A Good Year

Nineteen

“I can’t do it with you two making faces at me,” said Charlie. “I need to be alone. This is going to be an artistic performance. You’re sure he speaks English? I’m not altogether confident in French.”

“Trust me,” said Christie. “He speaks English.” She and Max shut the door behind them, leaving Charlie to himself in the cavernous, shabby sitting room. He arranged his notes and a pencil on the low table in front of his chair, and ran his thumb across the business card that Max had given him: simple and classic, the name of Jean-Marie Fitzgerald engraved in copperplate script. Charlie took a deep breath and picked up his phone.

“Oui?” The girl’s voice-brusque and slightly ill-tempered-prompted Charlie to put on the plummy, upper-class drawl he normally reserved for his plummy, upper-class clients.

“Good afternoon.” Charlie let the words hang in the air for a moment to let the girl adjust to a foreign language. “I’d like a word with your Mr. Fitzgerald, if he’s available.” He spoke with exaggerated slowness and clarity.

But the girl’s English was fluent, with the hint of an American accent. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Willis. Charles Willis. In fact, I’m calling on behalf of my client.”

“And your client’s name?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that-except, of course, to Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Charlie was put on hold, and he was treated to a couple of minutes of recorded chamber music while he reread his notes. Then: “Mr. Willis? Jean-Marie Fitzgerald. What can I do for you?” Christie had been right, Charlie thought. The man spoke English with barely the trace of an accent.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Fitzgerald, but before we go any further, I must ask you to keep this conversation and any subsequent dealings strictly to yourself.” Charlie waited for the murmured reassurance, then continued. “I act as the personal wine consultant and buyer for a very eminent client, a great connoisseur, a man for whom wine is one of the major pleasures of life. He is also a man of quite remarkable modesty and discretion, which is why I had to ask for your reassurance. But to get down to business: not long ago, word reached my client of your wine, Le Coin Perdu. He has instructed me to investigate, to taste, perhaps to buy. And so, not entirely by chance, I find myself in France.”

Charlie could almost feel the curiosity coming down the line. “Well, Mr. Willis,” said Fitzgerald, “I should tell you that discretion is as important to me as it is to you. We never speak of our clients; our dealings are completely confidential. You need have no concerns, I assure you. And so I don’t think you would be committing any breach of trust if you were to tell me his name. I must confess I’m intrigued.”

Here we go, thought Charlie. He dropped his voice to a level just above a whisper. “My client is the Sultan of Tengah.”

There was a moment of silence while Fitzgerald tried to remember the estimate he had read somewhere of the Sultan of Tengah’s wealth: a hundred billion? Two hundred? More than enough, anyway. “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. Like the rest of the world, I have heard of him.” Fitzgerald had been doodling on a notepad, and jotted down the figure of $75,000 per case. “May I ask where he lives?”

“He spends most of his time in Tengah. He owns the country, as you probably know, and finds it more agreeable to stay at home. Travel bores him.”

“Quite so, quite so. It has become very disagreeable. Well, I’m flattered that the reputation of our wine has traveled so far.” Fitzgerald had no precise idea of where Tengah was-somewhere in Indonesia, he thought-but it sounded distant. He scratched out the number on his pad and wrote down $100,000. “Fortunately, we do have a few cases left.” The tone of his voice lightened, as though he had suddenly been struck by a most unusually happy idea. “Perhaps I could suggest a tasting? A private tasting, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Charlie made rustling sounds with the paper on which he’d made his notes-the sounds of a busy man turning the pages of his diary. “I could be with you tomorrow, if that’s convenient. But let me say again that there must be no-how shall I put it?-talkative elements. The Sultan has an absolute horror of publicity.”

And that was that. After arranging the details, Charlie put down the phone and allowed himself a private jig of triumph around the sitting room before going out to find Christie and Max in the courtyard.

Charlie’s expression told all. “He fell for it,” said Max. “I knew he would. I knew he would. Charlie, you’re a hero.”

