The Diamond Caper Read online

  ALSO BY PETER MAYLE

  The Corsican Caper

  The Marseille Caper

  The Vintage Caper

  Provence A–Z

  Confessions of a French Baker (with Gerard Auzet)

  A Good Year

  French Lessons

  Encore Provence

  Chasing Cézanne

  Anything Considered

  A Dog’s Life

  Hotel Pastis

  Toujours Provence

  A Year in Provence

  These are Borzoi Books Published in New York by Alfred A. Knopf

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2015 by Escargot Productions Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., Toronto.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mayle, Peter.

  The diamond caper / Peter Mayle. — First Edition.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-0-385-35390-8 (hardcover)—

  ISBN 978-0-385-35391-5 (eBook)—

  1. Marseille (France)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6063.A8875D53 2015

  823'.914—dc23 2015006772

  eBook ISBN 9780385353915

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Ruth Marten

  Cover design by Carol Devine Carson

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Peter Mayle

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Note About the Author

  In memory of dear old Fanny

  Chapter 1

  Why is it that bad news so often arrives on Monday mornings?

  The call came at 6:00 a.m. local time, waking a reluctant Elena Morales from a deliciously deep sleep. It was her boss, Frank Knox, founder and CEO of Knox Insurance, and there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice. There was a problem, he said, and it was urgent. Despite the early-morning Los Angeles traffic, Elena was with him in his office by 7:30.

  For once, his normally cheerful manner had deserted him. “I guess you’ve read some of this stuff already,” he said, opening the folder of newspaper clippings that was on his desk. “These jewelry robberies in the South of France are getting worse every year. And now it’s getting closer to home. A couple of hours ago, I had a call from our Paris office; one of their clients, Madame Castellaci, has just had a bunch of diamonds lifted from her house in Nice. She’s hysterical, and the office in Paris has been sent a claim the size of the national debt.” He paused to take a swig of coffee.

  “What’s our liability?” Elena asked.

  Knox’s eyebrows went up, and he shook his head. “We laid off as much of the risk as we could, but it’s still going to hurt us.” He took a deep breath. “We’re looking at seven figures. Two million, maybe three.”

  “Do you reckon the claim’s valid? What do the police say?”

  Knox shrugged. “Not much. From what I’ve been told, it seems to have been a professional job—no clues, no prints, nothing.”

  “And what do our people in Paris say?”

  “Help.”

  Knox slumped back in his chair. Elena had never seen him look so despondent. He was planning to retire in a few months and enjoy a prosperous retirement, after thirty-five years of hard work. And now this. Even with the money he’d put away over the years, it was a blow.

  “Frank, what do you want me to do?”

  “I’d like you to get over to the Paris office and go through everything they know,” Knox said after a deep sigh. “And then I’d like you to go down to Nice and grill the client.” He held up one hand. “I know, I know. The police will have done that, but sometimes they miss little things. It’s a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got.” He slid the folder of clippings across the desk. “Here—something to read on the plane. Good luck.”

  —

  Elena’s feelings were mixed as she packed for the trip. Normally, she would be delighted to be going once again to France. This visit, however, was unlikely to offer much in the way of enjoyment. Her colleagues in the Paris office would be distracted and anxious, and if Madame Castellaci in Nice was anything like some of Knox’s other clients, she would be bad-tempered and suspicious. Not for the first time, Elena was reminded of the irony of the insurance business. In theory, a mutually beneficial arrangement; in practice, a relationship in which, so often, each side distrusted the other. Cheating, misrepresentation, and blatant dishonesty—she had seen them all.

  She tried to close her suitcase. As usual, it was overpacked; as usual, she had to sit on it to close the locks. She looked at her watch, saw that she had ten minutes before the car came to take her to the airport, and decided to call Sam Levitt, her partner in love and other adventures for the past several years. He was in Jamaica, “consulting” for his old friend Nathan, whose business—smuggling Cuban cigars from Jamaica into the U.S.—had run into a spot of trouble with one of the local protection rackets.

  “Sam? Can you talk?”

  “To you, my love, always.” Even his voice sounded suntanned, Elena thought.

  “Listen—something’s come up at the office. I’ve got to go to Paris this afternoon, and then Nice. It’s a client who’s put in a claim for stolen diamonds, and Frank wants me to check things out.”

  “You want me to come? I’m nearly done here. Another day or two of twisting arms and kissing ass should do it. Why don’t we meet in Marseille? I’ll call Francis and tell him to expect us.” Their good friend Francis Reboul had been a generous host over the years, and he was always happy to see them.

  “That would be great. God, am I sick of the insurance business.”

  There was a pause before Sam’s reply. “Give it up. Send me out to work and become a lady of leisure.”

