The Diamond Caper Read online

  “You got it,” said Kathy.

  The three of them then made a tour of the terraces surrounding the house and the pool area, with Mimi taking reference shots as they went. Kathy was almost skipping with enthusiasm, convinced that this was going to be an evening to remember, and delighted to have found two such great people to work with. Definitely a darling couple.

  During the drive back to Marseille, Mimi and Philippe were speculating, as they always did, about the evening’s prospects. Would it be as bland as Philippe had suggested? What about the saucy goings-on that the readers of Salut! had come to expect?

  “Let’s not worry about that,” said Philippe. “If we need to, we can always ask Elena and Sam to do something a little risqué to liven things up. Have you ever seen them do the tango?”

  “That was before my time. When did you see that?”

  “At a party when I was with them in L.A. Sensational.”

  —

  Unaware that he was being considered for a star turn at the Fitzgeralds’ party, Sam, with help from Reboul, was going through the other two police reports that Hervé had obtained. They were depressingly similar to the first report—the same meticulous formula, even the same vague, all-purpose conclusion.

  Sam sat back, shaking his head. “Do you think they all learn this at the police academy? Crime Scene Reporting 101?”

  “My dear Sam,” said Reboul, “remember that this is France. Anything and everything connected with the French bureaucracy has its official system with its official forms. These must be carefully completed, signed, countersigned, and stamped, before being filed and forgotten. This is a country where a relatively simple legal dispute can drag on for ten years. Don’t count on learning much from official reports. I’m afraid you’re going to have to look somewhere else for inspiration.”

  “Well, I know where I want to look. We’ve seen the Castellaci house, and I’d like to see the two other houses that were robbed. And, if possible, meet the owners. I guess what I’m looking for is a link. From what I know so far, there are basic similarities between all three robberies: no signs of breaking into the house, no signs of forcing the wall safes, nothing else stolen apart from the jewels, no clues. Now, if there had been just one robbery like that, I might suspect an inside job. But three? That, to me, suggests an organized, well-informed setup, perhaps a group, who have found a way through modern security systems. It happens.”

  Reboul was smiling as he leaned forward to pat Sam on the shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do. But Sam, are you sure you want to spend your time on this? Wouldn’t you rather be enjoying yourself with the lovely Elena?”

  “The lovely Elena is having a great time with the house, and she’s very happy that I’ve got something to keep me occupied. She knows that this business of the robberies fascinates me, and, as she’s told me more than once, it means that I’m not always distracting her when she has vital plumbing decisions to make.”

  Reboul was still smiling as he looked at his watch. “It seems to me,” he said, “that it’s time for a glass of rosé, and I’ll tell you something interesting and rather surprising. Rosé has become so popular in France that we’re now drinking more than we produce, with the risk that we might have to import it to satisfy demand. Can you imagine that? How times have changed. I’m sure you’ve heard that old phrase that wine snobs love: ‘Rosé—no sooner made than drunk, no sooner drunk than pissed away.’ You don’t hear that so often nowadays. Anyway, dear Monica, over in Hong Kong, was so concerned about the thought of France running out of rosé that she rushed off to her local Chinese wine merchant and had him send me this.”

  Reaching into the refrigerator under the bar, Reboul produced a bottle of lurid pink liquid. Sharing the label with a drawing of China’s famous wall were the words “GREAT WALL ROSE WINE, bottled by Huaxia Winery, Hebei, China.”

  “What do you think of that?” said Reboul, drawing the cork.

  “I think Monica’s having a little joke.”

  “Well, we won’t know until we taste it.”

  “You first.”

  Chapter 17

  Sam and Philippe had agreed to meet on the terrace of a café near the Vieux Port at 11:00 a.m., but it was close to 11:30 before Philippe showed up. He negotiated his way gingerly, like a blind man without his cane, through the small tables that were lined up on the terrace before settling, with a muffled moan, opposite Sam.

  “Just been for your morning jog?”

