The Vintage Caper Page 5

  The weather in Paris was hesitating somewhere between the end of winter and the beginning of spring, and as Sam walked up the Boulevard Saint-Germain he saw that the girls were of two minds about what to wear. Some were still swathed in scarves and coats and gloves; others, in defiance of the chilly breeze coming off the Seine, wore cropped jackets and short skirts. But no matter how they were dressed, they all seemed to have adopted a particular style of walking. Sam had come to think of this as a mark of the true Parisian girl: a brisk strut, head held high, bag slung from one shoulder, and-the crucial touch-arms folded in such a way that the bosom was not merely supported but emphasized, a kind of soutien-gorge vivant, or living bra. Pleasantly distracted, Sam almost forgot to turn in to the street that led down to the river and the Musée d’Orsay.

  There was, as always, too much to take in. Sam had decided to confine himself to the upper level, where Impressionists rubbed shoulders with their Neo-Impressionist colleagues. Even so, even without paying his respects to the sculpture or the extraordinary Art Nouveau collection, more than two hours slipped by before he thought of looking at his watch. With a mental tip of his hat to Monet and Manet, to Degas and Renoir, he left the museum and headed across the river, toward the Louvre and lunch.

  The French have a talent for restaurants of all sizes, and a special genius for huge spaces. La Coupole, for instance, which opened in 1927 as “the largest dining room in Paris,” manages despite its vastness to retain a human scale. The Café Marly, although smaller, is still, by most restaurant standards, enormous. But it has been designed so that there are quiet corners and pockets of intimacy, and there is never a feeling that you are eating in a canteen as big as a ballroom. Best of all, there is the long, covered terrace with its view of the glass pyramid, and it was here that Sam settled himself at a small table.

  Returning to Paris after a long absence, there is always a temptation to plunge in and taste everything. Call it greed, or the result of deprivation, but food in Paris is so varied, so seductive, and so artfully presented that it seems a shame not to have a dozen of Brittany ’s best oysters, some herb-flavored lamb from Sisteron, and two or three cheeses before attacking the desserts. But in a fit of moderation, remembering that dinner was still to come, Sam made do with a modest portion of Sevruga caviar and some chilled vodka while he watched the world go by.

  Over coffee, he did his tourist’s duty and wrote his ration of postcards for the day: one to Elena, telling her he was busy looking for clues; one to Bookman (The weather is here. Wish you were beautiful); and one to Alice, a housekeeper at the Chateau Marmont who had never ventured outside Los Angeles, but who traveled vicariously through Sam whenever he went away. He reminded himself to buy a miniature Eiffel Tower for her collection of souvenirs.

  As a tentative Parisian sun broke through to brighten up the sky, he left the crowds of the Louvre for the orderly precision of the Tuileries, pausing to admire the long and extraordinary view through the gardens, along the Champs-Elysées, and all the way to the Arc de Triomphe. So far, the pleasures of the day had more than lived up to his expectations. By the time he reached the Place Vendôme he was in an expansive mood, induced by lunch and good humor-dangerously expansive, when shopping at Charvet.

  Haberdashers to the gentry for more than 150 years, Charvet appealed to Sam’s fondness for the understated extravagance of custom-made shirts. It was more than just a simple matter of comfort, style, and fit that he loved. It was also the whole ritual, itself an essential part of the process: the browsing over fabrics, the unhurried discussion of cuffs, collars, and cut, the certain knowledge that he would get exactly what he wanted. And, as a bonus, there were the stately surroundings in which these deliberations took place.

  Charvet’s premises-one could hardly describe them as a shop-occupy several floors of one of the most distinguished addresses in Paris: 28 Place Vendôme. No sooner was Sam inside than a figure hovering in a silky vantage point among the ties and scarves and handkerchiefs came forward to greet him. It was Joseph, who had initiated Sam some years ago into the arcane delights of single-needle stitching and genuine mother-of-pearl buttons. Together, they took the small elevator up to the fabric room on the second floor, and there, among thousands of bolts of poplin, Sea Island cotton, linen, flannel, batiste, and silk, Sam spent the rest of the afternoon. Each of the dozen shirts he eventually ordered would, like wine, be marked with its vintage, a tiny label sewn into the inner seam that identified the year in which it was made.

