The Vintage Caper

discussed in private. It was in one of these booths that Philippe had arranged to meet Inspector Andreis.
    The inspector, lean and grizzled, with the watchful eyes of a man who has seen more than his share of trouble, arrived just as Philippe was taking delivery of two glasses of pastis, a squat, potbellied jug of ice cubes and water, and a small saucer of green olives.
    “I ordered for you,” said Philippe as the two men shook hands. “You’re still drinking Ricard?”
    Andreis nodded and watched as Philippe added water to their glasses, turning the pale-yellow liquid cloudy. “That’s enough,” he said with a grin. “Don’t drown it.”
    Philippe raised his glass. “Let’s drink to retirement,” he said. “How long is it now?”
    “Another eight months, two weeks, and four days.” Andreis looked at his watch. “Plus overtime. And then, thank God, I’m off to Corsica.” He took a creased photograph from his pocket and placed it on the table. It showed a modest stone-built house set in a silvery-green sea of olive trees, planted in orderly lines that radiated out from the house like spokes in a wheel. “Three hundred and sixty-four trees. In a good year, that’s about five hundred liters of oil.” Andreis looked fondly at his future home. “I’ll cultivate my olives, and I’ll spoil my granddaughter. I’ll eat those figatelli sausages and that brocciu cheese, and drink red wine from Patrimonio. I’ll get a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.” He sat back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, stretched, and contemplated the rest of his life with a smile. “But somehow I don’t think you wanted to see me just to hear about my old age.” He cocked his head. Philippe started talking.
    By the time the story had been told, the glasses were empty. The waiter came with more pastis and a fresh jug of iced water. Andreis nibbled on an olive and waited in silence until he had gone.
    When he spoke, his voice was low and cautious. “I don’t have to tell you what a powerful man Reboul is in this town. One doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. Also, he’s not a bad guy—a bit of a showman, it’s true, but I’ve heard good things about him over the years.” Andreis dabbed a finger in the tiny puddle of condensation that had formed around the base of his glass. “And, from what you say, we don’t know for sure that he’s done anything wrong.” He raised a hand as Philippe leaned forward to speak. “I know, I know. Checking those prints is one way to find out. If it turns out that they match, well …”
    “That would suggest a crime. Wouldn’t it?”
    “I suppose so. Yes, you’re right.” Andreis nodded and sighed. This was not something he wanted to get involved in. Poking your nose into the affairs of powerful and influential men had a way of ending badly for the owner of the nose. On the other hand, he didn’t see how he could ignore it. It obviously had the makings of a big story. And the man sitting opposite him was a journalist; he wasn’t going to let it go. Andreis sighed again, the virtuoso sigh of a man faced with a decision he’d rather not make.
    “OK. I’ll tell you what I can do. I can let you have a print man for a couple of hours, but only if you guarantee that Reboul and his people are kept out of it, at least until we’ve checked the prints. Can you promise that?”
    “I think so. Yes.”
    “The last thing I need is Reboul calling his old friend the préfet de police to complain about the inappropriate use of official resources. So don’t screw up.” Andreis took a pen from his pocket, jotted down a name and number on a beer mat, and pushed it across to Philippe. “Grosso. We’ve worked together for twenty years. He’s reliable, he’s quick, and he’s discreet. I’ll have a word with him tonight. You can call him in the morning.”
    “It might work,” said Sam. “If it were Reboul, I’m sure it would work. But with Vial? I don’t know. Does he have a twinkle in his eye?”
    Sophie took another piece of bread from the basket and used it to polish the last rich drops of bourride —Marseille’s pungent fish soup—from her plate. They were having dinner in a fish restaurant by the port, and the topic of the evening was Florian Vial: how to get him out of the cellar while the bottles were being checked for prints.
    Sophie’s suggestion was simplicity itself: she would take him to lunch, a special lunch, to thank him for his help.