Montmartre Mysteries

by Jean-Pierre Alaux

  “You would do that, Mr. Cooker?”

  “If necessary, I’ll come plant them myself!”

  “That being the case, how could you refuse to be the sponsor of our vineyard—and having your name on our first vintage?”

  “Mrs. Lacaze, you are not a woman who can be denied many things. I feel for the men and women who have the privilege of working alongside you. You almost make me wish I were ill, just so I could spend more time in your hospital. Incidentally, I’m not feeling very well. I think I’m coming down with the flu.”

  The winemaker had pulled up his collar and wrapped his Loden even tighter around his body. It wasn’t the most practical item of clothing in bad weather.

  “And here I am keeping you out in this snow.”

  “You sound like you’re from Quebec, Mrs. Lacaze.”

  “No, not Canada, but you’re close in a way. I’m from Sarlat la Canéda. You could call me an expat in Paris. Let’s go on in. We’ve invited the entire staff for a cocktail to celebrate your kind assistance, Mr. Cooker.”

  “Before we go in, I need to give a little lesson in pruning to your two gardeners, who seem to prefer roses to vine arbors. Do you have a pair of pruning shears handy?”

  One of the two men took out a brand-new tool from his pocket. While Françoise Lacaze silently watched, Benjamin, good teacher that he was, explained every snip of the scissors. The advice was clear, and the cuts were clean. Behind him the vine shoots were piling up in the first rows. Then the winemaker handed the pruning shears to one of the two employees, who began to sever the knots of each of the stumps, looking to Benjamin from time to time for approval.

  “Jerome, you’ve just completed a continuing education class taught by one of the world’s most brilliant winemakers. How lucky you are,” Mrs. Lacaze said.

  “I know, ma’am,” he responded. His curly hair was covered with a ridiculous white helmet of snow.

  “Let’s go in. It’s time to celebrate the revival of the Bretonneau vineyard. Right, Mr. Cooker?”

  Benjamin smiled weakly. He was feeling worse by the minute and wondered if he could go through with the planned Vouvray tasting that afternoon.

  When Françoise Lacaze cracked open the bottle of Champagne to toast the famous winemaker, Benjamin declined.

  “Mrs. Lacaze, I do not for an instant doubt the quality of this vintage Champagne, but may I simply have a grog of rum and water?”

  “Ah, perhaps two aspirin will do the trick?”

  5

  Traffic around the Place de la Concorde was bogged down, giving Benjamin plenty of time to admire the Luxor Obelisk. If his memory served him correctly, the 3,000-year-old yellow granite column was a gift from a king of Egypt, and it had ended up right in the middle of this busy Parisian square thanks to King Louis-Philippe—the same king who founded the Foreign Legion. Benjamin’s thoughts returned to Arthur Solacroup, a man who had apparently spent his life running away from things. But from what?

  He recalled the first time he had wandered into Arthur’s shop. It didn’t have a proper name yet, just “Wine and Spirits” written on the window. Arthur later joked that he thought Benjamin was a customs inspector, decked out in a tweed jacket and corduroy pants.

  “No wonder he had been so reserved when we started talking,” Benjamin thought. He smiled as he recalled the wine he found in the shop that first time: a Côte-Rôtie from Yves Cuilleron in Chavanay, a 1998 Bassenon. The merchant had such an excellent collection of Rhône Valley wines, in fact, Benjamin was very direct with him: “Wine and Spirits is no name for a wine shop. You should call it Le Chai de la Vigne-Rhône. It’s catchier.” A few months later, he’d listed the shop with the new name in the Cooker Guide.

  The taxi driver’s outraged shouting and honking brought Benjamin back to the here and now. The street was covered with muddy snow, the air was filled with hydrocarbon vapors, and the car was nearly at a standstill. Benjamin decided to get out at the approach to the Rue Royale and continue on foot to the Hôtel de Crillon.

  Virgile was waiting for him in one of the armchairs in the lobby, crossing and uncrossing his legs, and looking out of place in this surfeit of stucco, thick carpets, and obsequious staff. When he spotted Benjamin, he jumped up to greet him.