  Philippe winced. “Last night was this charity evening in aid of the distressed gentlewomen of Marseille. Some seriously rich people, an auction, a band, all the usual stuff. Anyway, they raised a lot of money and decided to turn it into a Champagne all-nighter, and Mimi and I didn’t get home until five in the morning.” Philippe signaled a waiter, and then, taking three aspirin out of his pocket, ordered a double espresso, a glass of water, and a shot of Calvados. “So that was my evening. How about you?”

  “Chinese rosé and these police reports from the other two robberies.” Sam tapped the reports on the table in front of him.

  “How do they compare with the first one?”

  “Almost identical. As Francis said to me, we’re going to have to look somewhere else for inspiration.”

  There was a brief pause while Philippe administered the coffee, the aspirin, and, with a shudder, the Calvados. “Ouf! That’s better. You know it’s doing you good when it hurts.” He reached over and took the reports. “Do we know where these other two places are?”

  “Monaco and Antibes. The addresses and the owners’ names are in the reports. So I guess we should try the routine that worked with the Castellacis. Now, judging by the names, the place in Monaco is owned by a French couple, the Rimbauds. And the owners of the place in Antibes, the Johnsons, must be Brits.”

  “Not American?”

  “I doubt it. The husband’s first name is Jocelyn, and you don’t get too many of those in the States. So there’s no language problem there—Elena can do the same pitch she did with Madame Castellaci. But we can’t count on the Rimbauds speaking English, so I’m wondering if we might recruit Mimi for the job. Can she be charming and persuasive over the phone?”

  “Are you kidding? She proposed to me over the phone. One day I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Great. Elena can give her a little coaching on the sales pitch, and then all we have to do is work on the dates. How’s the head?”

  “Almost back to normal. All I need now is a beer.”

  —

  Using the phone numbers listed in the police reports, Mimi and Elena made their calls, and reported back to Sam and Philippe.

  Mimi’s conversation with Monsieur Rimbaud had started in an atmosphere of suspicion—quite normal with the rich French, so Mimi said—but had improved as soon as the possibility of reduced insurance premiums was mentioned. He also admitted, when Mimi asked him, that he spoke good English; certainly good enough, as he said, for an American insurance inspector. Mimi’s verdict was that he was a snob with a sense of humor. A date was fixed for the following week.

  Elena’s call had also been productive. Mr. Johnson was indeed an Englishman, affable and with the plummy drawl of the English upper class, an accent that had reminded Elena of a character from Downton Abbey. His enthusiasm for the idea of a photographer taking pictures of his home had surprised her. She had anticipated a possible problem there, but not a bit of it. The run of the house, he had promised her, and the garden as well, if that’s what the photographer needed. Once again, a date was fixed for the following week.

  “So it looks like a busy couple of days,” said Sam. “But I have an idea. We’ll be in Monaco on Tuesday, Antibes on Wednesday, and I think we deserve a little rest and relaxation in between. How do you feel about us spending Tuesday night in Antibes, instead of coming back to Marseille? They tell me there are one or two decent hotels there.”

  “Well,” said Philippe, “there’s the Hôtel du Cap, of course.”

  “
Now you’re talking,” said Elena. “Ever since Francis told me about that place I’ve wanted to stay there.”

  “Me too,” said Mimi.

  Sam looked at Philippe, and grinned. “I guess that’s a yes.”

  —

  Lunch at the Fitzgerald house on Cap Ferrat had gone well. The houseguests had been charmed by Coco and her father, and the all-American menu of barbecued ribs and key lime pie had been tempting enough to make the ladies abandon their diets. It was a well-fed and satisfied group that lingered on the terrace over a final cup of coffee before answering the call of the siesta.

  During lunch, there had been a great deal of talk about Saint-Tropez. None of them, neither the Fitzgeralds nor their guests, had actually been there. Coco had been astonished, and had suggested that a visit to this mythical spot was an essential part of the South of France experience. “It has a great atmosphere, the people have to be seen to be believed, and it’s a lot of fun,” said Coco. In fact, she could recommend one of her favorite hotels: La Résidence de la Pinède, right on the Gulf of Saint-Tropez, with its own private beach and a Michelin three-star restaurant. The manager, she said, was a great friend of hers.