  During his walk back to the hotel, Sam’s thoughts turned to the man he was about to see. Axel Schroeder had for many years been one of the world’s most successful thieves. Jewels, paintings, bearer bonds, antiques: he had stolen-or, as he preferred to put it, arranged a change of ownership for-them all. Not for himself, he was quick to point out, being a man of simple tastes, but for his acquisitive clients. Schroeder and Sam had met when they found themselves working on different aspects of the same job. A certain mutual respect had developed, and professional courtesy had since ensured that each kept well away from the other’s projects. Schroeder held valid passports from three different countries, and Sam suspected that his fingerprints had been changed more than once by cosmetic surgery. He was a careful man.

  Sam found him waiting in the bar of the Montalembert, a glass of champagne on the table in front of him. Slim, with a skier’s tan, dressed in a pale-gray pin-striped suit of a slightly old-fashioned cut, his thinning silver hair perfectly barbered, and his nails gleaming from a recent manicure, he looked more like a retired captain of industry than the grand old man of larceny.

  “Good to see you again, you old crook,” said Sam as they shook hands.

  Schroeder smiled. “My dear boy,” he said, “flattery will get you nowhere. Have they come to their senses in Los Angeles and kicked you out?” He signaled to the waiter. “A glass of champagne for my friend, please. And make sure you put it on his bill.”

  Being the well-informed man that he was, Schroeder was aware that Sam had retired from a life of crime and was now fully on the legal side of the law. Not surprisingly, this tended to inhibit their conversation. For several minutes it was as if the two men were playing invisible poker, dealing pleasantries back and forth while Schroeder waited for Sam to show his hand.

  “This isn’t like you, Axel,” Sam said. “We’ve been chatting for ten minutes and you haven’t even asked me what I’m doing over here.”

  Schroeder sipped his champagne before replying. “You know me, Sam. I never like to pry. Curiosity can be very unhealthy.” He took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his lips. “But since you mention it-what does bring you to Paris? Shopping? A girl? A decent meal after all those cheeseburgers?”

  Sam gave Schroeder an account of the robbery, watching him closely for any change of expression, but there was nothing. The old man stayed silent, nodding from time to time, his face inscrutable. When Sam tried to establish exactly what, if anything, Schroeder knew, even his most oblique questions were met with smiling nonanswers. A frustrating half hour passed before Sam was ready to call it a day. As they got up to leave, he tried one last long shot.

  “Axel, we go back a long way. You can trust me to keep you out of it. Who hired you?”

  Schroeder’s face was a study in baffled innocence. He frowned and shook his head. “My dear boy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Yes, I always say that.” He grinned, and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “But for old times’ sake, I’ll make a few inquiries. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

  Sam watched through the window as Schroeder ducked into the back of a waiting Mercedes. As the car pulled away, Sam could see that he had his cell phone to his ear. Was the old rogue pretending to know nothing? Or was he pretending to know a lot more than he was prepared to reveal? There would be plenty of time to think about that over dinner.

  As the final indulgence of his
day off, Sam was going to the Cigale Récamier for an early dinner, and he was going to dine alone. This was for him another small pleasure, summed up by a phrase he had first encountered while he was taking the wine course at Suze-la-Rousse. It had originated with the financier Nubar Gulbenkian, whose firm belief was that the ideal number for dinner is two: “Myself and the sommelier.” (The sommelier was Sam’s personal variation. Gulbenkian had specified a headwaiter.)

  In today’s gregarious world, the solitary diner is a misunderstood figure. He might even be the object of some pity, since popular opinion finds it hard to accept that anyone would choose to sit alone in a crowded restaurant. And yet, for those who are comfortable in their own company, there is a lot to be said for a table for one. Without the distraction of a companion, food and wine can be given the attention they deserve. Eavesdropping is often rewarded by the fascinating indiscretions that drift across from neighboring tables. And, of course, a keen observer can enjoy the sideshow provided by the other diners, essential viewing for anyone amused and intrigued by the ever-changing mosaic of human behavior.

