“No, no, no,” said Max. “Just a friend. Too young for me.”
Fanny smiled and ruffled his hair as she gave him the menu. “You’re quite right. Much too young.”
Christie came back to find the look of dismay still on his face, but put it down to hunger. “So tell me,” she said, “where were you this afternoon?”
As they worked their way through the meal-a vegetable terrine followed by breast of Barbary duck, served, as it should be, with the skin crisp-Max reported on his expedition, and Roussel’s revelations.
Christie’s immediate reaction was smug satisfaction. “I knew it,” she said. “You can never trust a woman with hair that color. What a piece of work. You can be sure she’s robbing old Roussel blind somewhere along the line.”
“You’re probably right. I’d really love to find out where the wine goes. If we knew that…”
Christie mopped up some of her gravy with a piece of bread, a French habit she’d acquired unconsciously. “She must be working with someone. Has she ever said anything that made you suspicious? Did you see anything in her office?” A smile of pure mischief. “I guess you never made it to her bedroom.”
Max cast his mind back to the previous Sunday, when he had waited for Nathalie in her living room. What can you discover in ten minutes? He thought of the good furniture, the vintage carpet, the signed Lartigue photographs, the expensive volumes on painting and sculpture, the wine book he had leafed through. The wine book.
“There was one little thing, a wine label she was using as a bookmark. Odd sort of name, which of course I’ve forgotten. But I did make a note of it when I got back to see if I could find some of the wine. Apart from that, nothing. Are you going to have cheese?”
They ate on in thoughtful silence, broken eventually by Max. “The simplest thing would be to blow the whistle on her-I mean, the wine belongs to the property, and she and Roussel have been stealing it. Get her to confess. What do you think?”
Christie snorted. “Confess? Her? That broad? Don’t hold your breath. It would be her word against his, and she’s some kind of lawyer, isn’t she? Forget it. No, I think it would be better to wait and see if we could find out who she’s been working with. Then you get them all.”
“I don’t know about Roussel, though,” said Max. “He may be a bit of a rogue, but I’ve developed a soft spot for him. And he did look after the old boy. Sorry, your father.” Max put down his wineglass and tapped his head. “That reminds me. I had a call just after you’d gone out this afternoon from Bosc-you know, the lawyer we went to see in Aix.”
Christie rolled her eyes. “Let me guess.”
Max nodded. “You’re right. The gray area is now so gray it’s almost black. Much more complex than he had originally thought. Extensive investigation in France, probably a trip to California to consult authorities there, no stone to be left unturned, all that stuff. Months of research. He sounded very cheerful about it.”
Even before Max had finished speaking, Christie’s head had been shaking slowly from side to side. “Why am I not surprised?” she said. “I used to live with a lawyer, remember? God, it’s like-well, as my ex once said when he’d had too many beers, it’s like milking a mouse. You know? Trying to squeeze something out that isn’t there. They all do it.” With a look of high disdain on her face, she reached for her cigarettes.
“Calvados?”
“Absolutely.”
Leaving the restaurant, they saw that an after-dinner boules game-or perhaps the same game-was being played by the light of moth-freckled street lamps. The contestants looked identical to those playing earlier: the same wiry, wizened old men, still wearing their caps, the same endless flow of loquacious dispute. One of them saw Christie and nudged the man standing next to him. As she passed, he shook one hand vigorously from the wrist, as though he’d burned it, and gave her a smile that glinted with gold fillings.
“What does that mean?” said Christie.
Max thought for a moment. “One-nil to California, I’d say.”
Fifteen
Max was still dripping from the shower when his phone rang. It was Charlie, a joyful Charlie, sounding like a prisoner who had just received word of his reprieve.
“One more day of this nonsense,” he said, “and then I’m yours. I’ll be over tomorrow. All I have to do today is survive a lecture on offshore mortgage opportunities for those lucky buggers with seven-figure incomes, followed by what will no doubt be a thrilling Q & A session on the tax implications of secondary residence ownership. Want to come?”
“Slow going, is it?” said Max.
“I’ve had more fun at funerals.”
“Charlie, I’ve got some good news for you on the wine front-well, I think it’s good news. It would take too long to explain now; things are a little complicated here. But I’ll fill you in when I see you tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait. Oh, by the way, I’ve got some smoked salmon and Cumberland sausages for you. I stuffed them in my minibar, so they should be OK. Couldn’t think of anything else you’d like, apart from Kate Moss, and she’s busy.”
Max was smiling as he put down the phone. The call had reminded him that Charlie-one of those rare and precious people who are consistently cheerful-was just about the only part of his previous life in London that he missed. He went to find Madame Passepartout.
She received the prospect of another guest-a special guest, as Max had described him-with avid curiosity mixed with mild alarm at such short notice. A gentleman from London, undoubtedly a person of quality and consequence, possibly even an English milor, and she was supposed to have everything comme il faut in twenty-four hours. There were a thousand things to do, possibly more: towels, sheets, flowers, a decanter of cognac for the bedside table (it being well known that the better class of Englishman is partial to his nightcap); and then the mattress must be turned and aired, the windows made to gleam, the old armoire given a thorough polish, and all traces of insect life removed.
She stood with her hands on her hips, catching her breath after this breakneck recitation, while Max tried to reassure her. Perhaps he had inflated Charlie’s credentials. “Actually, he’s just a very old friend,” he said. “He’s not expecting the Ritz.”
“Mais quand même!” Madame Passepartout chose to be unconvinced, looking at her watch and almost pawing the ground in her eagerness to prepare for Charlie’s coming. “It would oblige me, Monsieur Max, if you and mademoiselle were to remove yourselves from the house today, so that I can work without distraction. The weather is most agreeable. I suggest a pique-nique.” The suggestion was delivered in a tone of voice that did not invite any discussion.