“Not as cool as my Peugeot 403.”
“I grant you that, but seeing this Dauphine was worth the trip!”
Benjamin told his assistant about his meeting with Alain Massip. A man named Armand had come to the leather shop regularly to pick up Jules-Ernest Grémillon and take him to the pool hall in Mériadeck.
“Shit! You think it’s the same car?”
“It’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I must admit, this business is beginning to get interesting,” Virgile said, rubbing his hands together.
“The ideal thing would be getting into the old man’s house and seeing what’s inside,” Benjamin said.
“It’s tempting, but how would we do that? The only way I see is crawling in through the coal shoot in the cellar. Look over there, in the foundation.”
“That’s not a bad idea, my boy! In fact, that’s very clever, especially since the lock on the shoot doesn’t look all that strong.”
“It does look like it could be broken fairly easily. Maybe the car jack for the Dauphine would do the trick.”
“Why not give it a try? No forced entry through the front door, no shutters pulled open or windows broken. The coal shoot seems to be a perfect way to get into the house.”
“That’s right, boss. No one would know the difference.”
“Yes, it’s tempting, but still rather risky. Let’s not hang around. In a half hour, we have to be in the lab to begin tasting the Corbières. We absolutely have to make up for lost time, and if we really push it, we can even knock off all the notes on the slopes of Vérargues, Saint-Christol, and La Clape.”
“You’re not going to tell Barbaroux?” Virgile asked. Benjamin could read the disappointment in his assistant’s face.
“I’ll see him tomorrow. There will be plenty of time to tell him about it.”
They made the drive back to Bordeaux in record time, and as soon as they arrived at the laboratory on the Cours du Chapeau-Rouge, they went straight to work. As usual, Alexandrine de la Palussière had carefully prepared the tasting. She was surprised that they were late, because they were usually on time, if not early. But she asked no questions and let them concentrate on the sleeved bottles. When she left at the end of the afternoon, they were still taking notes, and several dozen bottles waited on the white-tile lab counter for their verdict. They completed the entire assignment and left the laboratory at eleven forty-five. Benjamin suggested grabbing a quick dinner at the Régent, where service often ran late into the night.
“What about your diet, sir?”
“No problem. Tomorrow is the fifth day, and I am allowed ten to twenty ounces of grilled lean beef, as well as six fresh tomatoes. And tomorrow is in fifteen minutes; I’ll just start the day a little early.”
“If you look at it that way.”
The meal arrived quickly. Benjamin looked appreciatively at his allotted portion of meat, along with the two tomatoes cut into quarters without any seasoning. He noted the little decorative basil leaf and nibbled with satisfaction, pleased with this esthetic accompaniment that spiced up the Spartan simplicity of the dish. Virgile, meanwhile, plunged his fork into a duck confit gratin that he washed down with two glasses of Côtes-de-Bourg. When they were back on the sidewalk of the Place Gambetta, Benjamin gave his assistant the keys to his convertible.
“How would you like to take a little drive to Pomerol?”
“Right now?” Virgile asked, visibly taken aback.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to sleep if we don’t verify certain things.”
“Speak for yourself, boss. I’m beat.”
“Come on, buck up! I’m sure you haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, either.”
“Yes, but still… At this hour?”
“Exactly, it will be perfect. We weren’t going to break into Uncle Armand’s little shack in broad daylight, were we?”
“And what if we get caught? It doesn’t matter if it’s day or night.”
“We’ll think about that later. You must admit, it’s exciting, this little after-dinner gambit!”
“Okay, but promise me we’ll make it quick. We’ll stay just long enough to take a look.”
Virgile drove with a heavy foot, and the Bordeaux to Libourne trip set a new record. Benjamin held onto his seat the entire way. They did not slow down until they reached Catusseau and arrived at the edge of Petite Racine. Despite the darkness, they found their way to Armand Jouvenaze’s house. They pushed open the barn door and found the car jack in the trunk of the Dauphine. The lock on the coal hatch gave way with a clean snap, and despite their heavy coats, they slipped easily through the opening.
“Finally, the diet is paying off,” Virgile said. “Only a week ago, I would have had to push you through.”
