had the map to guide them. Even so, it wouldn’t be easy, and Vial’s hovering presence wouldn’t help.
    Sam poured two glasses of wine. A deeper color than the pale rosés that were currently fashionable in L.A., it almost matched the pink of the smoked ham in his sandwich. He raised his glass to the sun, took a sip, and held the wine in his mouth. A taste of summer. After a morning spent mingling with the wine aristocracy, it made a refreshing change to drink something simple, humble, but good—no long pedigree, no historic vintage, no complications, and no wildly inflated price tag. No wonder it was the favorite tipple of Provence.
    “You know what?” he said. “When we go back this afternoon, it might be a good idea if we separated. One of us can stay on the white side, the other can check the reds. Vial can’t be in two places at once. What do you think?”
    Sophie thought for a moment, then nodded. “Let me take the whites.”
    “Sure. Any particular reason?”
    “Most of the wines you’re looking for are red. You don’t want Vial watching while you make notes or take pictures. Another thing—I’m from Bordeaux. I know about reds. Champagne and white Burgundy, not so much. So it is normal for me to ask Vial to explain them. He likes to talk, to show what he knows. You saw that this morning. I’m sure I only need to give him this much encouragement”—she held up her finger and thumb, a fraction of an inch apart—“and he’ll talk to me all afternoon. C’est certain.” She was smiling as she looked at Sam over the top of her sunglasses.
    “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
    “In one way, very much. It’s a lot more amusing than insurance. Just like a game.” She shrugged. “But I’m not sure I want us to win. Do you know what I mean?”
    Sam knew exactly. Two or three times in the past, he’d been involved in cases where, for one reason or another, his