The Vintage Caper by Peter Mayle

Philippe, still laughing. “I won’t tell you what she suggested, but don’t worry. You’re safe as long as you stay with me.”
    They ordered, and Mimine took much more time than necessary bending over to place Sam’s pastis in front of him. For the first time in his life, he was being leered at. It was odd, but not altogether unpleasant.
    “Now, Philippe,” said Sophie, “stop laughing. Enough of this foolishness. Sam will tell you why we have come to Marseille.”
    Starting with the robbery in Los Angeles and ending with the discovery of Florian Vial’s business cards in Bordeaux, Sam went through everything that he thought Philippe needed to know. The big man paid close attention, asking the occasional question and making notes from time to time. When Sam had finished, Philippe sat in silence for a few moments, tapping his pen on his notebook.
    “Bon . Well, I can get you everything we have on Reboul, which is a lot. It’s not enough, though, is it?”
    Sam shook his head. “We need to see him.”
    “If he’s here in Marseille, that’s no problem. He can never resist an interview. Of course, you must have a good story.”
    “And we need to see his wine cellar.”
    “Ah. In that case, you must have a very good story.” Philippe smiled, and tapped his notebook again. “And talking of stories, there may be something in this for me.” He shrugged. “You never know.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “A scoop, my dear Sam. Isn’t that the word? Let’s say your investigation leads to something interesting—a little scandale involving the richest man in Marseille. This would be frontpage news, and I would not want to share the front page with another journalist. You understand?”
    “Don’t worry, Philippe. We’ll keep it in the family. You help us, and in return you get the exclusive.” Sam extended his hand across the table. “It’s a deal.”
    The two men shook hands, and Philippe got to his feet. “I’ll go back to the office and start on Reboul’s dossier. Are you going to stay here?” He winked at Sam. “I’m sure Mimine will take care of you.”
    “You must forgive my cousin,” said Sophie, standing up and shaking her head. “Sometimes I wonder how we could be related.”
    Outside the bar, Philippe unlocked the padlock on his scooter and settled himself on the saddle. “The only way to get around Marseille,” he said, gunning the throttle. “A bientôt, mes enfants.” And with a wave, he clattered off down the alley, his untidy bulk balanced on two tiny wheels.

Twelve

    “So what we’re looking for,” said Sam, “is a cover story, something that will get us into Reboul’s cellar for long enough to see exactly what he’s got in there. He has a lot of wine, so that could take a couple of hours. Maybe more. We’ll need to take notes, and we may need to get photographs. Oh, and it has to be a story that can’t be checked quickly.” He nodded his approval to the waiter, who applied his corkscrew to the bottle. “Not easy. Are you feeling creative?”
    They had decided to eat in the hotel restaurant, which offered the local fish, the local white wine from Cassis, and a front-row view of the local sunset over the Vieux Port. It was still early, and apart from a table of businessmen taking their briefcases and marketing plans out for a festive dinner they had the restaurant to themselves.
    “I’ve been thinking about it,” said Sophie. “If what Philippe says is true, to see Reboul is not a problem. We could say we were doing a profile of him for a magazine …” She stopped. Sam was already shaking his head.
    “He’d want to know the name of the magazine, and his people would probably want to call the magazine editor to make sure it wasn’t going to be a hatchet job. In any case, interviewing Reboul is just a smoke screen, the means to an end. It’s really the cellar we want to see. The wines.”
    Sophie’s experience of deceit and bluff was limited to the occasional