“Boss, I have the feeling that this is your home away from home when you’re in Paris.”
“True enough. Unfortunately, the estate owners I meet in Paris seem to think we should dine at fancier places than this, so I don’t get here as often as I’d like. I prefer the simplicity, though.”
“Keep it up, boss. I might start feeling sorry for you—having to eat at all those Michelin-starred restaurants.”
“Virgile, I admire all of your fine qualities, but I thought compassion was one of them.”
“Well, I have been known to have a little from time to time. By the way, you do seem to be feeling better today. I’m amazed at your ability to fight off every virus that comes around.”
“What? That little cold? A hot toddy and a glass of lemon juice without sugar, and I was all set.”
“Speaking of good news, I got hold of Julien. He’s agreed take on the Bretonneau vineyard. You wouldn’t believe how excited he is.”
“I knew he would be,” Benjamin said. “Did you know that as far back as the seventeenth century Parisians looking for a good time would climb the slopes to Montmartre’s inns and taverns? There’s a saying from back then: ‘It’s wine from Montmartre. Drink a pint of it, and you’ll piss a quart.’ You can imagine all the urinating that went on in the gutters outside the taverns. I’m sure Julien will get a kick out of that image.”
“Thank God for indoor plumbing.”
Benjamin was thoroughly enjoying his starter of fried sardines with tapenade.
“How’s your turbot fillet, Virgile?”
“Excellent, boss. The mousseline sauce is rich and fluffy. Almost as good as Mrs. Cooker’s.”
“Yes, cooking is one of her many talents. So, did you take that walk on the Rue Lepic?”
“First thing this morning, I spent some time in a café near the wine shop.”
“And?”
“People in the neighborhood think Arthur Solacroup’s dead.”
“I hope not,” Benjamin said.
“You said yesterday that he was only injured.”
“Yes, but we didn’t know the extent of those injuries. He could have taken a turn for the worse at the hospital.”
Removing a piece of chervil from his John Dory, the winemaker asked Virgile to recount his conversation with Loubressac and Poivrot.
“I don’t put much stock in what Poivrot said. The man who assaulted Arthur didn’t look at all like a winemaker,” Benjamin said.
“How can you say what a winemaker is supposed to look like? Or maybe it was somebody hired by an estate owner he owed money to. You know, a hit.”
“You’ll have to work harder to convince me,” Benjamin said. “Moreover, we don’t know for certain that it was a homicide.”
“Why haven’t you gotten back in touch with the police? They’ll know about how Solacroup is doing.”
“First of all, Virgile, I was fighting off some kind of bug, and I’ve had other things to do, if you haven’t noticed.” Benjamin put down his glass.
What he wasn’t telling Virgile was that he had already called the police. Last night. But he had been stonewalled. Just thinking about the way those good-for-nothing cops had gotten Arthur’s last name wrong and had passed his call from one desk to another irked him. And he didn’t want his irritation to interfere with the pleasure he was taking in his Puligny-Montrachet premier cru from Étienne Sauzet.
“Well, at least we could call the hospital where the paramedics took him,” Virgile said, exasperated. “Or maybe you should call Inspector Barbaroux in Bordeaux. He owes you.”
“No thanks. I can do quite well without his help.”
“How about calling your new friend…”
“Who might that be?”
“Françoise Lacaze, the charming director of Bretonneau Hospital. Those were your words, boss, not mine. She might have some connections.”
“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea. I think I have her business card in my pocket.”
Benjamin put the thought aside and started considering dessert. He decided to order his favorite—honey, pine nut, and cognac parfait. He advised Virgile to do the same.
“Tell me what you think.”
“I’m happy to follow your lead,” Virgile said.
They asked for two strong coffees and the check. Gérard Allemandou wouldn’t let Benjamin leave before pouring two swigs of Hine Réserve Particulière cognac in his cup.
“Taste this, Benjamin. You’ll see life in a different light. Why don’t you stay a little longer and enjoy a D4?” the restaurant owner said, getting ready to open the cigar box. “I’ll have one with you.”
