Grand Cru Heist (9 page)

11

Night watch. Cooker had to ring several times before a stooped figure shuffled over and agreed to crack open the wrought-iron gate of the Hôtel de Villesèque. An enamel sign above the doorbell read “Logis de France. Traveling sales representatives welcome.” The night watchman had messy hair and tired eyes, reflecting many nights on call. Cooker figured he had fallen asleep at the reception desk before having to open the gate.
Can’t blame him for being irritated with the two nutcases who wouldn’t quit knocking at the window,
Cooker thought.

“Let me see what I have left,” the old man said, putting reading glasses on the tip of his beak-like nose.

Only three keys were missing from the board above the man, whose gray Scottish wool sweater gaped at the neck.

“Just one room?” the man asked with a sly smile.

“Two,” Cooker said, categorical but polite.

“Will you have breakfast in your room or in the dining room?” the man asked, addressing Cooker.

“Neither, thank you,” Cooker said.

“In that case, sirs, may I ask that you pay for your rooms up front, please.”

“Certainly,” Cooker said, tossing him a credit card.

Virgile stood at the counter and eyed the night watchman write his name in the old-fashioned registry with a black cloth cover.

“Please, two
S
’s in Lanssien.”

“Sorry?” the man said.

“My name has two
S
’s,” Cooker’s assistant said, taking advantage of the moment to glance at the short list of guests in the registry for Thursday, January 28.

Room number twenty-seven listed the name Wolvertem. “Paid” was carefully written in the margin.

“Don’t you have any bags?” the watchman asked, handing over two keys with heavy copper plaques engraved “H.V., Bordeaux.”

“The man is right,” Cooker said. “Why don’t we have any bags, Virgile?”

“But boss, you know that—”

“Oh, Virgile, stop justifying yourself. Let’s go. I’m exhausted.”

The watchman stared as the two men slipped into the elevator after saying a quiet good night. The old hotel clock read one thirty-five. The Rue Huguerie was in a torpor, which soon caught up with the night watchman. The Hotel de Villeseque’s sign was no longer flashing.

Unlocking the door to his room, Cooker flipped the light switch but the orange ceiling fixture didn’t go on. Propping open the door so he could see where he was going, Cooker headed to the nightstand and turned on that light. He closed the door, sat down on the squeaky bed, and slipped off his shoes. After straightening the nylon lampshade, he lay down, fully clothed and fell fast asleep.

The walls were so thin, Virgile could hear his boss’s regular snoring. It took him a long time to fall asleep between the scratchy, cold, and almost damp cotton sheets. A little before dawn—which a dull concert of street cleaners announced—he started stirring. He finally surrendered to the day when the noise of Cooker washing up in the next room was too jarring to allow him to eek out another fifteen minutes of sleep. After a hot shower, he listened to the day’s horror show of news, distilled by an enthusiastic newscaster who made the morning rather ordinary, all in all. This narrow, poorly heated room with gold-flocked wallpaper and disparate furniture was putting him in a bad mood.

Bags under his eyes and his hair still wet, Virgile dressed quickly and went to knock on his employer’s door.

“Come in. Did you sleep well, Virgile?” Cooker asked without even looking at his ragged assistant.

With his hands behind his back, the winemaker was peering out the window. He was studying the activity on the Rue Huguerie, which was blocked by a traffic jam.

“Not good at all,” Virgile said. A tail of his white shirt was hanging out from under his sweater.

“But the hotel was quiet,” Cooker said, not turning around.

“That’s what you say.”

“You’ve got good timing. Take a look.”

Virgile looked out the window. A German station wagon had stopped in front of the hotel garage. The imposing vehicle had a Belgian license plate. Its high top and dark windows made it look like a hearse. Cooker pulled a Churchill from his inside jacket pocket, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with obvious satisfaction.

“You’re on, Virgile. Don’t let yourself be seen.”

The young man had already disappeared down the hallway. Cooker saw the Do Not Disturb sign and smiled. Then he closed the door to his room before calling the reception desk.

“Connect me to Room 27, please.”