  The Cigale Récamier, a five-minute stroll from the hotel, was one of Sam’s favorite stops in Paris. Hidden away at the end of a cul-de-sac off the Rue de Sèvres, it had all the qualities he liked in a restaurant. It was simple, unpretentious, and highly professional. The waiters had been there forever; they knew their métier to a fault and the wine list by heart. The clientele was an interesting mixture-Sam had seen government ministers, top international tennis players, and movie actors among the Parisian regulars. And then there were the soufflés, airy and delicate, savory and sweet. If these were your particular weakness, you could make an entire meal out of them.

  Sam was shown to a small table in front of the wide pillar that took up part of the center of the room. Seated with his back to the pillar, he was facing a row of tables set against a wall that was mostly mirror. Thus he could see the comings and goings behind him as well as his fellow diners across the way. A perfect spot for the restaurant voyeur.

  His waiter brought a glass of Chablis and the menu, and pointed out the blackboard listing the specials of the day. Sam chose lamb chops-simple, honest, rosy, perfectly cooked lamb chops, to be followed by a little cheese and then a caramel soufflé. The choice of wine he left to the waiter, knowing that he was in good hands. With a small sigh of satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair as his thoughts turned to the last dinner he had eaten before leaving Los Angeles.

  It had been one of his regular outings with Bookman. They had decided to try a wildly fashionable restaurant in Santa Monica, a temple dedicated to the extremes of fusion cuisine and daring culinary experimentation. It was, according to one breathless restaurant review, a gastronomic laboratory. They should have known better. There were multiple tiny courses-some of which arrived perched on a teaspoon, others contained in a glass eyedropper. Sauces were served in a syringe, and precise instructions were given, by a rather precious waiter, as to exactly how to eat each course. As the meal tiptoed from one edible bijou to the next, Bookman became increasingly morose. He asked for bread, only to be told that the chef didn’t approve of bread with his cooking. Bookman’s patience was finally exhausted when the waiter went into raptures about the dessert du jour, which was bacon-and-egg ice cream. That did it for both of them. They left and went off to find something to eat.

  The tables around Sam were beginning to fill up, and his eye was caught by the couple sitting side by side at a table opposite him. The man was middle-aged, nicely dressed, and seemed to be well known by the waiters. His companion was an exquisite girl of perhaps eighteen, with a face like a young Jeanne Moreau. She was listening intently to what the man was saying. They sat very close to one another, sharing the same menu. Sam realized that he was staring.

  “Elle est mignonne, eh?” said Sam’s waiter, cocking an eyebrow toward the girl as he arrived with the lamb chops. Sam nodded, and the waiter lowered his voice. “Monsieur is an old client of ours, and the girl is his daughter. He is teaching her how to have dinner with a man.” Only in France, Sam thought. Only in France.

  Later, as he took a turn around the side streets on the way back to the hotel, Sam reflected on his off-duty day. From Manet and Monet to the lamb chops and the memorable caramel soufflé, it had been a voyage of rediscovery mixed with frequent twinges of nostalgia. Despite the absence of leaves on the trees, Paris looked ravishing. The Parisians, who seemed to be in danger of losing their reputation for arrogance and froideur, had been affable. The music of the French language spoken around him, the warm whiff of freshly baked bread from the boulangeries, the steel-gray glint of the Seine-it was all as he remembered it. And yet, somehow, it felt new. Paris does that to you.

  It had been a day well spent. Pleasantly weary, he soaked the jet lag out of his bones in a hot tub and slept like a stone.

