Montmartre Mysteries

by Jean-Pierre Alaux

  “Would you be able to recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “I could do that too. The fact is, I know the guy. It’s Sergio. We deliver furniture for the dealers around here. He’s got a temper, and he’s a fighter, but he’s not the one who was throwing the punches last Saturday. He just wanted Arthur to leave his girl alone, and he’s the one who got a bloody nose for it. But Sergio trying to kill Arthur? That’s crazy! Besides, we were delivering an armoire yesterday. He was finishing up the paperwork when I left to go see Arthur at the wine shop. I’m just saying that Arthur has an eye for women he has no business looking at.”

  “I believe you, Karim. But could you arrange a meeting with this Sergio? I want to see what he looks like.”

  “Come to the gym tonight. It’s not far from here, on the Rue de la Grange aux Belles. We train at eight o’clock. Sergio and I, we’re champion kick-boxers, second level Île-de-France League. Nothing like Benny Urquidez, but still...”

  “Benny who?” Benjamin wasn’t well versed in the arena of kick-boxing.

  “He’s the god of full-contact: fifty-nine victories, forty-five knockouts. In Japan, there’s even a comic book about him. He’s a living legend.”

  “And you and your friend Sergio—you want to follow in his footsteps?”

  “No, we can’t come close to him, but we did get a write-up in La Gazette de Montmartre this month.”

  The young man stood up and sauntered over to the counter. He looked under the Paris-Turf and Le Parisien and pulled out a copy of the fanzine, which claimed to be the voice of the butte. He walked back and handed it to Benjamin. On page three, a photo showcased the two rebellious-looking boxers. The winemaker pulled out his glasses and immediately recognized Karim. Benjamin congratulated him with a warm handshake and friendly pat on the shoulder.

  Then he put on his Loden and walked out the door without giving Virgile so much as a glance. “If charming a woman’s more important than solving a mystery, then so be it,” he told himself.

  9

  The bone-chilling cold had definitively chased away the leaden clouds hanging over Paris. Now a bright and miraculous sun was dissolving the last ribbons of mist floating above the zinc gutters of the grand Haussmann buildings.

  Virgile had run after his boss to catch up with him, and now he regretted it, as he walked two steps behind Benjamin. The winemaker was a master at giving the silent treatment. But most of all, Virgile hated hospitals. The trauma dated to his early childhood: the day he was forced to visit his grandfather before a prostate operation. It was at the hospital in Périgueux. Pale and silent, he had complied gallantly, but he couldn’t bear it when, before his eyes, an inexperienced nurse tried three times to insert the intravenous line. Virgile fainted then and there, and shortly after he came to, he had to endure the public humiliation of his father calling him a little wimp. Pépé died a few days after the surgery, and for the young Virgile there was no doubt about it: the nurse had killed him with her needles.

  At the reception desk, Benjamin checked to see if Arthur Solacroup was still in intensive care. An older nurse with a hairy upper lip pointed him to neurology.

  “Hurry up, Virgile. You’re dragging your heels. You should be full of energy after working your magic on that woman in the café.”

  “Come on, boss. Get over it. I was just flirting. You know hospitals give me bad vibes.”

  “Spare me. Let’s go. Keep your eyes on the signs. It’s a labyrinth in here. We don’t want to lose Ariadne’s thread!”

  “What Ariadne are you talking about?” Virgile asked. He was feeling queasy.

  “You’ve already forgotten your Greek mythology? Sixth grade history!”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Let’s go. Follow me and stop straggling,” Benjamin grumbled as he approached a door that opened to another long hallway. “I think we’re getting close.” They passed one room and then another, and finally they found the one indicated by the duty nurse.

  When the two of them walked in, they were surprised to find that Arthur already had a visitor. A stunning woman was at his bedside. Her delicate fingers were entwined in Arthur’s. Curly brown hair streamed over her shoulders, and her large green almond-shaped eyes were fixed on Arthur’s face. She had the bearing of a Moroccan princess. Virgile was immediately smitten, but it was clear that her heart belonged to the man lying in the bed. Her lips brushed Arthur’s cheek, and he responded with a hoarse groan.