“I rather enjoyed it, actually. Didn’t take him long to suggest a private tasting. But I hope to God you’re right. What’s the penalty for criminal impersonation in France? No, don’t tell me. Anyway, it’s all set for three-thirty tomorrow afternoon in Bordeaux.” And then the smile left his face. “I hate to say this, but I’ve just thought of a snag. How are we going to know if it really is Roussel’s wine? I certainly wouldn’t be able to tell.”

Max grinned. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ve got a secret weapon.”

At Marignane airport early the following morning, a small group of passengers stood out from the usual clutter of briefcases and businessmen at the check-in desk for the Air France shuttle to Bordeaux: Christie and Max, in jeans and light jackets; Charlie in blazer, flannels, striped shirt, bow tie, and sunglasses; and, looking about him with an uneasy air, Roussel. But a formal Roussel this morning, dressed in the twenty-year-old black suit he had only previously worn at weddings and funerals.

In all his life, Roussel’s travels had never taken him farther than Marseille-a city which, being full of foreigners, he regarded with considerable suspicion-and this was to be his inaugural flight. At first, he had been reluctant to come; he was not anxious to take to the air, and there was also a good chance of an unpleasant confrontation in Bordeaux. But Max had explained the crucial part he would play, both now and in the future, and Roussel had done his best to conquer his misgivings. Even so, he stayed as close to Max as he could in these unfamiliar surroundings until the moment when they had to part company as Max passed alone through the security gate. Turning, he beckoned Roussel to follow.

Beep… beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. Roussel jumped, as if he’d been on the receiving end of a jolt of electricity. He was told to go back and try again; more beeps. The alarm on his face increased as he was taken off to one side, where a bored young woman swept his body with an electronic wand that came to rest with an agitated buzzing sound on his stomach. And there, tucked into his waistcoat pocket, was his old Opinel knife, a friend of many years and the peasant’s constant companion in the fields and at table. With a frown of deep disapproval, the young woman confiscated the knife, tossed it into a plastic bin, and attempted to wave him on his way.

Roussel’s alarm turned to outrage. He stood his ground. That was his property; he wanted it back. He turned to Max, waiting a few yards away, and jerked an accusing thumb at the young woman. “She has stolen my knife!” The other passengers waiting to go through security, curious and suddenly nervous, took a few steps backwards and watched as the young woman looked for the nearest armed guard.

Max came over and took Roussel by the arm. “Best not to argue with her,” he said. “I think she’s worried you might use it to slit the pilot’s throat.”

“Ah bon? Why would I do that, being myself in the plane?”

With some difficulty, Max steered him away from the security area and up to the bar in the departure lounge, where a fuller explanation, a pastis, and the promise of another knife-a Laguiole, even-did something to restore Roussel’s good humor.

As the plane heaved itself off the runway, with the customary clamor and judder of machinery under extreme stress, Max noticed that Roussel’s hands were gripping the arms of his seat so tightly that his knuckles showed white through the tanned skin. And thus they remained throughout the short flight, despite Max’s efforts to convince him that the unnerving and totally unnatural experience of being thirty thousand feet above the ground in a tin tube was unlikely to end in death. It wasn’t until he had celebrated his survival with another pastis at the Bordeaux airport that the color returned to Roussel’s face. He got into the rental car a more relaxed man. This was a form of transport he understood.

During the drive to their hotel in Bordeaux, Max and Charlie once again went over the plan they had worked out. The afternoon’s tasting was to be for Charlie alone. He would be suitably impressed, and a price would be negotiated, subject to approval by his client, the Sultan. Because of the time difference, the call to Tengah couldn’t be made from Bordeaux until midnight, and so a second visit would have to be arranged for the following day to deliver a bank draft and finalize shipping details. At this point, Charlie would be joined by the others, Fitzgerald would be confronted by Roussel, justice would be done, and the police could be called in. Nothing to it.