“Don’t try to be funny, Virgile. You’ll see when you’re my age how easily you can put on weight and how hard it is to take it off.”
The cellar had a low ceiling, which forced them to stoop. Benjamin lit his lighter and swept the flame around him to get a good view of the space. The walls were seeping moisture. A few lumps of coal were strewn in the corner. An old tin watering can, half-decayed hemp ropes, a container of motor oil, and rusty mousetraps completed the scene. Along one wall, they spotted a door and pushed it open. Its mournful creak almost made Benjamin jump. Inside this smaller cellar room, metal racks held several bottles on their sides. Their colors danced in the glow of the lighter. Benjamin and Virgile blew the dust off the labels: two Château Cantelauzes, three Clos Renés, a Château Lafleur, and four Château Bassonneries, just to name the Pomerol appellations. The rest bore Côtes de Castillon, Bourg, and Blaye labels. There were also a pair of Listracs and ten bottles of generic Bordeaux.
“Not a single Pétrus, boss!”
“It was too good to be true,” Benjamin said, shrugging.
“Yep, our hopes were too high,” his assistant said with a sigh.
Benjamin was about to suggest that they leave when something caught his eye. He had moved the flame just a few inches, and that was enough to illuminate a set of parallel grooves in the dirt floor. Virgile quickly saw what he had just spotted.
“Look over here!” Virgile exclaimed. “On the ground! And over there! And here, too!”
“Don’t talk so loud, Virgile,” Benjamin said, squatting to get a closer look at the tracks. It looks to me like crates were dragged right across the floor.”
“In my opinion, boss, they were full, or they wouldn’t have left such deep grooves. At any rate, with these low ceilings it wouldn’t be possible to move a crate of wine any other way.”
“I agree. That’s the only thing it could be. And if you look closer, you can see where the crates were originally. They were next to this rack. It’s possible that one of the crates could have held a dozen bottles.”
“One thing is for sure: the grooves are fresh.”
“Yes, and it’s time to go to bed. Tomorrow is another day!”
10
“They just bumped off another one, Mr. Cooker.”
They were talking on their cell phones, and Benjamin could hear the exhaustion and exasperation in the inspector’s voice. As usual, it also contained a note of belligerence. When Benjamin didn’t reply, Barbaroux raised his voice even more. Now his delivery was strident.
“Élie Péricaille, eighty-nine years old. He tried to defend himself, and I can’t even begin to describe the carnage. Blood up to the ceiling! And the smell. You don’t want to know. The guys in the lab say he must have been rotting for three or four days.”
Benjamin still said nothing.
“I’m in deep shit, Mr. Cooker. Half the glasses are now full. Hello, are you there?”
“It all depends on how you look at it, Inspector. You could also say that half the glasses are still empty, fortunately.”
“That’s just like you, putting that kind of spin on it,” Barbaroux said. His voice wasn’t quite as loud. Benjamin guessed that he was trying to colle
ct himself. “We were scheduled to meet later this morning, but would you mind if I came over now? Actually, I’m here already.”
“Do I really have a choice? Come on up. I’m here.”
When Barbaroux walked into the office, a tulip glass filled with Armagnac awaited him on the leather desk blotter. The winemaker was sipping Grand Yunnan in a porcelain cup in the colors of the Grand Dukedom of Kent, royal blue, scarlet, and gold.
“Okay, all cards on the table!” the inspector said. “Who’s going to start?”
Benjamin took a sip of tea and smacked his lips.
“You go, detective. For once, the English won’t fire first.”
“As you like.” Barbaroux smiled. “First of all, I have to tell you that little Duboyne de Ladonnet was terrific with the two detectives I sent over. He confirmed what we already knew about Grémillon and Chaussagne and their political activities during the occupation. In fact, he knows more about it than our intelligence services, and that’s saying something!”
“As far as Édouard Prébourg, the third victim, is concerned, I assume you also went looking for information on his wartime activities?”