“I’d love to, Gérard. But we’ll have to do that next time. I have an assignment that can’t wait. I’m already late.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to appraise the vines of Montmartre? You’re getting into micro-vintages now?” Then the chef leaned over and whispered in Benjamin’s ear. “That assistant of yours is quite a capable young man. Nothing’s missing in the looks department either.”
Benjamin winked at Virgile and then turned to his friend with a grin plastered on his face. “I have a confession, Gérard. He’s my son by another woman. But don’t repeat that. Elizabeth doesn’t know.”
“In your dreams, Benjamin. Not everyone can be like the heads of state, as incorrigible as you are. Now, get out of here.”
“Yes, you are incorrigible, boss,” Virgile said as they walked out.
“Is that so, Virgile? And here I thought that was you.”
8
Françoise Lacaze had promised to deliver the information Benjamin had requested, but the cell phone still hadn’t rung, and the winemaker was feeling grumpy. He frowned and watched Virgile press his nose to the window of the taxi to ogle young women walking along the sidewalks.
The driver let them off at the corner of the Rue Lepic and the Rue Joseph de Maistre. They had time to kill, but they weren’t inclined to stroll. It was too cold. Virgile suggested getting a cup of coffee at his fellow countryman’s café, but the window display of a secondhand shop caught the dour winemaker’s eye. A Sino-Vietnamese Buddha, some pretty Delft porcelain pieces, a pair of Imari Japanese vases, and a well-executed Dutch painting woke up the art lover in Benjamin Cooker.
A man with a hint of an Italian accent was conversing with a young fellow who had his back to Benjamin. They were both leaning on a large Louis XV commode that filled the dark space at the back of the shop. The antiquarian set aside his tea and walked over to greet his customer.
“Hello, sir. Some information, perhaps?”
“Not really,” Benjamin replied simply, putting on his reading glasses to get a better look at a large blue-toned watercolor of a Spanish bridge above a mountain stream in the Pyrenees. He quickly recognized the hand of the nineteenth-century landscape artist Gaston Vuillier.
“That frame doesn’t do it justice,” the antiquarian remarked.
“True,” Benjamin murmured.
“He was a rather famous watercolorist,” the persistent dealer added. “He’s in the Benezit Dictionary of Artists.”
“Is that so?” Benjamin said, pretending to be impressed.
“If you’re interested, I can let you have it for a good price.”
“Are you feeling generous today?”
“Let’s say pragmatic. A businessman who jacks up his prices to get more out of someone as refined as yourself will eventually be out of business.”
“But high prices aren’t the only thing that can put a shop owner out of business. Bullets can do the same thing,” Benjamin said, running a finger over the worm-eaten frame of the Vuillier he was coveting.
The dealer hesitated and then said, “Are you from the neighborhood? If you don’t mind my asking…”
“You could say that,” the winemaker replied vaguely.
“My worker and I were just talking about it. He knew Arthur Solacroup well. Arthur was somewhat eccentric, but he was a good businessman. His wine shop was boo
ming, wasn’t it, Karim? Tell the gentleman what a good guy he was.”
The young man turned around. His eyes looked bright with tears. Or was he high? Benjamin was no expert in this area. Virgile would know better, but his assistant wasn’t there to weigh in. Having no interest in following his employer into a store smelling of polish and dust, he had taken shelter in the café.
“Well, hello, Karim. It’s good to see you again,” Benjamin said.
The boy nodded but didn’t say anything.
“At this point, my instinct tells me that Arthur’s no longer with us,” the dealer said, picking up the conversation again.
Benjamin didn’t want to dwell on the thought. “So, how much for your watercolor?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I can let you have it for a thousand euros.”
“Hmm, that seems a bit steep.” Before Benjamin could explain his reasoning, the cell phone rang in his Loden.
“Excuse me,” the winemaker said, discreetly stepping away.
“Yes, Mrs. Lacaze… That’s very nice of you to get back to me so quickly. Lariboisière Hospital, you say? Room twenty-four. Thank you so much.”