“All you have to remember,” said Max, “is to make sure you come away with a sample this afternoon, so that Claude can taste it and compare it with the bottle he’s brought.” He glanced at Charlie. “You OK?”

Charlie nodded, but not with any great conviction. “I think so,” he said. “I just hope I can pull it off. It’s one thing to do it on the phone, but…”

“Of course you can,” said Max. “A master of disguise like you? I remember when you did Hamlet in the school play.”

Charlie frowned. “But I was playing Ophelia.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “Well, there you are. Had me fooled. This should be a piece of cake after Ophelia.”

There was a giggle from Christie in the back seat. She leaned forward and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You won’t even have to wear a wig.”

They were staying at the Claret, a businessman’s hotel Max had chosen from the Michelin guide for its appropriate name and for its convenient location just off the quai des Chartrons, a short walk from Fitzgerald’s tasting rooms. Stopping to drop off their bags and pick up a street map of Bordeaux, they walked along the quai and found a café overlooking the broad curve of the Garonne. There, over ham sandwiches and a carafe of wine, Charlie rehearsed his performance for Christie, his audience of one. Max and Roussel talked, their mood quietly optimistic, about the future-a future that largely depended on the events of the next few hours.

The time had come. They agreed to meet back at the hotel, and Charlie, map in hand, set off for the cours Xavier Arnozan.

It was Fitzgerald himself who opened the door in response to Charlie’s knock. “Enchanted to meet you, Mr. Willis,” he said as they shook hands. “I think you’ll be pleased to hear that I have given my secretary the afternoon off. We are entirely alone. I thought that would make you feel more comfortable.”

“Most kind, most kind.” Charlie nodded his thanks with a faint smile, and followed Fitzgerald down the corridor to the tasting room. The sound of a Bach fugue came softly from concealed speakers. Bottles, glasses, and silver candlesticks were arranged along the gleaming length of the mahogany table, a burnished copper crachoir at one end next to a tasteful arrangement of white linen napkins laid out in the form of a fan. It was the church of Bacchus, a shrine to wine. Charlie half-expected a priest to pop out of the woodwork and give his blessing to the proceedings.

Fitzgerald took a slim crocodile case from his pocket, and passed Charlie a business card. He waited, clearly expecting a card in return.

Charlie had anticipated just such a moment. He aimed the two black barrels of his sunglasses at the other man, shaking his head slowly. “My client sometimes carries discretion to the point of secrecy, Mr. Fitzgerald. He prefers that I don’t advertise myself, and so I don’t carry business cards. I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed,” said Fitzgerald. “Forgive me. And now, if you feel ready…” He extended an immaculate tweed-clad arm toward the table, inclining his head as he did so.

Charlie had an awful twinge of doubt. If this was a scam, it was a beautifully presented scam, and Fitzgerald-every aristocratic inch of him-appeared to be the genuine Bordeaux article. It was hard to imagine that he was a crook. And then Charlie had a mental image of some of his acquaintances in the top end of the London property business: charming, well educated, well tailored, glib-and more than capable of evicting their grandmothers in order to make a sale; villains to a man. Encouraged by this thought, he removed his sunglasses with a flourish and advanced toward the table as the fugue reached its plaintive conclusion and the room fell silent.

“If I may make a suggestion,” said Fitzgerald, “we might start with the ’99 before going on to the 2000-which I have to say is my personal favorite.” He poured wine into two glasses, and passed one to Charlie.

Hours of practice-at his wine-tasting course, and during a final rehearsal the previous evening, in front of the bathroom mirror-had prepared Charlie for the all-important niceties of this all-important ritual. Holding the glass by its base, between fingers and thumb, he presented it to the light of the candle’s flame, his eyes narrowed in what he hoped looked like knowledgeable concentration.