  Elena was prevented from pursuing this seductive suggestion by the arrival of the driver. “Got to go. I’ll call you from Paris.”

  In the car, she went over their brief conversation. Was Sam serious? She wasn’t always sure. He had wanted her to come down to Jamaica with him, but work had made that impossible, a disappointment for them both. One day soon, she promised herself, you’ve got to get a life. A new life. According to Air France, she had ten hours and forty-five minutes to think about it before arriving in Paris.

  As a small consolation, she was in business class. Comfortable surroundings and a decent glass of chilled Chablis restored her spirits enough to do a little homework, and she opened the folder of clippings that Frank Knox had given her.

  The thefts were lis
ted in chronological order, starting in 2002 with a relatively modest haul, valued at three million euros, from a jeweler in Cannes. In 2005, two million from a jeweler in Saint-Tropez. In 2009, fifteen million from Cartier in Cannes. In 2010, seven million from a jewelry wholesaler near Marseille. In 2013, a million from the safe in a Cannes hotel bedroom, a two-million-euro necklace stolen during a celebrity party at the Cannes Film Festival, and, to top them all, one hundred and three million from an exhibition of “Extraordinary Diamonds” in, yet again, Cannes. Elena was shaking her head in disbelief as she put down the folder. All that money for fragments of what one article had described as metastable allotropes of carbon.

  Much to Sam’s relief, Elena’s taste in jewelry was limited to Mexican silver and old gold. She had seen far too many diamond necklaces on the wattled necks of elderly socialites, and this had effectively cured her of diamond envy. As she had once said to Sam, she would prefer to put that kind of money into something practical, like a town house in Paris and a Bentley. Or the house they had seen on their last visit to Marseille. A friend of Francis Reboul’s had shown it to them: it was small, built in the early 1920s, and perched on a spur of rock. They had instantly fallen in love with it. The sweeping view of the Mediterranean was enough on its own, but there were other attractions. It was a short and picturesque walk from Reboul’s home at Le Pharo, and an even shorter stroll would take them to the delights of Le Petit Nice, whose three Michelin stars made it Marseille’s most decorated restaurant.

  The asking price for the house was, as Sam had said, enough to make a billionaire’s eyes water. But they had to have it. Sam raided what he called his slush fund, Elena sold her stocks, and long-distance negotiations between L.A. and the owner’s lawyer in Marseille began. And continued. And went on. And on. The problem was that the proprietor, a seventy-five-year-old widow from Paris, had thought it necessary to obtain the agreement of her extended family to the sale. Children had to be consulted. Grandchildren had to be considered. Even cousins, who under French law might have had some distant claim to the proceeds, could not be ignored. Back and forth went proposals and counterproposals between members of the family until Elena and Sam had almost given up.

  A ray of hope had finally come the previous week in the form of a letter from the owner’s lawyer. It was possible that the sale could proceed as soon as he had received written confirmation he was awaiting from the family that the sale would not provoke legal complications. Sam had called Reboul with the news, and he had agreed to contact the lawyer and try to move things along. And that was where the matter stood, promising but unresolved.

  Thoughts of the house turned to thoughts of the future. A place in Marseille, however idyllic it might be, was of little use to someone who was stuck in a Los Angeles office. Elena had often wondered how long she could put up with her job, even though it paid very well. These last two years, she would have left several times had it not been for her loyalty to Frank Knox. Now that he was retiring, Elena could leave with a clear conscience. Yes, she thought, Frank’s retirement was definitely a signal for action. She closed her eyes and lay back in her seat, her head filled with thoughts of life with the Mediterranean as a neighbor.

  Chapter 2

  Ariane Duplessis, president of the Knox Paris office, was waiting in the reception area to welcome Elena with two perfunctory air kisses and a somber expression.

  “It was good of you to get here so quickly. Come—the others are in the conference room.”

  As Elena followed Madame Duplessis down the corridor, she studied the slim figure ahead of her: thick, fashionably cut gray hair, a long cream silk scarf draped across the shoulders, a dark-gray flannel suit, high heels. Business might be going to take a tumble, thought Elena, but, this being France, a high level of chic must always be maintained. She sighed. The meeting was likely to be long and probably very depressing.

  There were three men around the conference table, equipped with neat piles of documents and grave faces.

  “OK,” said Elena, “tell me the worst.”

  And they did. It seemed that the Castellacis had always paid their premiums promptly, which ruled out any hope of invalidating their policy. According to their sworn statement, they had taken all the necessary precautions before leaving their house on the evening of the robbery: the alarm system had been activated, the front door double-locked, the window shutters bolted. There were no signs that the wall safe had been forced, and the oil painting concealing the safe had been rehung.

  “If that’s all true,” said Elena, “they’re pretty well covered. What about the police report?”

