Dying on the Vine (22 page)

He sounded quite jovial. It was a mood I knew wouldn't last long.

“You're reporting progress already?” he sounded astonished. “It's only been a few hours and—”

I seized on that. “Well, I
have
found Edouard Morel…”

“Excellent! What have you learned from him?”

It was going to be all downhill from now on, I could see that. I told him the whole story and he interrupted me with only a few bewildered questions:

“Hit on the head with a piece of
marble?”

“In a
Roman ruin,
you say?”

“You were with Morel's
wife?”

“She has a
million-franc policy
on his life?”

There was a lengthy silence and I could hear him calling for a strong whisky and soda. His wife was obviously very efficient and his voice was stronger as he resumed. “I was going to tell you to drop this investigation. Too many people are dying. But—well, maybe … you say you're close to the answer…”

He didn't add, “so we might as well risk your life a little longer.” Still, I didn't like being a target and a natural stubbornness was asserting itself.

“I think we can get to the bottom of this business if I hang in there just a little longer,” I said heroically.

He grunted. He didn't want to see the money he had invested so far completely wasted was what the grunt meant. “Good man,” he added.

“I'll keep you informed,” I told him and hung up before he could get maudlin or I could change my mind.

I
WAS IN THE MIDDLE
of breakfast the next morning when the call from Suvarov came. He sounded serious as he said, “Can you come to the airfield this morning? I have some information for you.”

“I'll be there in half an hour,” I told him.

The ultralight field was crawling with activity despite the early hour. I parked and surveyed the busy scene. A wheel was being refitted onto one machine and a man was casually lifting the aircraft with one hand to accommodate a jack.

A thin buzz came from an engine running at low speed and it sounded like someone pruning a hedge. I recalled that Suvarov had told me how some of the earlier ultralights had used chain-saw engines. Overhead, a blue and white ultralight was making random circles at a lazy speed.

Suvarov was easy to find. His shock of golden hair made him stand out and I walked over to where he was tightening some wing struts with a wrench. He and another man were disagreeing over how tight they should be and I waited until they reached a decision. Suvarov nodded, handed the wrench to the other, and straightened up. He saw me and came with his hand outstretched.

“I am glad to see you. How is the article going?

“It's coming along,” I said. “So who flew your aircraft that day?”

“His name is Johann Ditter.”

“What do you know about him?” I asked.

“He came here a month or so ago. He was German but spoke French well. He'd had flying experience in light aircraft and a few dozen hours in ultralights.”

“What was he doing here?”

“He didn't say—and he hasn't been seen since your beehive incident. One of the pilots did some checking for me and found he'd moved out of the address he'd originally given us and no one knew where he'd gone.”

“None of your pilots got to know him?”

“No. He was something of a loner, it seems. No friends, no acquaintances, didn't attempt to get friendly. Maybe something to do with his years in the Legion.”

“He was an ex-Legionnaire?”

“Yes.”

“Do people often drift in and out of here that way?”

“Ultralight pilots are like an unofficial clue. When one goes to another region, he heads for the nearest field, maybe flies, maybe just hangs around and chats.”

“But this Ditter didn't chat?”

“No. Seems he didn't try to get to know anyone and when anyone talked to him, he wasn't communicative.”

“What did he look like?”

“Medium height and build, military bearing, close-cropped hair.”

I thanked him and moved on quickly. “Terrible news about Fox,” I said. He agreed.

“Did you know him well?”

“Not well. We had drinks together… oh, three or four times. I tried to sell him on the idea of using an ultralight to do his dowsing but he never took me up on it.”

“Would that have been an efficient way of doing it?” I asked.

“That might have depended on whether he was dowsing for water or if it was something else.”

“That question bothered me too,” I said. “I don't know what else it could have been, though. Do you?”

The blue and white ultralight overhead came in, touched down, and stopped as abruptly as if caught in an invisible net. Its engine roared. Well, in a normal aircraft it would have been a roar. In the case of the ultralight it was a whine like a petulant egg-beater. The craft rolled forward until it was going little faster than a running man, then it lurched up into the air, floating away like a leaf in a strong wind.