  “Glad you made it, boss. I’ve been here for more than an hour. Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m coming down with some kind of bug, Virgile, but I should be able to handle the tasting.”

  “Good thing. I’ve gone through the list of wines, and I can’t wait. You’ve always given the Vouvray appellation such high marks, but since one year can be surprisingly different from the next, this should be a blast. But first, though, I need you to tell me if this Hôtel de Crillon of yours is a haven for gigolos, or am I being paranoid?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Virgile.”

  “Well, there was this woman, in her mid-sixties—a real cougar in a designer suit and with lots of expensive jewelry. She kept staring and smiling at me. I had to hide behind the Daily Telegraph.”

  “It’s nice to see you with a newspaper, Virgile, but it’s a good idea to read it too.”

  “I do occasionally read the newspaper, boss.”

  “And you do occasionally succumb to temptation, which I would not recommend, or you’ll give the Crillon a reputation it doesn’t have yet. Then I’d have to reconsider any raise I might have in mind.”

  “I’m not the kind of man who takes money from women. I won’t stoop to that.”

  “That virtue does you credit, Virgile.”

  “But does not earn me any extra interest at the bank,” the assistant said with a mischievous smile.

  “Actually, Virgile, I was planning to tell you later, but now is as good a time as any. You’ll be seeing a larger figure on your paycheck beginning this month. I’ve already given Jacqueline the instructions in that regard. So even though I’m glad we’ve clarified that you would not sell your services—at least your amorous services—you’ve already gotten your raise.”

  “Great, now my banker will be after me to start putting more money away. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not complaining.”

  “I’m impressed, Virgile. It seems everyone’s wooing you.”

  “Sometimes I’d gladly do without it.”

  Benjamin reached into his Loden, pulled out a large handkerchief, and wiped his forehead.

  Virgile frowned. “Boss, you really don’t look good. Can I get you something?”

  “I must be coming down with the flu, and this morning an old acquaintance of mine was almost murdered. I wanted to visit his wine shop on the Rue Lepic, and when I walked in, he was bleeding on the floor. The paramedics took him away, and I haven’t had an opportunity to find out how he’s doing. But the day hasn’t been a total disaster. I met the director of a hospital where I wouldn’t mind spending my final days, and we’re going to plant some malbec vines in the middle of Paris. I think your old friend Julien Thommasseau would be perfect for the job of Bretonneau Hospital vintner. Don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t think I’ve grasped all of that. Could you start over and give me a blow-by-blow account?”

  The Crillon lobby was a nonstop ballet of non-French visitors for whom the snow was still another Paris attraction, in addition to the Louvre, Versailles, and the shops on Avenue Montaigne. The president of the Loire Wine Association greeted Benjamin with a nod but didn’t interrupt the hushed conversation between the wine expert and his assistant.

  “So if I understand correctly, the man wasn’t fatally injured?”

  “That’s my hope. When the ambulance took him away, he had lost consciousness, but his heart was still beating, and according to the paramedics, his vital organs weren’t compromised.”

  “Did you see the guy who did it?”

  “I did see someone leaving the shop as I was about to go in.”

  “Did you give the police a description?”

  “I did, but I don
’t think it will be much help. He was wearing fatigues and a ski mask. I couldn’t make out anything else.”

  “Was there anyone else in the shop? A customer?”

  “Not when I got there. I’m sure of that. A friend of Arthur’s followed me in, though.”

  “For now, the main suspect is the man in fatigues. Is there any chance at all that you could identify him?”

  “His height and his weight, maybe, but not much more.”

  “That’s not much to go on, boss.”

  “I told you. He was all covered up, and I wasn’t in the best shape. I’m still not.”

  “And it’s the Vouvray that’s going to suffer.”

  “I’m more concerned that you’ll have to suffer my bad mood.”

  “No worries, boss,” Virgile said, grinning. “I’ve been around your bad moods before, and I’m still standing.”

  A man with an imposing build and bushy beard walked up behind Benjamin and thumped him on the back. Startled, Benjamin looked around and found a Swiss journalist he knew in passing.