“His trail was much easier to follow. He did jail time, and intelligence had information on him, primarily because of his ties with the facist Falange movement after the occupation. Later, he became involved in one crooked scheme after another: pimping, fraud, bank robbery. At that time, he was crashing in the old Mériadeck neighborhood and had teamed with the infamous Albert Bitrian, who was calling the shots in the slums of Bordeaux. A bloody bastard, that Bitrian! Strip joints, illegal gambling, extortion, a bit of opium in the whorehouses down by the port, and all the hoodlums in the city kissing up to him. You didn’t want to piss off the Bull.”
“What did you say? The Bull?”
“Yes, that’s what they called him, because he had a tendency to see red when he came across a communist. And incidentally, the Gestapo didn’t mind using his henchmen when they needed to bust up the Resistance fighters. The most surprising thing is how he made out after the liberation. He must have accommodated everybody, because no one bothered him. It’s the same old story with most of the big shots in the area. Okay, I’ve given you my basic facts. Now it’s your turn.”
Benjamin put down his teacup. “What a coincidence. I have also heard of the Bull.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, Alain Massip remembered this man when I asked him about Jules-Ernest Grémillon. It seems he often went to a billiard hall with friends, and a certain Armand used to come by the shop and pick him up in a red Renault Dauphine, along with someone nicknamed the Bull. Why are you smiling like that, Inspector?”
“Go on, please. I’ll tell you later.”
“Virgile and I went for a walk in Petite Racine, and…”
“And?”
“And we found what I believe is this Dauphine. It’s in a garage belonging to the deceased Jouvenaze. That must be the fellow named Armand who used to come by and pick up Grémillon.”
“Very good, Mr. Cooker! I was smiling because we have found something interesting too: a membership roster for a nonprofit organization dating from the early nineteen fifties. All of our shady characters are listed as members of the French Billiard Club, which often met at Chez Joseph, a bar in Mériadeck. It was protected by Bitrian’s goons. A guy named Joseph Larède owned the place. He flirted with various fascist movements during the war, especially the Legion of French Volunteers. Their meeting place was right next door to this building, at 28 Allées de Tourny. A lot of them were degenerates who wanted to go to Russia and fight Bolshevism. Joseph Larède dropped out and became involved in the black market. He got in trouble after the war for smuggling sardines and whisky. He died in 1968, certainly not before seeing the barricades and student demonstrations all over Paris. He must have died of anger. Serves him right!”
“But I haven’t told you everything, Inspector,” Benjamin said, a bit uneasy. “I have a little revelation for you, which will require a bit of indulgence on your part.”
“You’ve used some slightly unorthodox methods in your investigation, and you don’t want to get into any trouble, I suppose?” Barbaroux was wearing an amused smile.
“Exactly.”
“Go on. I promise that when I leave here I will have seen nothing and heard nothing.”
“We went snooping in Armand Jouvenaze’s house. Well, just the cellar, and we discovered some very disturbing evidence.”
The winemaker recounted the nocturnal escapade. The captain twirled his tulip glass on the leather desk blotter as he listened.
“Mr. Cooker, I have one word to say to you: bravo! You may have put your finger on the one point that’s been gnawing at me from the beginning of this investigation.”
“The repeated use of Pétrus wine in these hateful acts frustrates me too. What a waste of the best merlots in creation! It’s a sin, pouring that nectar in the presence of such lowlifes. This distresses me even more because it sullies the reputation of Pétrus: a round, supple, rich, charming, joyful, elegant, and vigorous wine. It’s a wine of peace and generosity.”
“That’s all very nice, but we have to find out why the wine plays a part in each of these crimes. Where are these fucking bottles, and why are they so important to the murderer? The answer is definitely at the bottom of the cellar, don’t you agree?”
“I hope you’re right, Inspector. By the way, I have a story to tell you. I don’t know if it’s true or if it’s in the diocesan archives, but they say that one day the bishop of Bordeaux paid a visit to one of his abbots and reprimanded him just before he left. ‘Father, I am disturbed by all the spirits in your cellar.’ The priest calmly answered, ‘Put your mind at ease, Monsignor. They all saw the priest before they died.’”
“That’s a good one.” Barbaroux laughed. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to steal it. I know some friends who would enjoy it.”
“Go ahead. You have my permission.”