Virgile chose the service stairs rather than the elevator. Thanks to an untied shoelace, he nearly tripped on the concrete steps when the timed light suddenly went off. The dull sound of an engine, along with the pungent smell of exhaust, confirmed that he had reached the basement. He pushed open the fire escape door and found himself in the parking garage. There were only a few vehicles. The driver of the station wagon had to try twice to park next to a rental van, which bore the unfortunate advertising message “I go for the lowest price.” The driver was wearing a raincoat, a russet-colored scarf, and a checked cap. Dark glasses hid a thin face. The man walked slowly but still looked distinguished. Virgile hid behind a pillar so as not to be spotted. The man picked up his pace, then turned around suddenly and examined the parking lot, as if he sensed someone was there. Then he vanished, sucked up by the hotel elevator. Virgile felt for his phone. His breathing was heavy, and he thought he might be trembling. He tried to call Cooker, but he had no reception.

§ § §

“I’m sorry, sir. Room 27 does not answer.”

“Are you sure, miss, that you rang Mr. Wolvertem?” Cooker pressed.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s okay,” Cooker concluded after a moment of silence. “I will try later. Thank you.”

The winemaker paced his room, chewing his cigar. He flicked the ashes, not caring about the carpet that absorbed his footsteps. Thick blue swirls of smoke showed his impatience. The Rue Huguerie was busier now. An ambulance siren rose above the concert of horns. The winemaker tried to reach his accomplice, without any luck.

“Jesus,” Cooker said.

In a show of anger, he crushed the bulbous cigar that he had lit ten minutes earlier, but it obstinately refused to go out. The reddened tip gave off an aroma reminiscent of the day after a storm, both acidic and refreshing. Why, in his frustration, had he sacrificed such a silky pleasure? Had his Havanophile friend James Welling seen that pitiful act of destruction, he would have certainly thought it a sacrilege.

Virgile stormed into Cooker’s room without even knocking. He was out of breath and bumbling.

“So?” Cooker asked.

“So, um—”

“Is he alone?” Cooker said, showing his nervousness.

“Yes. He’s wearing a raincoat, a brown scarf, and a kind of cap that you can’t find anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Kind of classy but old-fashioned. I mean, your kind of style, boss, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s a big help,” Cooker said, exasperated. “And his shoes?”

“What do you mean, his shoes? I don’t know, sir. They were, well—”

“Virgile, you should always look at a man’s shoes. They’ll tell you more about the person than his tie.”

“Oh. He wasn’t wearing a tie. That I’m sure of.”

“How can you be so sure, Virgile. You told me he was wearing a raincoat and a scarf.”

“I don’t know. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would be wearing a tie.”

“Virgile! Good God, who or what did he look like?”

“Calm down, boss. He looked kind of like a cop. You know, the kind of guy you’d see in an American television series. In any case, one thing is certain. He was nervous.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was in a hurry and kept looking over his shoulder.”

Cooker stared at the tip of the Churchill that was burning slowly in the room’s only ashtray. Virgile looked contrite and clumsy, like someone who has been judged wrongly and too quickly. The winemaker pushed up the window that opened onto a ridiculous balcony. He breathed in the city air and listened to the clamoring.

“What are we going to do, sir?” Virgile asked.

“Follow me,” was the only response that he got.

Cooker walked purposefully, with Virgile in his wake. They quietly went down a floor and stood in front of the varnished wooden door of room twenty-seven. The winemaker knocked twice. A husky voice answered.

Cooker improvised. “There’s a letter for you, Mr. Wolvertem.” Virgile was impressed with Cooker’s ad-libbing.

The door opened a crack, and the thin shape of James Welling appeared. He was dressed in nothing but a white bathrobe that was too big for him. Cooker, whose size gave him authority, shouldered his way into the room. Virgile followed.

“So, my dear friend, what should I call you now?” Cooker asked. “Morton? Welling? Wolvertem?”

The man was distressingly thin. His knees were knobby, and the tendons on his neck stood out. The top of his hairless chest looked bony. He tried to conceal it by crossing his arms. The man’s pale blue eyes looked pathetic. “It’s not what you think, Benjamin.”

Abandoned on top of the crumpled bed sheets were an off-white Burberry, a cashmere scarf, a gray suit, and a Yves Saint Laurent tie. Cooker went to the bedside table and picked up a bottle of pills that bore the warning “Do not surpass the prescribed dose.” He set it back down next to a set of car keys.