  Madame Duplessis shrugged. “Nothing. No fingerprints, no clues. Hélas, the thief didn’t leave his address.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent going through the insurance policy, line by line, seeking to find an escape clause that would stand up in court. But finally, Elena had to admit that they had come up against a dead end.

  Madame Duplessis walked her back to the elevator. “It doesn’t look so good, does it?”

  Elena shook her head. “Unless I can find something when I see the Castellacis in Nice, I guess we’re going to have to pay up.”

  On her way back to the hotel, Elena noticed that it was nearly 6:00 p.m. in Paris; that would be around noon in Jamaica. She’d call Sam, and then have a drink. Or maybe not: after the lousy day she’d had, she’d have a drink and then call him.

  Whenever she stayed at the Montalembert, she felt herself relaxing as soon as she set foot in the lobby. The people were charming, the bar was inviting, and the prompt arrival of a glass of Champagne began to lift her spirits. She settled back, and called Jamaica.

  “Sam, I need cheering up.”

  “That bad, was it?”

  “I’ve had more fun at a wake. The clients are on the phone every day, screaming for their check, and the police have nothing to go on—no prints, no forced entry, no clues. So right now, it feels like a wasted trip.”

  “Do you know them, the clients?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, if there’s no evidence of forced entry, if everything’s as neat and tidy as they say, one obvious possibility is that it was an inside job. It’s been known to happen. So I guess the first thing to do is meet the clients and get some idea of what kind of people they are.”

  “I know. That’s my next stop.”

  “Oh, I spoke to Francis, and he’s expecting you in Marseille. Just call and tell him when. I’ll be there in a couple of days. By the way, where are you?”

  “In the bar at the Montalembert.”

  “Good girl. Don’t talk to any strange men, OK? And try not to worry. I miss you.”

  —

  The next morning, having slept off most of her jet lag and treated herself to the indulgence of breakfast in bed with croissants and café crème, Elena took the forty-five-minute flight down to Marseille. After the drab gray overcast of Paris, the Provençal sky seemed almost shockingly blue. She had reached the arrival hall and was digging around in her handbag for her sunglasses when she heard someone call her name.

  And there was her host, Francis Reboul, tanned and dapper in his pale linen suit, along with his chauffeur, Olivier. After enthusiastic embraces had been exchanged, Elena and Reboul waited outside in the sun for Olivier to bring the car around.

  “I have some excellent news, my dear.” Reboul took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Elena. “This is from my new best friend, the notaire who is dealing with your house. Everything is settled, and the sale can now go through. Congratulations!”

  “Francis, that’s wonderful. I didn’t know that you and the notaire were friends. How did that happen?”

  “I asked him to come to Le Pharo, gave him a grown-up serving of pastis, et voilà. I suggested that he tell his client in Paris that you had become impatient, and were considering other properties. That, and another pastis, seemed to do the trick.”

  Elena leaned over to kiss him. “You
’re a star—I’m thrilled. I can’t wait to tell Sam.”

  In the car going back to Le Pharo, Reboul was silent and pensive for a few moments, as though considering an important decision. When he spoke, it was little more than a chauffeur-proof whisper.

  “I’ve been invited to this party,” he said, “by my old friend Tommy Van Buren, who I met when we were students at Harvard. A couple of years ago, he bought a property outside Cannes, and the party is to celebrate the finish of the renovation work. And this is where I need a little moral support.” He looked at Elena, eyebrows raised, brow furrowed.

  “Of course,” said Elena. “I’m great at moral support. Ask Sam.”

  Reboul smiled, and patted her hand. “My problem is that the architect, who’s also the decorator, will undoubtedly be there—a lady named Coco Dumas. Some years ago we had a relationship, which unfortunately ended badly. To be honest, I would much prefer not to go to the party.” He paused, and shrugged. “But I don’t want to disappoint my old friend. And so I’m wondering if you would come with me to provide—how can I put it?—some social cover.” It was Elena’s turn to pat his hand. “Don’t worry. I’m good at social cover, too. When are we going?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Over dinner that evening, Reboul was more forthcoming about his reluctance to go to the party. Some of the story Elena already knew, or suspected. He had been married to a woman named Mireille, whom he adored. She died young, of cancer, and Reboul—rich, and suddenly on his own—had become an unwilling eligible bachelor. Over the years there had been several liaisons, most of which had ended amicably, until Reboul and Coco had met at a cocktail party. She was good-looking and amusing, he was lonely, and one thing led to another. But, to Coco’s disappointment, it didn’t look as though it was leading up the aisle to a permanent position as the second Madame Reboul. No matter how many hints she dropped, Reboul preferred to remain single. Coco’s disappointment turned to anger, and after one final explosive row, the relationship was over.