Barbaroux left Benjamin’s office after telling him that he would investigate the French Billiard Club. As it turned out, the club had never had more than twelve members, and the list had not changed for two decades. Jules-Ernest Grémillon, Émile Chaussagne, Armand Jouvenaze, Jean Sauveterre, Édouard Prébourg, Albert Bitrian, and Joseph Larède were all part of the group, as well as the latest victim, Élie Péricaille, who had also been a particularly sadistic member of Milice. This left only four more names: Gabriel Bergerive, Gustave Tasdori, Arthur Darnaudon, and Edmond Cosinac. These men were still living, and they were given protection. Only one still lived on his own. The others were in nursing homes between Langon and Mont-de-Marsen.
Barbaroux called Benjamin the next day to tell him that he had obtained search warrants for the home of the deceased Armand Jouvenaze, as well as that of his nephew. He told Benjamin that he and Virgile could accompany the police as wine experts. He just asked that they keep their distance from the search and become involved only if bottles of Pétrus were found.
Police cars raced to Petite Racine, their lights flashing and their sirens blaring. When the officers arrived at Dominique Jouvenaze’s home to get the keys to Uncle Armand’s house, no one answered the door. A locksmith was called to open old Jouvenaze’s door, and the rooms were searched from top to bottom. Pictures were taken in the cellar, where a technician took plaster impressions of the grooves running across the dirt floor. After an hour of painstaking and unceremonious searching, they could only conclude that there was no bottle in the cellar that would shed any light on the investigation.
Barbaroux went back to Dominique Jouvenaze’s house and pounded on the door for more than a quarter of an hour, to no avail. The locksmith was called upon once more, and he eventually managed to release the bolt.
When the door gave way, two detectives burst into the house, their guns drawn. But no one put up any resistance. In the kitchen, a purple-faced Dominique Jouvenaze was swinging from the exposed beam. It took three men to get the writ
hing man down. It was too late. Lying on the tiled floor, Dominique Jouvenaze died in a final gasp.
Under the sink, the detectives found two cases of Pétrus. Only one was open. The inspector pulled it out and passed it to Benjamin, who picked up one of the bottles. Saint Peter, holding the keys to paradise, stared indulgently at the winemaker, his face barely obscured by the dust shrouding the black and bloodred label distinctly marked 1942.
The windows were open, but the house still smelled of mildew and urine. On the plastic floral tablecloth, a handwritten letter quivered in the breeze.
11
My dear child,
By the time you read this letter, I will be gone. I know that I often annoyed you with my advice and petty obsessions. Do you remember that tartan scarf that you never wanted to wear to school? We played a little game every day when it was cold outside. I would pull it up around your ears in the morning. And in the afternoon, when you came home, I would find it at the bottom of your schoolbag. I just wanted you to be warm, and you were afraid you would look silly in front of your friends.
Pardon my handwriting. It’s so unsteady. But it is not so much my hands that hurt or the fact that I’m getting weaker and weaker. I’m trembling because I barely have the courage to tell you so many things that I should have told you long before I became so frail. Pain and sickness are nothing, compared to what I have needed to reveal for so long. How many times did I try? How many times did I change my mind and back down? God forgive me for lying out of fear, cowardice, and the prospect of losing you! I spent my life lying to you, your brother, your sister, even myself. Your father was the only one who understood my dread, but you know how sweet and thoughtful he was, and in the end, he was as fearful and weak as I have been.
Today I know it’s time to talk to you about yourself, finally. Before you read the rest of this letter, go and find a chair to sit in and take a deep breath.
Your real name is Samuel Frydman, and you are the son of Isaac and Irma Frydman. I knew your real parents, and when they asked me to take you in, I was very honored to help them. Your father was a man who commanded respect as soon as he spoke. He was a professor at the law school in Paris, and he met your mother at a concert at the Salle Pleyel. She was young—ten years younger than Samuel—but she was wise beyond her years. I saw some pictures of her at that time in her life, and she looked very distinguished, which is better than beautiful. Her family lived in Warsaw, but she left everything to be with your father in France. She even left behind her career as a pianist and all the hopes everyone had for her.
Deadly Tasting (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 9