Late Harvest Havoc (6 page)

“Maybe their grapes were the best?”

“You're kidding. Those people will pay plenty to shut the traps of anyone who knows—or to get good reviews for their wines. They even bought off the guy who writes that guide, the famous…”

“Benjamin Cooker?”

“Yes, that's it. They mentioned him in the paper.”

“You have absolutely no evidence that Benjamin Cooker could be bought off. I'd take care, if I were you, about besmirching a man's reputation. Someone could wag a vindictive tongue about your own establishment.”

“Then prove to me that what I am telling you isn't true.”

“I'd say the burden of proof is on your shoulders. For now, though, let's suppose that this revenge—very belated, you will agree—has something to do with an old, very old, matter. Why would your Robin Hood of the vines—or perhaps one of his offspring—lash out at the Deutzlers, as well?” Benjamin paused, locked eyes with the café owner, and continued. “Given their Jewish ancestry, one couldn't possibly suspect them of collaboration. Am I right?”

The café owner tied a blue apron around his ample waist. “You have a point there, but I know who did it. And I can even tell you that when he was young, he dated Marie Striker—until old Deutzler lured her away. He never got over it, the poor guy. To this day, he's a bachelor.”

“If you're sure of everything you're saying, why not go and tell the police?”

“Because, sir, you don't betray the hand that fed you when you were hungry.”

Benjamin wasn't satisfied with the man's excuse. But before he could press him, the café owner came up with still another excuse.

“In any case, nobody died. Someone was just getting retribution for a life ruined long ago.”

The café owner turned his back to Benjamin to tend to his coffee machine. The man's pants were too small to fit around his middle, and so they loosely rode his hips. Benjamin looked away, fearing what he would see if the pants slipped just a fraction of an inch. The café owner emptied the coffee filter and turned around again. His forehead glistened with sweat.

“Another coffee?”

“Gladly,” Benjamin replied.

“I'll tell you one thing…”

“Yes?” the winemaker said, unwrapping a sugar cube.

“Revenge is a dish—”

“—best served cold. I'm familiar with the saying.” As far as Benjamin was concerned, the conversation was getting stale.

“Oh, I'm not educated like you, but a little while ago, you tossed out some Sacha Guitry. Well, he also said, ‘When a man steals your wife, there's no better revenge than letting him keep her.'”

The man let out a laugh that made his face redder still. “I know what you're up to. You're with the police, aren't you? You don't know me very well. I'm not a snitch. I'm an honest businessman, Mr. … What was your name?”

“Mr. Cooker. Benjamin Cooker.” The winemaker saluted the bistro owner with his coffee cup. “You know. The Benjamin Cooker who likes getting his palm greased.”

7

Perhaps it was because tourist-office representatives from all over France were having a conference in Colmar, or maybe it was because Virgile, unlike Benjamin, had called at the last moment to book his room. Unfortunately, the best rooms at Le Maréchal—the ones with views of the Venice-like Lauch River—were a hundred percent occupied.

Benjamin's assistant had been forced to settle for a cramped room that even a wall covered with mirrors couldn't make look bigger. In addition, the furniture and carpet were worn. But the bed was decent, and Virgile, who was exhausted, fell into a deep sleep, a sleep so deep he couldn't hear the phone ringing just inches from his ear. Finally, he heard it. He sat up, naked, because he always went to bed that way.

“Shit. What time is it?” he groaned, rubbing his eyes.

He reached for the phone.

“We're sorry to wake you, sir, but an investigator from the gendarmes is trying to contact Mr. Cooker. He's not in his room. The night watchman says he left the hotel at six o'clock this morning. Do you have any idea where he could be?”

“Um, honestly, I can't help you at all. What time is it?”

“Almost eight o'clock, sir.”

“Okay. Can I have room service bring me some breakfast? With coffee and orange juice? And the morning paper.”

“Very well, sir. And what shall I tell the gendarmes?”

“Put the officer on the phone.”

Virgile was wide awake now. He listened, saying nothing in response to the officer's news.

Finally he said, “I'll find Mr. Cooker” and hung up.

When the hotel employee arrived with his breakfast, Virgile was still in the shower.

“Please leave the tray on the bed,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” a woman responded. “Can I do anything else for you?”