“As you see,” said Fitzgerald, “the robe is particularly fine, somewhere between…”

Charlie held up a hand. “Please. I need complete silence.” He began to swirl the wine with a gentle circular motion of the glass, his head tilted to one side. And then, judging the bouquet to be sufficiently developed, he buried his nose in the glass, with graceful little waves of his free hand-a rather pretentious refinement he’d picked up in his course-to direct the fragrant air toward his cocked and waiting nostrils. He inhaled, looked up to commune with the ceiling, bent his head to inhale again, and issued a quiet hum of approval.

Raising the glass to his lips, he took some wine and held it in his mouth for several seconds before going through what he always thought of as the sound effects: he sucked in air; his cheeks went in and out like bellows; he chewed; he swilled; and, finally, he spat. In the silence of the room, the sound of wine hitting the copper bottom of the crachoir seemed unnaturally loud, almost shocking.

Fitzgerald waited, his eyebrows raised like two question marks.

“Excellent, quite excellent,” said Charlie. He decided to risk a compliment. “I am reminded of Petrus, but a more muscular Petrus. And yet you say you prefer the 2000?”

The half smile on Fitzgerald’s face grew broader. “You are kind enough to flatter me. But with the 2000, I think you will be surprised, even étonné. Permit me.” He took Charlie’s glass, and replaced it with another, this one containing wine from the 2000 vintage. Once again, Charlie went slowly and deliberately through the tasting ritual while Fitzgerald watched like a cat that was one short jump away from the mouse.

Again the echoing splash of liquid on copper. “Remarkable,” said Charlie, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin. “My congratulations, Mr. Fitzgerald. This is a Bordeaux unlike any others I have ever tasted. A triumph.”

Fitzgerald allowed himself a modest shrug. “We do the best we can,” he said. “Organic fertilizer, of course, and the grapes are picked by hand avec tri-as you know, that’s to guarantee the état sanitaire.”

What the hell was that? Charlie nodded wisely. “Good, good.”

“And the vinification is always avec pigeage, as we say. Just as my grandfather used to do. Sometimes, the old ways are the best.”

What the hell was pigeage? Nobody had told him about that in the wine course. It sounded complicated and vaguely unhygienic. “One can always tell,” said Charlie. “God is in the details”-he inclined his head to Fitzgerald-“as we say. Now then. Perhaps we could move on to the more squalid financial details; for the 2000, I think. You’re quite right. It has just that little more complexity, a longer finish, more-how shall I put it?-gravitas. And I’m sure such excellence has its price.”

Fitzgerald, with only the faintest shrug of apology, said: “One hundred thousand dollars a case.” He smiled. “That would include delivery to anywhere in the world.”

Charlie recovered sufficiently to wave aside such a minor matter. “As far as delivery goes, I’m sure the Sultan would want to send one of his planes. He considers the security in commercial airlines far too lax for valuable shipments.” He consulted the ceiling again, deep in thought, before speaking. This time, his tone was brisk and businesslike. “Very well. I intend to recommend that my client take a position with this wine. Let me see now. Would ten cases be possible?”

“You would be stripping our cellar, Mr. Willis.” Fitzgerald did his best to appear reluctant, a man loath to part with his treasures. “But yes, we can just manage ten cases.”

“Splendid.” Charlie looked at his watch. “The time difference is nine hours, which is a little inconvenient, I’m afraid. I won’t be able to place the call until quite late tonight. However, I can use the rest of the afternoon to arrange a bank draft. Credit Suisse is acceptable, I would imagine?”

Indeed it was. Fitzgerald’s thoughts were already turning to the silver Lamborghini he had coveted for many years.

“Shall we meet here again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?” said Charlie. Putting on his sunglasses, he stopped on his way to the door. “Oh, there is one small service you could do for me.”

By this point, Fitzgerald would happily have stood on his head stark naked and whistled the “Marseillaise” if that had been required. “If it is in my power, I should be delighted.”

“Do you think I might take that opened bottle of the 2000 with me? I’d like to have the taste fresh in my mouth when I make the call tonight. It would give an extra je ne sais qui to my recommendation.”

“Quoi,” said Fitzgerald, unable to resist correcting the foreigner adrift in his language. “By all means. Let me find you a cork.”

