The Vintage Caper

Sam would be left in charge of the cellar, officially to catch up on the white wines he’d missed on the first visit; unofficially, to point out the suspected stolen bottles for the man who would be taking the prints.
    It was true that the idea depended on Vial’s being susceptible to a pretty woman, but here Sophie was optimistic. After all, Vial was French. And as she explained, Frenchmen of Vial’s background and age had been brought up to appreciate the opposite sex, to enjoy their company, and to be gallant when dealing with them. She knew several men of a similar type in Bordeaux—charming, attentive, pleasantly flirtatious. They were gentlemen who liked women. Perhaps they would never go quite so far as to pinch a woman’s bottom, but they’d certainly think about it. And they would never pass up the chance of a good lunch with an attractive companion.
    There was an amused expression on Sophie’s face as she looked over at Sam. He’d been wrestling with calmars à l’encre , tiny squid cooked in their ink, and judging by the dark stains on the napkin tucked into his shirt collar the squid had not surrendered without a fight.
    “The problem is, Sam, that you don’t understand French men. You’ll see. It will be fine. Let me call Philippe to ask him if there’s a good restaurant not far from the Palais.” She took her napkin, moistened a corner of it with water from the ice bucket, and passed it over to him. “Here. You look as if you’re wearing black lipstick.” She left Sam to clean up and order coffee while she called her cousin.
    The next morning, they arrived at the cellar a little after 10:30 to find Vial full of the joys of spring. A colleague in Beaune had just called to tell him that he had been selected to be the guest of honor at a dinner given by the Chevaliers du Tastevin. It was a considerable mark of respect, even more so because all the fine old traditions were going to be observed. The dinner—an intimate affair with invitations restricted to two hundred prominent Burgundians—would take place in the Clos de Vougeot, the headquarters of the Chevaliers du Tastevin. The Chevaliers would be wearing their ceremonial long red robes for the occasion. Music would be provided by the Joyeux Bourgignons, those masters of the drinking song. And the wines, needless to say, would be copious and exquisite.
    Vial’s high good humor was tempered only slightly by the prospect of having to give a speech, but Sophie reassured him. “To hear you talk about wine,” she said, “is like hearing poetry. I could listen all day.” Before the flustered Vial could recover from the compliment, Sophie went on. “But Florian—if I may—this has fallen very well. I was going to ask you to lunch today, to thank you for all your help. And now we can celebrate at the same time. It’s such beautiful weather, I thought we might get a table on the terrace at Péron. You will say yes, won’t you?” This time, Sam was certain that she actually did flutter her eyelashes.
    Vial made a point of consulting his diary, but he was clearly delighted, and he put up only token resistance and the merest semblance of regret when Sophie told him that Sam would have to stay behind to finish the work he still had to do among the white wines.
    The next two hours passed slowly. Vial took Sophie off to introduce her to the glories of Reboul’s red wines, with particular emphasis, this morning, on the Burgundies, where he could gain some inspiration for his forthcoming speech. Meanwhile, Sam found a distant corner among the champagnes where he could use his phone.
    “Philippe? Sophie tells me that you’ve found a guy to take the prints. A plainclothes guy, I hope.”
    Philippe chuckled. “Of course. You know what they say, my friend: if you want something done, ask a journalist. I spoke to him this morning. He says he’s ready when we are.”
    “Well, today’s the day. Lunchtime, around 12:45, and not before. Is that OK?”
    “How do we get in?”
    “The main gates are left open during the day, and you don’t have to go anywhere near the house. Come to the delivery area in front of the cellar. It’s marked, on the left of the drive. I’ll let you in. And Philippe?”
    “What?”
    “Just make sure you don’t turn up in a police car.”
    It would be difficult to imagine a more agreeable place to have lunch on a fine sunny day than the terrace at Péron. High on the Corniche Kennedy, the restaurant offers an