  This had solved a problem for the houseguests. That very morning, around the pool, they had been discussing how they could repay the Fitzgeralds for their kind and generous hospitality, and what better gift could there be? Why not take them off to Saint-Tropez for the weekend, and stay in this idyllic hotel?

  That evening over drinks, the Hoffmans, the Dillons, and the Greenbergs had presented their idea to the Fitzgeralds. Kathy and Fitz were delighted, and so, amid much hugging and kissing, it was decided. The weekend after the party, they would all be off to the delights of Saint-Tropez.

  —

  “The trouble with Monaco,” said Philippe, “is that they’ve put up so many high-rise buildings there isn’t anywhere you can legally park the car.” He pulled into a space that was clearly marked “For Residents Only.” “This will have to do.” He reached under his seat, pulled out a stethoscope and a folder with the name Docteur Chevalier prominently displayed on the cover, and placed them carefully on top of the dashboard above the steering wheel.

  “Who’s Doctor Chevalier?” asked Sam.

  “It’s my nom de parking. You’d be amazed how often it works.”

  The Rimbauds’ house was in the old town, not far from the royal palace. A narrow, almost modest building, it was worth, according to Philippe, double-digit millions. The view of the Mediterranean helped, of course, but it was Monaco’s tax structure, so much less demanding than in neighboring France, that made it such a popular home for millionaires, including tennis professionals, yacht owners, and shady businessmen.

  Monsieur Rimbaud himself came to the door to let them in. A tall, slim man in his sixties, he had the kind of face one often sees in France: high cheekbones, prominent nose, and a mouth with stern, unsmiling lips. He led them into his study and indicated the two chairs in front of his desk.

  He glanced at the business card Sam had given him. “Very well, Monsieur Levitt. What can I do for you?”

  “I hope it’s what we can do for you,” said Sam, and began his pitch.

  Rimbaud let Sam finish before speaking. “This is all very interesting. Unfortunately, it comes too late to bring back my wife’s jewels.” He shrugged and managed a half smile. “Life is like that sometimes, don’t you think—so inconvenient.”

  “If you’ll allow us to have a brief look around the house I think we can help you ensure that this particular inconvenience doesn’t happen again.”

  Rimbaud nodded. “Very well.” He looked at Philippe. “I see that your colleague has a camera. I assume that this is for reference purposes, but I do not want photographs of this house circulated. Privacy is a vanishing luxury these days, and we value what little we have. Is that clear?”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Sam, hoping that Philippe was able to conceal his disappointment. Chez Rimbaud was certainly not going to feature in his series on houses of the rich and famous. “And you’re quite right. We just need a few anonymous reference shots of your security arrangements for our technicians back in the States.”

  With some reluctance, Rimbaud agreed. He shadowed Philippe around the house, pointing out the alarm devices and showing the wall safe, which was, as usual, hidden behind a large painting. Within half an hour it was over, and Philippe and Sam had settled in the nearest café.

  “Nice house,” said Philippe. “Very elegant. Pity I can’t use it.”

  “You know what struck me? He didn’t seem at all upset by the robbery. When he mentioned it, he might have been talking about some minor domestic hiccup. No emotion, not like the Castellacis.”

  Philippe dipped a sugar lump into his coffee and popped it into his mouth. “That might just be an act. I mean, suppose he’d lifted the jewels himself. It might look a little suspicious if he had an attack of hysterics every time the subject came up.”

  “Do you think he did it himself?”

  “You saw the house. It’s like a fortress. It’s in the middle of Monaco, where the police nearly outnumber the residents. You couldn’t even have a private pipi here without being caught on camera. So if I had to bet on it, I’d certainly say it was an inside job. No wonder he wants to protect his privacy.”

  Their day took a turn for the better when they reached the Hôtel du Cap in the late afternoon. At Elena’s urging, they had decided to share a two-bedroom suite that had its own Jacuzzi on the private terrace. And there they were, Elena and Mimi, soaking away the aftereffects of a taxing few hours in the hotel spa.