  “Karl! You criticize Loire wines with unrelenting consistency, but you wouldn’t miss a Vouvray, Sancerre, or Côteaux-du-Layon tasting for anything in the world. If that isn’t masochism, I don’t know what is. By the way, what’s this I’ve been hearing about you no longer writing for the Tribune de Genève?”

  The man mumbled a denial that only confirmed his change in status and moved away without defending himself.

  “He’s such a bore! A bottle siphoner and scrounge who’s always sneaking into the tastings,” Benjamin said.

  “That was quite an insult.”

  “The sad thing is, he doesn’t even hold a grudge.”

  A young woman interrupted their conversation and told the two men she would show them to Gabriel Hall, where the tasting would begin as soon as the winemaker arrived. Benjamin suppressed a smile as he watched Virgile’s gaze run from the woman’s head to her toes.

  On tables covered with white linens, platoons of bottles awaited the critics’ assessments. The most impressive members of the press, along with esteemed wine experts from all over Europe, were gathered together under the elaborate high ceilings of Gabriel Hall. Benjamin greeted Olivier Poussier and Philippe Faure-Brac, considered the best sommeliers in the world, and shook hands with some familiar figures who addressed him as Lord Cooker. Benjamin knew full well that much of this flattery would turn to contempt once his back was turned. The wine world was rife with envy and slander.

  The owners of the wines submitted to this international jury stood behind the tables. Wearing awkward smiles and their Sunday best, they studied the tasters for signs of approval, grimaces, raised eyebrows, and pursed lips, but the critics made every effort to look impassive as they solemnly scribbled their appraisals and notes on the evaluation cards.

  Benjamin Cooker went from table to table, examining the colors of each wine, sniffing, and twirling his glass. Then he would plunge his nose into the glass again to fully experience the floral and vegetal fragrances that generously adorned the Vouvrays. Virgile had a tendency to rush through these preliminaries, which spoke volumes about the complexity and richness of a wine.

  He was doing it again today.

  “For goodness sake, Virgile, when will you stop favoring your mouth over your nose?” Benjamin whispered. “Inhale more deeply.”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve scolded me many times. But I don’t like to intellectualize wine. You know that. So tell me, once you’ve perceived your quince paste, nectarine, cooked apple, dried apricot, or pastry cream, what do you do, boss?”

  “Then, Virgile, you bring it to your lips…”

  “That’s exactly what I was saying.”

  The winemaker grinned at his assistant. Their methods certainly differed, but he had faith in Virgile’s judgment. With this little exchange, the winemaker was beginning to forget his headache and chills. One taste, then two. He tirelessly chewed and spit out each of the wines with a certain elegance, which was not the case for the majority of the tasters.

  Virgile, meanwhile, was drinking most of the wine instead of using the spittoon, causing Benjamin to roll his eyes again. The boy was irrepressible.

  “When it’s really good—”

  “Learn to resist, son!”

  “Wasn’t it you, boss, who told me that sometimes the best way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yes, it was yet another of your quotations. Your brain is full of them.”

  “Now I remember: Oscar Wilde, a genius with the pen.”

  Benjamin continued tasting. He picked up a Vouvray with a golden color that indicated it was fully mature.

  His assistant followed suit.

  “Beautiful IAP, don’t you think?” Virgile said.

  “Please stop talking like a second-year oenology student. Say the words. Yes, the intense aromatic persistence in this Vouvray is quite fine. I look forward to meeting its vintner.”

  Nearby, a man who appeared to be in his fifties smiled at the words, which were enough to get any winegrower dreaming of a mention in the Cooker Guide. He approached Benjamin and introduced himself with a touch of obsequiousness. The vintner paid less attention to Virgile but felt obliged to answer the flurry of technical questions the assistant ticked off regarding filtering, alcoholic balance, and residual sugar. While Virgile led the discussion, Benjamin jotted down some thoughts in his notebook and took more sips of the Vouvray.

  “Mr. Cooker, may I send some samples to your office in Bordeaux?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the wine expert responded indifferently.

  The two representatives of Cooker & Co. went their separate ways to continue their investigations. In the Gabriel Salon, there was nothing but the sound of hushed voices, clinking glasses, and corks being pulled from obliging bottlenecks.

