The Vintage Caper

sympathies lay with the criminal. “Yes, I know what you mean. Reboul and Vial seem like good guys.” He grinned. “But then, good guys can be crooks. Look at me. I used to be one.”
    Sophie took in this revelation with no more surprise than if Sam had just told her he once played pro football. He was, after all, American, and anything was possible. “Do you miss it—being a crook?”
    “Sometimes.” Sam sat back in his chair and watched an old man as he shuffled slowly across the road, threatening the oncoming traffic with his stick. “When you’re on a caper, you’re very aware of being alive. Intensely alive. I guess that’s the risk, and the adrenaline. And I used to love the planning side of it, putting together a nice clean job: organized down to the last second, properly carried out. No guns, no violence, nobody gets hurt.”
    “Except the poor insurance company.”
    “Yeah, right. Show me a poor insurance company, and I’ll show you proof that Santa Claus is alive and well and living in Florida. But I get what you’re saying. There’s always a victim.” He thought of Danny Roth, but failed to summon up even a twinge of pity.
    Sophie called Philippe to bring him up to date, and then they lingered over the last of the wine and some ferocious jolts of coffee until it was time to head back to the Palais du Pharo. This was it. By the end of the afternoon, they would know that they’d either been wasting their time or that they might be on their way to solving a classic long-distance crime, robbery sans frontières . Not only neat, but endearingly old-fashioned, a throwback to simpler times, before theft was conducted using the marvels of electronics or the twisted talents of lawyers. As they stood in the sun waiting for a taxi, Sam checked his pockets: map, camera, spare battery, notebook, and the list of stolen wines. Five minutes to three. They were all set.
    “And how was the sushi?” Vial didn’t wait for an answer to his question before bustling them into his office. “I have arranged to liberate myself for the entire afternoon. Je suis à vous.” He cocked his head expectantly, and Sophie saw her chance.
    “There’s so much to see,” she said, “so very much to see, that we thought it would be best if we each looked at half the cellar. I chose the whites, but with one condition.” She gazed at Vial, and for one long moment Sam thought she was actually going to flutter her eyelashes. “Coming from Bordeaux, I am quite familiar with the great reds. However, the great champagnes, the great whites of Burgundy and Sauternes—although I know them by name, of course—are, how can I say, a gap in my education. And so I was hoping that you would …” Her voice tailed off, and her eyes remained fixed on Vial, who instinctively straightened his shoulders and raised a hand to stroke his moustache.
    “My dear madame, nothing gives me greater pleasure than sharing what few scraps of knowledge I have with a fellow enthusiast.” He started to move toward the door, a man with a mission. “I propose that we start with champagne and end with Yquem, as one would at a civilized dinner.” Sam had the feeling that this was a line Professor Vial had used on his guided tours many times before.
    They were passing through the doorway when Vial stopped suddenly, and turned to Sam. “But I forget my other guest. You will not be lonely? You will not lose yourself? You are sure?”
    “I have your excellent map, I’ll have some pretty good bottles to keep me company, and I don’t mind working alone. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
    Vial needed no persuading. “Bon . Now, dear madame, if you’d like to follow me, we will plunge at once into the champagnes. You will have heard, I’m sure, that champagne was invented by the monk Dom Pérignon, who said when he tasted his divine invention, ‘I am drinking stars.’ Never has there been a better description. He lived to a good age—seventy-seven, I believe, which is a testament to the medicinal qualities of champagne. What is less well known is the unusual relationship of the good monk with one of the neighboring nuns …” As he led Sophie away, his voice rose and fell, but never ceased. She had been right: Vial loved to talk, and he loved a pretty audience.
    In the end, Sam’s search was accomplished with far less time and difficulty than he had anticipated. The map of the cellar, an enormously helpful shortcut, led him first to the