Virgile, who was also surveying the room, spotted a pink silk bra on the rug.

“Virgile, go see if the station wagon has what we’re looking for. You know my weakness right now. Only Angélus,” the winemaker said.

“Fine, boss. But let me check something first.”

With a certain arrogance, Virgile gave his employer a serious look before staring into their victim’s pitiful eyes.

“Let me explain,” the man said.

“You, don’t play with me! Is that understood?” Virgile ordered in a voice that stopped the imposter in his tracks. “Boss, we knew the man was quite a wine collector, but I bet he also has a thing for fine call girls. Did you see the pink silk bra on the rug?”

Virgile peered into the bathroom, where a naked woman was trying to hide behind the shower curtain. When she came out in a bathrobe, Cooker couldn’t believe his eyes. She had blond hair, blue eyes, high angular cheekbones, and long voluptuous legs. Clearly, the con man had a weakness for not only Bordeaux but also Eastern European women.

§ § §

In the hour that followed, Inspector Barbaroux and his team filled the Hôtel de Villesèque. The cargo in the station wagon was exactly as Cooker had suspected: a few Médocs, some rare Pomerols, a couple of Saint-Émilions, and mostly the stolen Angélus—the best years: 1986, 1989, 1990, 1993, 1994, and the mythic 1995.

Cooker and Virgile gave Inspector Barbaroux a full account of their encounters with the con man, and in return the inspector had let them hang around for the interrogation.

“John the Belgian” was a repeat offender. His impeccable Oxford accent came from his English father, who had been cellar master at Buckingham Palace. His father had married a frivolous redhead from Liège. This singular couple had given birth to twins: Eddy and John. Eddy drowned in the Meuse River when he was eight. John wound up abandoned by his mother, who vanished into the Flemish mist. His cellar master father raised him in London until the father was dismissed after some obscure scandal that brought dishonor to the house of Windsor. The father sank into alcohol and wandering, while his son became a not-very-orthodox trader of fine wines. John the imposter had a reputation as a con artist in Germany and Switzerland, but he and a few recruits fully intended to extend their influence throughout Europe.

The man puffed up his confession with references to Lafite-Rothschild, Prieuré-Lichine, and Pétrus, along with some Old Testament. But John’s good manners did not impress the hardened police officer, who was perhaps a bit rough around the edges.

Morton was handcuffed and invited to change his attitude and drop the masquerade. Barbaroux used language that was as raw as wine straight from the vat: “Stop treating us like jackasses, Mr. Roberton, because we now know your real identity. Your name is John Roberton, and you were born in Canterbury on January 6, 1946. True or false?”

“True, Inspector.”

“I’m tempted to believe you. The name Robert Morton was directly inspired by your real name. As for the rest of it—why James Welling and, what was the other one—Wolvertem? Is that Flemish? Perhaps an homage to your mother?”

“Sort of,” the accused answered, looking down.

“So, you recruit your accomplices in Belgium, I gather?”

“If you say so.”

“I encourage you to be a little more cooperative, Mr. Roberton. You wouldn’t want me to use our corkscrew method on you. The bad bottles often end up deep in the cellar. Sometimes they even get forgotten, if you know what I mean.”

Roberton was playing with the signet ring, as he did in Cooker’s office the day he was supposedly repenting. Then he began a long monologue, punctuated by “Don’t you have anything to drink, Inspector?”

Barbaroux invariably responded, “Later, later.”

Yes, he was the brains behind the Angélus gang. He had accomplices, musclemen, and others, primarily recruited in Belgium. In Ostend fifteen years earlier, he had met Willem Vanderbroecq, who introduced him to a certain Gerrt Voets, who, until then, had done mostly bank heists. There was far less risk with wines. Their break-ins multiplied as orders came in from collectors around the world.

For some time now, they had worked for an individual named Ignacio Ribera de Montuño. He was a little eccentric and ran a huge family olive-oil business. He lived in a former monastery, now mostly in ruins, in Cienfuegos de las Campanas. The monastery was in a lost hamlet of Andalusia. The millionaire had an insane passion for church bells. His chapel had hundreds of bronze bells that rang out whenever there was a full moon.