  Benjamin walked over to one of the windows. The snow had stopped falling, but the Medici vases of the Hôtel de Crillon had nearly disappeared under the sparkling white drape, and the roof of the gazebo was sagging beneath its weight. It was getting dark. Benjamin shivered and looked around for Virgile. The winemaker began to fret but finally found his assistant in the hotel lobby with the woman who had been smiling at him earlier in the day. As he approached Virgile, he heard him say “sorry” in English. It seemed the woman wanted his autograph.

  Virgile turned to his boss with an imploring look in his eyes. “Please, boss, tell her I’m not Zac Efron, or Ryan Reynolds either.”

  Benjamin stepped in and explained in English that this was his assistant, not a movie star. As they walked away, he burst out laughing.

  “Virgile, you really are a hopeless fool. It’s a classic ploy. An older woman on the prowl makes her younger target feel like a handsome actor. The flattery breaks down his resistance. You were prey about to fall into the trap.”

  “But, I—”

  “You can’t argue your way out of this one. Paris isn’t your playing field. You’re not used to life here, and for that I’m grateful. Don’t change a thing about yourself, Virgile. Your roots are one of the reasons I hired you.”

  “So you think I’m a hick.”

  “No, provincial. It’s not the same thing, and coming from me, it’s a true compliment.”

  Little by little, the winemaker felt the color returning to his cheeks, but he still wasn’t himself. By mutual agreement, the two men decided that of the fifty or so Vouvrays to be tasted, none had escaped their perspicacity. They could weigh anchor knowing that they had accomplished their assignment. They had tasted and heard all the information they needed.

  All that was left was writing the tasting notes. Benjamin, however, wasn’t up to it. He just wanted to get back to his hotel near the Champs-Elysées, order a steaming cup of broth, huddle under the comforter, and try to forget the haunting image of the wine merchant on the Rue Lepic, bloody and mumbling the unintelligible name of his attacker.

  But first,
he had to do something to ease his mind.

  6

  Virgile was on foreign soil in Paris. The steeples of Notre-Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the esplanade of the Louvre, and the sugar-coated pastry: Sacré Coeur viewed from the top floor of the Centre Georges-Pompidou—these were his familiar spots in Paris. He knew next to nothing about Montmartre. The Place du Tertre and the Place des Abbesses, the Moulin de la Galette, and the stairs of the butte evoked nothing other than vague black-and-white images from the film Children of Paradise and photographs by Robert Doisneau.

  Now he was intent on changing that. He decided to head out at daybreak and explore this part of the city. The cold stung his cheeks, and the icy cobblestones made walking perilous, but nothing would stop him.

  Still empty of tourists, the slick alleys of the butte were gleaming in the yellowish light of the streetlamps. He looked up at the buildings and imagined the artist studios, where countless languid creatures had disrobed and lain on old sofas to be immortalized in oil paints and clay.

  This was enough to entice him into walking up the Rue Lepic. There were few signs of life. The shutters were lowered. Le Chai de la Vigne-Rhône’s sign creaked eerily in the wind, and the sidewalk was littered with the shards of broken bottles. A few doors away, however, there was a café with a freshly painted sign. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted toward Virgile, and he decided some hot java was in order.

  “A café crème. Make that a double. With two chocolatines, please,” Virgile said, walking toward the counter.

  After unzipping his heavy leather jacket, Virgile took a look around. Most of the chairs were still atop the tables, where they had been placed at closing the previous night. On the counter, six hard-boiled eggs were arranged under the dome of a glass cake stand. Virgile had read that eggs at breakfast were a natural appetite suppressant. He wondered how many people could actually enjoy them this way, but he wasn’t inclined to ask the owner. He didn’t want to look silly.

  The owner was listening to the news coming from the tiny radio on a shelf between a chubby bottle of plum brandy and a square bottle of cointreau. The man’s white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, exposing an excessively hairy chest. He had a big nose and a crimson face, and he seemed as likely to smile as to give out butter during wartime. The morning news, combined with the owner’s unfriendly demeanor and the hissing of the coffee machine, dashed any thoughts of conversation.