  “How was it?” asked Elena.

  Sam and Philippe shrugged in unison.

  “Oh. That bad. Never mind—there’s always tomorrow. And you’ve made two girls blissfully happy.”

  “Then our lives have not been lived in vain. Come on, Philippe, let’s get undressed and join the ladies.”

  Chapter 18

  The four friends began their day with what Elena called a bathrobe breakfast, taken on the terrace. The sun was pleasantly warm, the sky a fine early-morning blue, the sea shimmered, and all was well with the world.

  Elena stretched, tilting her head up to the sun. “It’s going to be tough getting back to real life.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Philippe, “there isn’t much real life around here, and certainly not where we’re going. The west side of Cap d’Antibes, where the Johnsons live, is, if you believe the real estate agents, the best place to be. You’d be lucky to find a decent little house here for less than five or six million.” He grinned. “Not that I want to make you feel poor, Sam.”

  “Too late,” said Sam. “I had them send our bill up with breakfast.”

  But, as they all agreed, it was money well spent. They felt refreshed and pampered, filled with a sense of well-being and the optimism that so often comes with it. Surely today would produce a breakthrough in the investigation.

  Mimi and Elena decided to leave the men to it and spend the morning exploring the streets of Antibes, “the only town on the coast that has kept its soul,” according to Graham Greene. Sam and Philippe, their pitch at the ready, made their way through the narrow, quiet roads of the Cap until they came to the double wrought-iron gates that led up the drive to a sprawling, cream-colored house. Philippe pressed the intercom buzzer, to be greeted by Johnson’s voice.

  “You’re the insurance chappies, yes? Bang on time. Mind the dog on your way up the drive. He’s English, so he rather likes biting French cars.”

  The gates swung open. Philippe started up the drive, but braked at the sight of a king-sized Rhodesian ridgeback who had emerged from a clump of bushes and was watching them closely from the side of the drive. Was that a smile or a snarl?

  “Are you any good with dogs?” asked Philippe.

  “Labradors and cocker spaniels. Nothing like this. I’d go very slowly.”

  Yard by cautious yard the car continued up the drive, e
scorted by the dog, and it was with considerable relief that they saw there was someone waiting for them outside the front door. It was Jocelyn Johnson himself, a fair-haired, thickset man with a brick-red face and a broad, welcoming smile. “Don’t get out until I get the dog in. Percy! Come!” With some reluctance, Percy allowed himself to be chivvied into a large kennel at one end of the porch: Sam and Philippe got out of the car and followed Johnson through the house and onto the terrace, with its millionaire’s view. A woman wearing a straw hat and gardening gloves came over from a thicket of red roses to greet them.

  “My wife, Angie,” said Johnson. “She’s responsible for all this.”

  He waved an arm at the immaculate garden. “A local chap comes in for the heavy stuff, of course, but the roses are all her own work—isn’t that right, sweetie?”

  Angie smiled as she took off her gloves and put her pruning shears on the table before shaking hands with Sam and Philippe. “Someone’s got to do it, and I’m afraid poor JJ isn’t qualified. I sometimes wonder if he knows the difference between a rose and a nettle. Now, would you all like coffee? I’ll ask Sabine to bring it out.”

  “What a lovely place you have here,” said Sam. “So peaceful—the robbery must have been a terrible shock.”

  “It was. In fact, that’s why we brought Percy over from our place in Hampshire. If he’d been on duty here, the burglar would have been in shreds.”

  “Well, let’s try to make sure it never happens again.”

  By now they were settled around the table, and Sabine was fussing with coffee cups and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. “My little weakness,” Jocelyn said. “Now then. Before you get down to business, I feel I ought to come clean. This wretched robbery has really affected Angie very badly. She just doesn’t feel comfortable here anymore, which I can understand.” He sighed. “Anyway, cut a long story short, we’ve decided to sell the house and find something more secure in Monaco. So I’m awfully sorry, but I think we’ve wasted your time.”