Deadly Tasting (8 page)

Benjamin told Barbaroux that he would meet him at his office on the Allées de Tourny the next day, late in the morning, to take stock of the situation. It was time to cross-check the information each one had gathered, compare the viewpoints, and reflect on the mysterious links that seemed to connect the victims. The inspector had suggested that they meet at the restaurant Noailles. When the winemaker reminded him of his cabbage soup diet and offered to share some with the inspector, Barbaroux said a simple meeting over a cup of tea would be just fine. Barbaroux said good-bye and started walking over to his forensics team. The members, who had collected the evidence and taken samples, were waiting for him on a nearby cemetery drive. Just as he was about to reach them, Barbaroux turned around. He ran back to Benjamin and grabbed his arm.

“Say, Cooker, about that tea. Could we make it a little Armagnac instead?”

9

Before returning to Bordeaux to complete the final stage of the Languedoc-Roussillon tasting, Benjamin Cooker could not resist the urge to walk the grounds of Pomerol with his assistant, if only for a half hour squeezed out of his tight schedule. He often indulged in this type of escape. He always had an irrepressible desire to smell the vines that bore the fruit of a highly regarded wine.

They drove aimlessly, letting themselves be guided by signposts that inspired wine lovers to daydream: Bellegrave, Beauregard, Le Bon Pasteur, Bourgneuf-Vayron, Le Castellet, Clos de Salles, La Conseillante, La Croix Saint-Georges, Domaine de l’Église, L’Enclos, Franc-Maillet, Gazin, Gombaude-Guillot, Grand Beauséjour, Grand Moulinet, Latour à Pomerol, Montviel, Petit Village, Pomeaux, Ratouin, Rouget, Tour Maillet, Tour Robert, Trotanoy, Vieux Château Certan, Vieux Maillet, Vray Croix de Gay. The road wound its way slowly between the vineyards. The châteaux blended with the countryside in soft, peaceful harmony to the metronome of the swishing windshield wipers.

“I’ve never been to the Pétrus château, boss.”

“You don’t just drop in for a visit, my boy. There are certain sacred places you are rarely allowed to enter. I won’t take you there today, out of consideration for the people who work there. I wouldn’t want to disturb them by arriving without an appointment. But I promise you’ll make a pilgrimage there someday.”

“Do you know that I have never even tasted Pétrus?” Virgile admitted.

“That’s a gaping hole in your estimable expertise,” Benjamin joked. “We’ll have to correct it as soon as possible. I’m sure you know that one of the most distinctive characteristics of the Pomerol appellation is its geological composition. The earth is full of fairly fine, lovely gravel, but it’s especially the
crasse de fer,
or iron dross, that gives it its uniqueness.

“Yes, I didn’t study oenology at the university for nothing. The
crasse de fer
is in the subsoil, which is a stony mix of clay and iron. The iron oxide gives the wine its metallic but fatty flavor. Some people claim it tastes a bit like truffles.”

“Perfect. Young man, you’ve learned your lessons well. But you know, it just so happens that the twenty-eight acres of Pétrus are composed solely of clay and silty sand. And therein lies the whole mystery. There is no
crasse de fer
in the Pétrus domain, whiles it’s the main element influencing all the Pomerols. If you open a map of that appellation, you’ll see this little yellow spot right in the middle of the terroir. Perfect and unique, as if the finger of God had pointed to this precise place and blessed it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Sort of,” Virgile murmured. Knowing his assistant as he did, Benjamin could sense his skepticism.

“God marked the spot. Then He lifted his finger, and Pétrus was born, steeped in holy clay! But perhaps I digress. You don’t seem very convinced by my theory.”

“It’s quite tempting, sir, though I find it a bit too mystical for my taste. I would advise you to keep it to yourself and not let it slip into one of your books. Some people might brand you a theo-oenologist—to coin a term—and that would be unfortunate. You would be forced to drink only consecrated wine to the end of your days! And we both know how awful that tends to be.”

“You’re right. I agree. People don’t always realize the divine nature of what they’re drinking.”

The rain had almost stopped by the time they reached the Pomerol church, where the bell tower rose up like a lighthouse in a sea of vineyards. They parked the convertible on the small town square and walked over to the war memorial. Benjamin read the names of the soldiers who had died in battle. Pomerol had lost thirty-one men in World War One. Five young men had been lost from 1939 to 1945. Benjamin bowed his head and remained silent, arms crossed and eyes half closed. He prayed for the souls of the boys who had died far from home and the mothers, fathers, and siblings who had lost them. As he sent up his prayers, he could hear the birds chirping in the vines.

Benjamin opened his eyes and saw his assistant waiting patiently. He took in the landscape and noted that there weren’t many leaves left in the vineyards, just a few reddish bouquets hanging here and there on the stocks, dozing before the first winter pruning.

“There’s something I have to tell you, sir,” Virgile said. “But I’m not sure if I’m right or wrong or if I should just trust my intuition. Besides, it was so brief and fleeting. A little while ago, in the cemetery…”

“How cautious you’re being, Virgile!”

“Well, here it is: I think I saw streaks of red on Dominique Jouvenaze’s umbrella. Not while it was closed, but as soon as it started to rain, the guy opened it, and there, on the cloth part, near the top, there were red smears. It looked like paint, and it was bright red, like an intense vermilion.”

“And then?”

“Well, while you were talking with the inspector, I watched him. He was fighting with the umbrella in the wind, and at one point, the umbrella even inverted. I got a good look at it. When I turned back to the grave and saw the two
s
’s, they looked like they were the same red.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing, I’m just telling you what I saw. Or what I think I saw.”

Jangling the keys to the Mercedes, Benjamin walked back to the car with Virgile. Without a word, he slid behind the wheel. They took off in the direction of the primary school, turned left toward Catusseau, and crossed a highway. They drove along narrow roads that were rough enough to make the car shake. Near a tributary of the L’Isle River, not far from the railroad tracks connecting Bordeaux to Bergerac, was the place called Petite Racine. Barely a handful of modest houses were set among the vines and protected from the wind by oak, sycamore, and acacia trees. Only a beautiful nineteenth-century monastery surrounded by conifers and a stone wall gave character to the uninspired hamlet. Benjamin cut the engine after parking in a secluded spot near an overrun thicket.

As soon as Benjamin got out of the car, he faced into the wind to attune his sense of smell to the landscape. Oddly, it was a habit he had picked up from his Irish setter, Bacchus. Then, standing still, he got his visual bearings. He assessed the way the rows of vines were established and the nature of the soil, more gravelly than sandy in this place. Nearby would be the Marzy château. Toward the west would be La Croix des Templiers. Behind him was La Pointe.

It did not take Benjamin and Virgile long to locate Armand Jouvenaze’s house near a large pond. In the distance, the nephew’s house was visible. It was slightly more imposing but just as plain. Plumes of smoke escaped in thin threads from the large brick chimney, indicating that Dominique Jouvenaze was home. A barrier of trees separated the two properties. Benjamin and Virgile cautiously snooped around the little house. Its closed shutters and deserted courtyard overrun with high weeds typified the morbid nature of neglected properties. Virgile walked over to the barn, its worn siding bleached by years of scorching sun and pounded by relentless rains. He motioned to Benjamin to join him.

“Look, boss. I think you’re going to like this.”

Benjamin peeked through a space in the wood and whistled. “That’s for sure!”

“What model is it?”

“A Renault Dauphine, my boy! In pretty good condition, from what I can tell. A magnificent red Dauphine!”

“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.”