Closing the front door behind Charlie, Fitzgerald went back to the tasting room, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat down to better enjoy the prospect of tomorrow’s million-dollar check. Maybe he should start thinking about a bigger apartment in New York, and a bigger boat in the Bahamas. He took a sip of wine. It really was very good; almost as good as he said it was.

Charlie collapsed in the first bar he came to and ordered a large brandy, high and lightheaded with elation. Even though he’d been acting the part, he had the giddy feeling that he had indeed just committed a million dollars of someone else’s money to buy one hundred and twenty bottles of wine. Superb wine, without any question; but was it Roussel’s wine? He gazed at the bottle Fitzgerald had given to him, worked out its approximate price, and marveled that anyone would pay so much for it. The emperor’s new clothes came to mind again.

The others were waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel: Max pacing up and down, Christie trying to concentrate on a copy of the Herald Tribune, Roussel idly turning the pages of L’Equipe. As Charlie came across to join them, their eyes went at once to the bottle in his hand.

“There you go,” he said, putting it on a low table in front of them. “At current prices, that bottle will cost you about eight thousand dollars. I’m giving you a discount because I’ve had a couple of mouthfuls. Very nice too.” He sat down and pulled off his bow tie as he fielded a barrage of questions from Christie and Max, while Roussel took out the cork and applied a thoughtful nose to the neck of the bottle.

Max interrupted his reflections. “Claude,” he said, “put the bottle down, because I think you might faint. Fitzgerald is asking a hundred thousand dollars per case for this wine. Your wine.”

Roussel’s eyes opened wide in astonishment, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. The world had gone mad. A hundred thousand dollars was more than he had been getting for an entire vintage. Anger would come later, but for the moment he was in a state of shock. “Tu rigoles, non?”

“No, I’m not joking. Now, what we need to know is whether or not it really is your wine, and you’re the only one who can tell for certain. You did bring that other bottle, didn’t you? To compare the two?” Max looked into his face and was relieved to see a confident nod. “Good. Why don’t you get it, and we’ll meet you in the bar.”

The bar was just off the hotel lobby, dedicated to the local beverage, dégustations encouraged. It was still too early for the daily invasion by parched businessmen who had not had a drop to drink since lunch, and the barman was happy for a little distraction. By the time Roussel had returned with the second bottle, tasting glasses, paper napkins, and an empty ice bucket for anyone who chose to spit had been arranged on the table in front of them.

They sat silent and expectant, all eyes fixed on Roussel as he poured the wine, held it to the light, swirled, sniffed, and tasted; swallowed, tasted again, considered.

“Bon.” He sucked his teeth and nodded several times. “This is my wine.”

Max leaned forward and put his hand on Roussel’s arm. “You’re sure, Claude? Really, really sure?”

Roussel stiffened, his face indignant. “Beh oui. I have known this wine since he was a grape. It is my wine.” He poured wine from the second bottle, tasted, and nodded again. “My wine.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, audible even to the barman, who had been watching and listening with avid attention. It took only the briefest of signals from Max to bring him over to the table; and seeing their smiling faces, he came with an expectant air. Happy customers, in his experience, drank and tipped much more lavishly than those who came to his bar simply to drown their miseries. “Je vous écoute, cher monsieur.”

“I think my friends deserve some champagne. A bottle of Krug, if you have one chilled.”

Krug would certainly be possible. Was there a special cause for celebration? The barman hovered, his eye fixed on the two unmarked bottles of Roussel’s wine. This being Bordeaux, unmarked bottles were of particular interest.

“A very promising vintage,” Max told him. “We’re going to drink to its success.”

Christie waited until the barman had gone in search of champagne before speaking. “No disrespect to Claude’s nose,” she said, “but don’t you think it would be smart to have an analysis done, just to be totally sure?” She looked at the faces around the table. “You know, like a wine DNA? There must be dozens of places here in town where they do that.”