Benjamin felt the tension melt from his face.
“This is rather good news… At midday, you say?”
The winemaker listened as Mrs. Lacaze delivered more information.
“The recovery? Again, thank you for your perseverance, Mrs. Lacaze. Oh, by the way, I have some good news too. I’ve found an excellent winemaker who will take charge of creating a fine vineyard for you. And I want you to know that I will personally oversee it, from the planting to the first winemaking… Don’t thank me, Mrs. Lacaze. It’s a noble cause, and your kindness makes me all the more eager to do this.”
The winemaker, whose mood had been sullen since his meal at La Cagouille, was affable once again. He turned to the dealer and Karim.
“Arthur is alive. He just came out of his coma. He hasn’t regained his speech yet, but the doctors are hopeful.”
Benjamin didn’t know why he felt compelled to add that last detail about the doctors, which was nothing short of invention on his part.
The boy’s face lit up. “I knew it, Giuseppi!” he cried out, throwing his arms around the dealer. “Arthur couldn’t be dead!” Benjamin felt a bit embarrassed by the display of emotion and walked back over to the Gaston Vuillier watercolor.
“You’ll have to do a little better, Giuseppi...?”
“Giuseppi Bartoldi, at your service,” the man said with Florentine elegance. “How could I refuse a discount to the bearer of such good news? Eight hundred euros.”
“It’s a deal,” Benjamin said, imagining the look on Elisabeth’s face when it came time to hang this new acquisition in their Grangebelle library.
“Karim, would you wrap the watercolor for the gentleman? There’s some brown paper in the desk drawer, on the left side.”
Karim hastened to comply. “Let me tie some string around it,” he said after making sure the paper was taped securely. “It will be easier to carry that way, Mr. Cooker.”
The winemaker took out his Barclay’s checkbook and his black-ink fountain pen. Giuseppi had walked away to talk to a customer who was interested in a painting by a local artist. It wasn’t worth more than three euros, as far as Benjamin was concerned. Taking the wrapped painting, the winemaker handed Karim the check.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that Arthur’s still alive. Thank you for finding out for us.”
“I’m just as pleased about the news as you are, Karim,” Benjamin said. He was beginning to realize that his impulse purchase would be hard to lug around.
The other customer left without purchasing the canvas she had admired. Giuseppi Bartoldi returned to the back of the store to make sure Benjamin was satisfied. The transaction was completed, but the dealer kept chatting. Benjamin chalked it up to his Italian origins, put on his best smile, and took his leave. Just as he was about to open the door, Karim caught up with him.
“Pardon me, Mr. Cooker. May I speak to you again—in private?”
“Of course, son. Shall we go to back to that café?”
“Giuseppi! I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”
The snow had stopped, but the bad weather hadn’t. Now hail was making the Montmartre cobblestones even more slippery. The tourists had deserted the butte for good.
~ ~ ~
When Benjamin walked into Loubressac’s café with Karim, he gave Virgile an almost imperceptible shake of the head, indicating that he wanted his assistant to remain seated at the counter but close enough to hear the conversation. Virgile seemed to get the message and turned away from the door.
Benjamin tried to put his guest at ease. He took off his Loden, but not before ordering two coffees and removing a magnificent robusto from his cigar case.
“Can I offer you one? I’m afraid they wouldn’t take kindly to our lighting up a hookah in the middle of this place.”
“Thanks,” Karim said, smiling. “There’s no smoking of any kind in here, and I never smoke during the day—only after sundown.”
“You’re right. It’s the best way to communicate with the demons of the night,” the winemaker said with a chuckle, setting the cigar on the table.
“You know, apart from that one night when we were up till sunrise, he hardly ever said a word about his past. Actually, he didn’t have much to say. Arthur just wasn’t…”
“Talkative.”
“Yes, that’s it. The only thing he could go on and on about was the wine. And, of course, he put you on a pedestal. He couldn’t get over how you had included him in your guidebook and named the store. He’d say ‘Benjamin Cooker’s a wine god! He’s the most influential wine expert in France and maybe even the world.’ Thanks to you, he had buyers from all over the place coming into his shop.”