“Thomas is practicing landings,” Suvarov said. “He broke an axle support the other day and wants to develop a lighter touch.” He watched the plane climb and bank. I said nothing, waiting for him to answer my question.

“I was up in my Dragonfly one day and I saw Fox. He was on Willesford land, up above the caves. He seemed to be looking for something.”

“He was dowsing, was he? Not just out for a stroll?”

“He had something in one hand. I'm sure he was dowsing.”

“And on Willesford land …,” I said, trying for some reaction, “when he was hired by Peregrine.”

“Puzzled me too,” Suvarov said and gave me his dazzling grin. “But then it puzzles me every time I fly over those vineyards. Poor little Peregrine hemmed in on all sides by mighty Willesford. Don't know how it survives. But you're the wine expert, you tell me—how does it?”

“Another puzzle,” I agreed.

Thomas was coming in again, his craft sinking to the ground. Suvarov winced as the wheels hit, bounced, hit again.

“He hasn't got it right yet,” he said, shaking his head. He watched the ultralight come to a stop, pivot, and surge forward into another takeoff run.

Chances of finding the German, Ditter, were slim. He had evidently been hired to do the job and, his mission fulfilled, had been moved on. Had his mission been fulfilled? I wondered. If the intention had been to frighten me, it had worked, though it hadn't persuaded me to drop my investigation. If the aim had been to sting me to death—well, that might have worked but for Monika's timely arrival.

I drove to the schoolyard headquarters of the gendarmerie and arrived right on the dot of eight-thirty as instructed. Veronique was already there and said a demure “Good morning.” Pertois was on the phone and apparently fending off a superior who was pressing for more rapid results. Pertois seemed to be doing very well and even promised an early resolution. He caught my eye as he hung up and gave me a “what else can I say” shrug. Gallic shrugs can cover a wide range of meanings and situations and someone should write a book on them.

He had put in a lot of hours since I had last seen him. He had typed statements ready and went through Veronique's first. She made a few comments and he crossed out the disputed passages in the statement and substituted her words. She seemed ready for a confrontation but Pertois gave her no opportunity to find one. He obligingly made all the changes she requested, and in no time at all she had signed the statement.

The two of us saw her to the door.

“Everything all right?” I asked her. She managed a small smile.

“Yes. I slept fairly well. I'm taking care of my sister's two children today while she does some shopping. She doesn't have many chances to get away—they're just under school age. They're both very active, so they'll keep me occupied.”

“Good. Call me if there's anything I can do. Give me your phone number in Cap d'Ail too.”

She nodded, gave me the number, and left. Pertois and I went back and sat down. He pulled forward my statement and went through it with me. I signed it and he put it into a neat pile on one side of his desk.

“I have news,” I said and told him about Johann Ditter, the beehive bombing pilot. He scribbled a few notes. “I'll see what I can do,” he said, “but it doesn't sound very promising.”

He put the note on a spike. A plastic envelope was near it. He opened it, took something out, and flicked his thumb. A golden spiral fluttered upward, then collapsed into his hand. He paused a moment, then slapped down a coin on the desk top. He leaned back.

I stared at the coin. It looked like gold. I looked up to meet his level gaze. Through the round spectacles, the black eyes showed no expression.

I reached out and took the coin, examining it. It was old and worn, no longer shiny but showing no corrosion. The crude letters around the edge were just distinguishable: They read “Louis IX—Roy et Empereur.” The other side depicted the sun over a building and showed the date 1269 in Roman numerals.

“Gold,” I said. That didn't require any vast leap of intelligence but it was all I had. I slapped the coin onto the table even harder than he had.

“Yes, it's gold,” he said.

“Did you dig it up?”

He didn't smile, but there was a slight twitch that sufficed.