  Eight

  The next day, during the short flight down to Bordeaux, Sam passed the time by considering the differences between a plane full of Frenchmen and a plane full of Americans. Settling into his seat, his first impression was that the sound level in the cabin was lower. Conversations were muted, reflecting the French horror of being overheard. The passengers were smaller and darker; there were fewer blonds of either sex. There were also fewer iPods, but more books. The American addiction to drinking bottled water throughout the day hadn’t yet reached the French passengers (although since many of them were from Bordeaux it was possible that, for medical reasons, they restricted themselves to wine). There was no snacking. Sartorially, the style was somewhere between a day at the office and a day of bird hunting. Moss-colored, hip-length shooting jackets were worn over business suits, and Sam half expected to see the head of a dead pheasant poking out of a side pocket. Men’s hair was longer, and there were significant gusts of aftershave, but there were no masculine earrings or baseball caps to be seen. In general, the look was more formal.

  There was, however, one overwhelming similarity between the Frenchman and his American cousin. Once the plane had reached the arrivals gate, two hundred cell phones appeared, as if on a preordained maneuver, so that passengers could tell wives, mistresses, lovers, secretaries, and business colleagues that, yet again, the pilot had foiled death and had managed a safe landing. Sam, who tended to agree with the theory that ninety percent of cell phone calls were unnecessary, was happy to wait for his bag in silence, a mute among babblers.

  Looking for his contact, Madame Costes, he scanned the crowd in the arrivals area until his eye fell on a woman standing alone. She was holding a piece of cardboard with his name on it, at waist level. She looked almost as though she were embarrassed to be seen soliciting a stranger off a plane. He walked over to introduce himself.

  Madame Costes was a pleasant surprise-not at all the sturdy old matron with flat feet and a faint moustache that Sam had anticipated. She was slim, in her midthirties, simply dressed in sweater and slacks, a silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. Her sunglasses were pushed up into tawny, not-quite-blond hair. Her face was the kind one sees in society magazines: long and narrow and well-bred. In short, she was a prime example of bon chic bon genre. On his previous visits to France, Sam had often heard the phrase-usually abbreviated to BCBG-used to describe people of a certain class and style: they were chic, they were conservative, and they were devoted to anything made by Hermès.

  Sam smiled as he took her hand. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. I hope it hasn’t messed up your afternoon.”

  “Of course not. It’s good to get out of the office. Welcome to Bordeaux, Mr. Levitt.”

  “Please. Sam.”

  She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, as if taken by surprise at such instant familiarity. But then, he was American. “I am Sophie. Come-we find the car just outside.”

  She led the way out of the terminal, fishing for the car keys in the depths of a large leather bag the color and texture of a well-worn saddle. Sam was expecting her car to be the standard-issue French
model: small, lively, and impossibly cramped for anyone with American-length legs. Instead, they stopped at a dark-green, mud-spattered Range Rover.

  Sophie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You must forgive the car,” she said. “I have been in the country yesterday. Mud everywhere.”

  Sam grinned. “In L.A., the highway patrol would probably pull you over for driving an unhygienic vehicle.”

  “Ah bon? Pull me over?”

  “Just kidding.” Sam settled back into his seat as Sophie, driving quickly and decisively, negotiated the airport traffic. Her hands on the wheel were as BCBG as the rest of her-polished but unvarnished nails cut short, a small gold signet ring on the little finger, so old that the family crest had worn smooth, and a vintage Cartier tank watch with a black crocodile strap.

  “I made a reservation for you at the Splendide,” Sophie said. “It’s in the old part of town, near the Maison du Vin. I hope that’s good for you. Difficult for me to know, because I live here. I never stay in Bordeaux hotels.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “I was born in Pauillac, about fifty kilometers from Bordeaux. So-une fille du coin, a local girl.”

  “And your English? Don’t tell me that comes from Pauillac.”

  “Years ago, I spent some time in London. In those days, one had to speak English; nobody spoke French. Today London is almost like une ville française. More than three hundred thousand French people live there. They say it’s easier for business.” Sophie leaned forward over the wheel. “Now, no more questions. I have to concentrate.”

  Sophie threaded her way through a web of one-way streets and pulled up outside the hotel, an eighteenth-century building with a pompous façade and an air of self-satisfied respectability.