  Arthur, whose forehead was wrapped in a thick bandage, looked over and gave the winemaker and his assistant a weak smile. He tried to move his right hand but grimaced and stopped. The woman gently stroked his wrist.

  Seeing the wine shop owner in such a vulnerable condition, Virgile tried his best to look upbeat, not only because he didn’t want to make the man feel worse, but also because he was intent on making a good impression on the gorgeous female visitor. The winemaker introduced himself. “Cooker… Benjamin Cooker. And this is my colleague, Virgile Lanssien.”

  “I’m Gabriela de la Luz, Arthur’s friend,” the woman responded. She had a touch of what sounded like an Andalusian accent.

  Virgile, who was definitely feeling better, couldn’t stop staring at her. He didn’t want to be that obvious, so he busied himself with removing his scarf and leather jacket. He threw them on one of the imitation-leather chairs. Benjamin, meanwhile, took off his Loden and carefully hung it on the back of the same chair.

  “Well, how is the best wine merchant in Paris doing?” Benjamin said.

  “I’m waiting for his doctor, Dr. Rapaud, to come by,” Gabriela answered. “They found lead shot in his forearm and his right side. He hit the marble counter when he fell, and as a result there was some head trauma. That’s why he can’t talk. At least that’s what the doctors think. But now that he’s out of the coma he can communicate to some extent. Right, Arturo?”

  The wine merchant moved his chin almost imperceptibly.

  “Does he remember the attack?”

  “He doesn’t seem to,” Gabriela answered, throwing back her mane of auburn hair.

  Arthur locked his eyes on Benjamin’s, as though he wanted to contradict what she had just said. He tried to raise his shoulder, but she laid her hand on it, urging him to be still.

  “Mr. Solacroup, you have too many visitors in here,” an official-looking man in a white lab coat snapped as he burst into the room. “It’s not good for you. How are you doing?”

  Ignoring his patient’s inability to respond, the man turned to Benjamin, Virgile, and Gabriela. “I’m Dr. Rapaud, his neurologist. I’m going to examine him now. Give us some privacy, all three of you.”

  The three visitors walked into the hallway, and the doctor closed the door.

  “I don’t know why they worry so much about visitors at French hospitals,” Virgile said. “As long as we don’t have any communicable diseases, we sanitize our hands, and we don’t overstay, I think it’s good for the patient. It lifts the spirits to know somebody cares, don’t you think? Are Spanish hospitals just as uptight about visitors?”

  “I’m not Spanish,” Gabriela said. “I’m Peruvian. From Lima. A beautiful country. Have you been there?”

  Before Virgile could answer, Benjamin cut in. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet, but I don’t doubt you for a minute. I hope to visit one day. Virgile, you’re right. Dr. Rapaud doesn’t seem very accommodating.”

  “I think he just wants to see Arthur recover as quickly as possible,” Gabriela de La Luz said. She turned to Virgile. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you? I could use one.”

  “Sorry.” He was sorry. Very sorry. He would have liked nothing better than to duck outside with her for a smoke and some private conversation.

  “I should quit anyway,” Gabriela said. “It’s just that now isn’t a good time.”

  Virgile could see that she was close to tears.

  “The doctors don’t know why his speech is affected. It could be because
of the hemorrhage, which affected the flow of blood to his brain, or it could be something called aphasia. It’s often irreversible.”

  Virgile’s bad hospital memories were beginning to return.

  “We can only hope for the best,” Benjamin said. “They seem to be quite capable here. Tell me, Miss Luz, do you know if Arthur received any threats?”

  “How do you know about that?” Gabriela asked. Her demeanor had quickly changed from teary to indignant.

  “I know. That’s all.”

  “You’re in cahoots with the police.”

  “Why do you say that? Do I bear some resemblance to Pepe Carvalho?”

  This seemed to lighten the mood. Gabriela smiled.

  “Claro que no! Nada!” she said, dispelling any notion that the proper English winemaker could look like the colorful Spanish detective.