According to the barman, indeed there were. What’s more, his brother worked at one of them, and, following a quick phone call, he agreed to send a messenger over to pick up the wine so he could do the analysis that evening.

With that settled, the toasts were proposed: to Roussel for making the wine, to Charlie for his virtuoso impersonation, to a giggling Christie for reasons that Charlie preferred not to disclose, to a prosperous future. By the time they went up to their rooms to change for dinner, the mood of the group was as effervescent as the champagne bubbling through their veins.

That mood was to be dampened, but only slightly, and not for long. Their new best friend the barman had recommended a bistro in the rue Saint-Remi-posters from the 1920s and long silvered mirrors on the walls, dark red moleskin banquettes, traditional good solid food-and they were deliberating over the menus when Max noticed that Roussel had fallen quiet.

“What is it, Claude? Something wrong? You’re not worried about the wine?”

Roussel tugged at his ear and pushed his menu aside. “I spoke to Ludivine before we left the hotel-you know, to tell her-and she said that Nathalie Auzet had called this morning.”

“What did she want?”

“She didn’t say. Ludivine told her I was away, and she said she’d call again tomorrow. Perhaps something about the contract for the métayage. I don’t know.”

Max waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t let it spoil your dinner. We’ll deal with her when we get back. Come on-what’s it to be?”

Dinner was long and increasingly convivial, followed by one last glass in the hotel bar to celebrate the results of the analysis. This confirmed the findings of Roussel’s nose, much to everyone’s relief.

It was well past midnight by the time Max got back to his room, where he found the little red eye of the message light blinking on his phone. Madame Passepartout had called: to remind him, no doubt, that he’d promised to bring her back a box of canelés, the small caramelized cakes-a Bordeaux speciality-that she loved with a guilty passion. He made a note on his pad before undressing, then took a bottle of Evian with him into the bathroom; a long shower and a liter of water last thing at night was a more effective cure for a hangover than any number of aspirin in the morning. The moment his damp head touched the pillow, he was asleep.

The ringing of the phone jolted him into semi-wakefulness after a night of delightful dreams-Fanny, wine, the future, Fanny-and he winced as the familiar screech came down the line.

“Monsieur Max! C’est moi.”

Max cast a bleary eye at his watch: eight o’clock. He wished Madame Passepartout a good morning and fumbled for the Evian bottle.

She was désolée to disturb him, but she thought he should know that Maître Auzet had come to the house wanting to see him. On being told that he was away, she had demanded to know where he was. Imagine! The impertinence! Such ill-mannered curiosity! En plus, when asked, she had refused to say why she wanted to see him. An obstinate and difficult young woman. Needless to say, her questions had not been answered, and she had been told to come back later in the week.

Madame Passepartout paused at the end of these breathless revelations for Max to comment, and seemed disappointed that he had nothing indiscreet to say. He promised to bring her back a large box of canelés, and put down the phone, a thoughtful man. But whatever the problem was, it would have to wait.

The four of them left the hotel after breakfast, a subdued group that moved slowly and talked quietly. The previous night’s alcohol had something to do with this, of course, but also the thought of the confrontation that lay ahead had taken the edge off their high spirits. It’s one thing to know a man is a crook and a liar, but quite another to tell him so to his face. Would he break down and confess? Deny everything and call the police? Lose his temper and start throwing bottles at them? Nobody was taking any bets.

They arrived at the house in the cours Xavier Arnozan as the tolling of a distant bell marked ten o’clock. Charlie squared his shoulders, adjusted his bow tie, and knocked on the door. The sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the corridor, and the door was opened to reveal a young man in a dark suit, stocky and impassive.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Fitzgerald.” Charlie’s voice sounded firm and confident, despite his surprise.

The young man neither smiled nor spoke, but stood back to let them in before leading them down the corridor and into the tasting room.