“I received it by special messenger this morning.” He leaned back and shuffled until he was somewhat comfortable in his metal chair. “Among routine bulletins came one from a gendarme post in Cotignac. They had raided a pawn shop after being informed of numerous stolen items that had been disposed of there. They found this in addition to the goods they were looking for and I asked to see it.”

“What does it tell you?” I asked.

“The pawnbroker was anxious to lighten the sentence for fencing stolen goods and he said a man came in with this coin and asked for a valuation. A ten-franc gold piece of this date is naturally very valuable. The pawnbroker said he was concerned that it might have been stolen from a museum”—Pertois gave an indignant snort—“a likely story!” He continued, “Anyway, the man said he had a lot of them and wanted to know what they were worth.”

“A lot of them? They'd be worth a fortune, wouldn't they?”

“Certainly. I phoned Professor Duplessis at the University of Bordeaux. He's an expert in rare coins. He confirmed my suspicion—namely, that if such a thing as a Treasure of the Templars existed, it might be expected to contain a number of coins like this.”

“I recall that when we talked about the Templar treasure right after Fox was killed, you were disinterested.”

“I still am. If the treasure ever existed in the first place, treasure hunters would have found it by now.”

“Marcel Delorme at the vineyard pointed out to me that anyone finding the treasure would keep it quiet—fear of thieves, the publicity …”

“Mainly the taxes,” added Pertois, practical as all Frenchmen where taxation was concerned.

He squirmed in the uncomfortable chair, then he picked up the coin and put it back carefully into its plastic envelope. “I am under a lot of pressure in this investigation,” he said. “I need some results and I need them soon.”

“Me too,” I said. “If I don't make some progress within the next few days, I may well be recalled to London.”

Pertois flicked one finger through his mustache in a reflective gesture.

“We need to move quickly and decisively,” he said at length.

“Good,” I agreed, and waited. “Doing what?” I asked finally.

“I will contact you …” That meant he didn't know what to do. “… very soon.” And that meant he didn't know when.

I
PARKED IN THE
main square of Saint Symphorien and made my way to the cleaner's to pick up the clothes that had barely survived the encounter with what I firmly considered to be sangliers. There was no way I was going to admit being almost killed by amorous pigs.

“Had to mend lot of rips and tears,” said the girl, explaining the amount of the bill. They had done a good job and the pants and jacket were serviceable, though not qualified for banquet occasions.

On my way back to the car, I was edging past a newsstand that took up half the sidewalk, as do many in France. It had the usual array of gaudy-cover magazines and I was several paces beyond the stand when I realized that something had stirred my memory. I turned back to the stand and studied the display.

Then I saw it, the red and black cover of the popular magazine
Paris Éclat.
It was one of those periodicals that relentlessly pursue the famous and the wealthy. Many such publications would expire from lack of circulation if it were not for the shenanigans of the British Royal Family, but on this occasion it was a French face that had caught my eye. The caption read, “Joseph Tourcoing,” and no wonder my subconscious had been jogged—he was the silver-haired man I had seen taking the box that Monika had brought to the Petit Manoir.

I bought the magazine and hurried back to the car. Tourcoing was almost as famous a name in French cuisine as Bocuse, Robuchon, or Guerard. I read through the article on him.

Tourcoing was born in Pau and grew up in the shadow of the Pyrenees. He went to a small, local cooking school because nothing else interested him. He found himself becoming more and more fascinated by cooking and went to work in a restaurant in Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. From there he progressed to Biarritz and rose to popularity at the famed Miramar Hotel. Seeking wider experience, he worked with the renowned Gerard Boyer at Les Crayeres in Reims and with Alain Senderens in Paris. In 1986, when Senderens sold his restaurant, l'Archestrate, Tourcoing put his life savings into opening his own place, Le Reveillon.

He was a purist, the article said. His oysters came from Quiberon, his prawns from Roscoff in Brittany, and even his salt was special—he bought only the special gray Guerande salt that has been collected since the seventeenth century by workers called
paludiers
using long wooden rakes and working only by hand. Tourcoing's own favorite specialty dish was roasted duck served on a bed of its own crushed giblets with vegetables.