  “Did Arthur tell the police about the threats?”

  “I don’t think so. He doesn’t trust cops. And he’s a secretive man. He doesn’t want to be known for anything but his wines. He’s one of a kind, you know? Maybe even a bit crazed. Un loco.”

  “I had that impression too,” Benjamin said, stroking his chin. “I guess that’s one of the things I like about him. Not to mention his encyclopedic knowledge of Côtes du Rhône wine. He’s peerless.”

  “Yes, wine is his one true passion,” Gabriela said.

  “There aren’t more than a handful of people in Paris who have the same kind of instinct for quality,” Benjamin said. “I never figured out where he got it.”

  “From a woman,” Virgile said. “Behind every passion, there’s always a woman.”

  “Hmm, you’re going out on a limb there,” Benjamin said. “It’s a nice thought, but I wouldn’t say it’s always the case.”

  “I’m serious, boss. And her name was Julia.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Fabrice told me at the café yesterday.”

  “You neglected to tell me that part of the conversation.”

  “It didn’t seem as pertinent as the guy with the shotgun, boss. Anyway, her parents were winemakers in Rasteau. That’s where Arthur discovered wine. He and Julia traveled all over the region just to study the vineyards. I can picture it. First the vine-filled hillsides and flatlands: Avignon, Vienne, the Dentelles de Montmirail, and the rolling landscape of the Hermitage, then more distant destinations—Côte-Rôtie and Condrieu, Saint-Joseph, Cornas, and Costières de Nîmes, the most southerly appellation of the Rhône wine region.”

  “I believe you are trying to impress me with your knowledge, Virgile. I’m quite familiar with all those places. Don’t waste your breath.”

  Virgile couldn’t tell from Gabriela’s expression whether she knew about Julia or not, but he thought he saw a hint of sadness. “Apparently, Arthur’s affair with this woman ended quite some time ago, before he opened his shop,” he said.

  Benjamin turned to Gabriela. “But he never mentions her?” he asked.

  “Never,” Gabriela replied.

  The door opened abruptly. Dr. Rapaud came out of the room, interrupting the trio in the midst of their consultation.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Sir, are you in charge of the investigation?” the neurologist asked, taking Benjamin by the elbow and leading him down the hall to a spot where they could talk privately.

  “In a way,” the winemaker replied.

  “I’ll tell you where we stand with Mr. Solacroup. He has Broca’s asphasia. It’s a condition that affects the left side of the brain, which controls speech. A patient with this type of asphasia can have trouble forming complete sentences, understanding what someone else is saying, and following directions. In my opinion, it’s the blow to the head when he fell that caused this. That triggered the coma, which he came out of quickly. The neurological exam we performed when he arrived here and the Glasgow scale indicated that the coma was not deep. For now, we’ll have to see how Mr. Solacroup does. Some patients regain their verbal abilities. Some don’t.”

  Benjamin put his hands behind his back and nodded.

  “Other than that, we were able to remove the lead shot. Fortunately, Mr. Solacroup’s lungs were spared. As far as his right arm is concerned, the biceps and triceps were riddled like a sieve. The brachial artery took a big hit. Luckily, the paramedics were able to stop the hemorrhaging in the ambulance.”

  “What are his chances of a full recovery?”

  “It’ll take Mr. Solacroup a while to regain the use of his right arm, but when he does, he may be able to write down what happened, which should assist you in your investigation. Give him some time—a few weeks or months of therapy—and he should regain his motor skills.”

  “You say he should be able to regain them,” Benjamin said. “Is there a possibility that he won’t?”

  “I’m saying that we have to give this some time. He’ll need therapy, both for his arm and for his aphasia. He’ll get that here, but it needs to continue after he’s home. Asphasia is a complex condition, and verbal interaction with other people is crucial. That young woman over there has her work cut out for her.”

  The two men glanced at Gabriela at the end of the hall, who was deep in a hushed conversation with Virgile.

  “For now, can you tell me whether he’s completely conscious?”

  “We still have to run a battery of tests, but he appears to be.”