“He’s the one who deserves the credit.”
“Sir, you influenced him in more ways than one. He told me about the day he’d opened late because he partied too hard the night before. He found a note from you under the metal gate.”
“Yes, I do recall that little warning I gave him.”
“Believe me, he was shaking when he read it out loud: ‘Mr. Solacroup, I suggest that you respect your hours of operation and uphold your reputation if you care to see your shop in the next Cooker Guide.’ You really gave him a scare. After that, he’d say ‘Whenever I have my head up my ass, I think of Cooker, and I tell myself that this might be the day he’ll arrive to buy something.’”
“Good. I wouldn’t want him to lose customers. He’s got such a fine selection of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and Gigondas.”
“That’s for sure. He didn’t want anything but the best in his shop. He was always saying, ‘When Cooker comes by the shop, I’ll have him taste this. I bet he hasn’t even tried it yet!’ I’ve got to admit it got a little boring after a while—all that talk about you and what you’d think.”
“I thought you were interested in wine.”
“It was a way to communicate with Arthur. The only way, in fact.”
“Do you avoid alcohol for religious reasons?”
“No, I can’t say that. Drinking is haram—sinful—in Islam, but so is smoking hashish, and I do that. Just like any other faith, there are people who are very religious and there are others who aren’t as observant.”
The two of them sat quietly for a minute and drank their coffee. Karim finally broke the silence.
“Do you think we can go see him?” he asked.
“He came out of the coma at noon today. He’s still confused, and he hasn’t recovered his speech. But you’ve spent a lot of time with him… Tell me—he wasn’t the type to pick quarrels with people, was he? I heard that he sometimes didn’t pay his wine suppliers.”
“That’s not like Arthur. The only fight I know about is one he had with a winemaker from a town in the south. I forget the name of the place. Wait, it’ll come to me. It’s the name of the countess in The Visitors—Mit
raille, or Mirail, or Bonmirail? Have you seen The Visitors, Mr. Cooker?”
“It must be Montmirail,” Benjamin said. “And no, I haven’t seen the movie.”
“Well, anyway, the guy showed up at the store with a gun, and all Arthur could do was pay him. But all the bottles from that jerk in Mirail—”
“Montmirail,” the winemaker corrected.
“Whatever. All of that guy’s wine was corked. It was impossible to sell. And the old man wouldn’t take the bottles back.”
“Why didn’t Arthur take him to court?”
“He didn’t operate that way. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the legal system.”
“Had he ever had any problems with the law? An arrest, maybe?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Benjamin glanced over at Virgile, only to find his assistant chatting up a ravishing Asian woman, with whom he was sharing a minted milk.
Annoyed, Benjamin looked away and continued with his questions.
“You look worried, Karim. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Well, I think Arthur may still be in danger.”
“What makes you say that?” Benjamin asked. He looked up for a second and noticed an advertising poster on one of the walls. It was for a former client, Lavoisier Cognac.
“Arthur had a way of getting on people’s bad side,” Karim said. “Just this morning I remembered something.”
“Is it about one of his suppliers?”
“Stop with all that. I’m telling you Arthur was straight with his suppliers. The only reason he got into it with that one dude was because the guy’s wine was bad. He shouldn’t have been paid. No, I’m thinking this has something to do with a woman. Arthur was horny as hell. He even had a tendency to drink from his neighbor’s cup.”
“A jealous husband?” suggested Benjamin.
“He tried coming on to somebody’s girlfriend last Saturday. The boyfriend told Arthur to get lost, and before he knew what was happening, Arthur had him pinned to the ground. The guy went home spewing blood.”
“Can you give me a description of this other man?” Benjamin asked, intrigued.
“For a winemaker, you ask a lot of questions. Yeah, I can tell you what he looked like. Shaved head like Arthur’s. Bomber jacket and fatigues.”
Montmartre Mysteries Page 5