The long mahogany table was bare except for an ashtray. A chair behind the table was occupied by an older man with a long, bony jaw and his hair cut en brosse. Like the young man, he too was wearing a dark suit. As they watched him select and light a cigarette with studied deliberation, they heard footsteps behind them, and turned to see two uniformed policemen taking up their positions on either side of the door. The man behind the desk frowned, and spoke for the first time. “You two can wait outside,” he said to the policemen, with a flick of his finger, “and close the door.”

“Where is Mr. Fitzgerald?” Charlie made a brave attempt to bluster. “This is most irregular.”

The man behind the table held up a hand. “Who among you speaks French?” Max and Roussel nodded. “Good. You can translate for your colleagues. My name is Lambert. Inspector Lambert.” He left his chair and came round to perch on the corner of the table, squinting at them through the smoke from his cigarette. “Word reached us yesterday of your… activities, and I must tell you that here in Bordeaux we are not amused by this kind of adventure. To misrepresent the good name of our wines, to attempt this despicable substitution, to profit from fraud and breach of trust-these are crimes of a most serious nature, and the penalties are extremely severe.” He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and went back to sit behind the table. Looking up at the row of frozen faces in front of him, he nodded and said again, “Extremely severe.”

“Putaing,” said Roussel.

“Bloody hell,” said Charlie, who had understood the gist if not the detail of Lambert’s remarks.

“I can explain everything,” said Max.

“Thank God you called when you did,” said Fitzgerald. “You know, I was sure he was genuine: he did all the right things, said all the right things. And an order like that, on the other side of the world, well away from France -it was perfect. Although I suppose I should have smelt a rat when he didn’t even try to negotiate on the price. But we can all make a mistake.” He shrugged, and his face brightened. “Fortunately, it wasn’t fatal-thanks to you, my dear. Have some champagne and tell me again what made you suspicious. Our last conversation was a little rushed.”

Their table overlooked the enclosed garden of the Hotel Bristol, green and refreshingly cool in the heat wave that had turned Paris into an oven. Nathalie Auzet sipped her wine before replying. “Mostly luck. As you know, I had to talk to Roussel about this year’s shipment, and when I found out he’d gone away, I thought it was odd. He hates to travel; I’ve never known him to spend a night away from home. And his wife wouldn’t give me a number where I could reach him. So I went to see Skinner, and nobody was at the house apart from that nosy old boot of a housekeeper. That’s when I called you, and when you told me you’d just had a private tasting for an Englishman…” She stared into her glass, and shook her head. “It’s such a pity Roussel lost his nerve and had an attack of honesty. It was a wonderful scheme.”

Fitzgerald leaned across to touch her hand. “Never mind. It served us very well. Enough, more than enough, to set you up in California, and me in New York. What a convenient country America is if you want to disappear. And we’ll be there by this time tomorrow.” He turned to the third person at the table, a man with a long, bony jaw and his hair cut en brosse. “How about you, Philippe? Did you enjoy pretending to be a flic?”

A smile softened the angles of the man’s face. “Easy work,” he said, “and the pay’s good.” The wad of hundred-euro notes Fitzgerald had given him was so thick he had had to divide it between two pockets. “It’s funny. Once they saw the boys in those uniforms, they didn’t ask for any proof of identity. I suppose you believe what you see.”

“What you think you see, Philippe,” said Fitzgerald, “what you think you see. Very much like wine. Tell me, how did you leave it with them?”

“Skinner and Roussel put up quite a good case, I have to say. A court would probably let them off with a slap on the wrist and a fine. But I don’t think they’ll cause any trouble. I told them we would be launching a full-scale investigation into this so-called Monsieur Fitzgerald and his wine dealings, and that we’d be in touch. I let them think they might avoid prosecution if they behaved themselves and cooperated when the time came. My guess is that they’ll keep their heads down for the next six months and hope for the best.”

“Chapeau, Philippe. You did very well. And now I think we deserve to indulge ourselves.” Fitzgerald barely had time to raise his hand before there was a flurry of waiters at his shoulder. “The foie gras here is superb. And I believe they may let us have a glass or two of Yquem to go with it.”