  “Doctor, do you know if the emergency room staff found anything in his personal effects that would give us a clue about what happened to him?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said, smoothing his silver hair. “We had his clothes. In addition to his major injuries, Mr. Solacroup had cuts and abrasions, which would indicate he scuffled with his attacker before he was shot. The police might be able to find traces of the attacker’s DNA on Mr. Solacroup’s shirt.”

  “Anything else?” Benjamin said, putting on his best Inspector Barbaroux face so the doctor would keep thinking he represented the law.

  “We also found something in his wallet: a handwritten note dated last week. It authorized us to harvest his organs for donation in the event of his death. I thought it was very odd, given the date. Maybe he was expecting something to happen.”

  “Yes, that is strange, isn’t it,” Benjamin replied.

  The double door at the other end of the hall swung open, and the winemaker and doctor stepped aside to make way for a gurney surrounded by a team of nurses. A grimacing patient appeared to be struggling for air.

  “I’m very sorry I can’t give you more information,” the doctor said, turning back to Benjamin. “Give me a call in two or three days, Inspector… What was it again?”

  “Cooker.”

  “Like the wine critic, the author of the guide?”

  “Exactly,” Benjamin confirmed with a hint of a smile.

  “Are you related to him?”

  Not wanting to prolong the misunderstanding, the Bordeaux winemaker laid his cards on the table.

  “I think I may have misled you, doctor. I am Benjamin Cooker. I’m conducting my own investigation because Mr. Solacroup and I are friends. I want to find out what happened, and I plan to turn anything I uncover over to the police.”

  “The very Benjamin Cooker in person. I can’t believe it. What luck. I just bought a case of 2005 Beau-Séjour Bécot. You must be able to tell me when it’s best to drink it. Might I take advantage of your expertise?”

  “You’d be wise to start opening those bottles soon. Beau-Séjour Bécot tends to reach its peak when it’s ten years old. Now allow me to reverse roles and prescribe the following treatment for your well-being: one bottle of good wine on your birthday every year. And then, over the next five years, develop the habit of self-medicating for any pretext whatsoever: Sundays, holidays, weddings, baptisms, communions... And please, drink to my health.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cooker,” Dr. Rapaud said, grinning and shaking his hand. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that in the back pocket of Mr. Solacroup’s jeans, we found a busine
ss card. For some reason, we still had it when the police left. Let me get it from the nurse’s station.”

  The neurologist walked away and came back after a short conversation with one of the nurses. He gave Benjamin the card.

  “Here you go. This might help you.”

  Benjamin put on his reading glasses and looked at the card:

  Domaine de la Boissière

  Julia and Thomas Huguenard

  Winemakers

  Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages

  84600 Valréas

  Then he turned the card over. On the back, the name Julia was scribbled in childlike handwriting. Following it was a cell phone number.

  10

  Benjamin hadn’t felt so exhausted in a long time. His shoulders ached, and the muscles in his lower back were tight. To top it off, he was feeling feverish again. The winemaker walked into the Hôtel de La Trémoille bar and ordered an Armagnac from the Maison Castarède, one of his preferred remedies. All that history in a glass. The estate had been making the spirit since 1832.

  Benjamin found an armchair, sank into it, and unsheathed a silky Dominican cigar.

  He wanted to read the Figaro, but after a few minutes he put it down. He couldn’t stop thinking about the tormented life of the Rue Lepic wine merchant.

  Benjamin wondered if Arthur’s emotional life was like some wines: too acidic to drink when they were young but surprisingly rich and full if given the right amount of time to mature.

  Had Arthur taken up with Julia again? Or was it she who had come looking for him? He had to get to the bottom of this. Virgile was an expert in matters of love, and he would certainly have an opinion.

  Speaking of Virgile, he was late. His assistant had gone to visit a cousin at the Porte de la Chapelle metro station, and Benjamin and Virgile had arranged to meet him at seven-thirty. It was already eight o’clock, and the glass of Armagnac was a distant memory. As for the Dominican cigar, the winemaker had smoked all but the last third of it and was noticing a slight bitterness. He was getting annoyed.