Virgile peeked around the shower curtain to get a look at her. The chambermaid was wearing a white blouse that hugged her round breasts and a black miniskirt that revealed shapely legs. He was just a bit embarrassed when the young woman looked up and saw him staring at her.

She left, and Virgile got out of the shower. After drying himself off, he put on a polo shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and his Converses. He drank his coffee and skimmed the front page of the paper. That done, he draped a Shetland wool sweater over his shoulders and was ready to go.

Virgile knew all about his employer's penchant for morning walks. An insomniac, Benjamin was in the habit of wandering about at sunrise and even earlier. He frequently could be found by a river or stream or in a church or cemetery. Those weren't Virgile's haunts. But to each his own, he thought.

After searching the Quai de la Poissonnerie, Virgile followed the Rue des Écoles and then the Rue Saint Jean. He veered onto the Rue des Marchands and was almost struck by a speeding ambulance, its lights flashing. “You'd think they'd turn on the siren,” Virgile said to himself just before spotting his boss. Benjamin was leaving the café.

“They're looking everywhere for you, boss!”

“Who's looking for me, son?”

“The gendarmes.”

“You mean Roch?”

“Yes, he's been trying to get hold of you. The madman was at it again last night. Thirty pinot noir vine stalks in Eguisheim, at the Klipsherrers' place. And twenty vines at the Flanck estate in Rouffach. It seems the Alsace Wine Trade Council is pressuring the prefect, and they've asked for a meeting with the Ministry of the Interior. They want night patrols deployed from Marlenheim to Thann.”

Benjamin listened without saying a word.

“Two television stations in Paris have sent in crews. This business is getting a lot of attention, boss, and Roch has changed his tune. Now he's convinced that you can help him.”

“Convinced, is he?” Benjamin said, lighting a little Corona. “And just yesterday I was a suspect. Makes you wonder about his judgment, doesn't it. Well, if he doesn't want to get transferred to Lozère or Guyana, he'd better start hustling.”

“What do we do, boss?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“As I said: nothing. Nothing for him, anyway. I do have work on my schedule. This morning I'm planning to rewrite my tasting notes from yesterday, and this afternoon, I'm headed to Germany for the Fritz Loewenberg assignment.”

“Roch isn't going to be very happy if you take off for Germany without getting in touch with him. Don't you think—”

“Virgile, since when has the gendarmerie paid your salary?”

“I know, boss, that what Roch did was a slap in the face. To think that you, the creator of the
Cooker Guide
, would do anything to harm a vineyard… To you, pulling up good vines is nothing less than sacrilege.”

“I can't tolerate this atmosphere anymore. The distrust is evident everywhere we go. Everyone is suspicious of his neighbor, his winemaker, his pastor, and God knows who else! Let's get out of here, Virgile. We'll come back when things have calmed down. This isn't a good time to be in Alsace.”

“On the contrary, boss. I think we've come at just the right time, and I still have a lot to learn about the customs of this land that you described as being so peaceful. Peaceful, my foot! You go on ahead to Goldröpfchen, but I'm staying here. Honestly, you don't need me to do your Moselle vinification.”

“Yes, indeed I do, Virgile.”

“Give me forty-eight hours. If I have no serious leads, I'll drop the whole thing and meet you. Okay?”

“Good Lord, how did I wind up hiring such an obstinate boy?” Benjamin said, throwing his half-consumed Corona in the gutter.

“So I can stand in as your conscience when you need to take a break,” Virgile said, grinning at his boss.

“Not only strong-headed, but impertinent to boot!”

Virgile was already jogging down the picture-postcard street. The weather was unpredictable at this time of year, but tourists were still plentiful. They were busy admiring the merchandise in the shop windows and ducking into the stores to make their purchases. Above the shoppers, puffs of smoke hovered over the steeply pitched rooftops. A couple of storks flew down and took refuge on one of them. As Virgile rushed past all of this, two high school girls gave him the eye and smiled. For once, he didn't notice.

Virgile was convinced that this city was within his grasp. He also knew that despite his boss's grumpy façade, he had the best of intentions. Benjamin would undoubtedly give him carte blanche, provided he delivered results. He would account for his time. He would have to rent a car, an economy model, watch what he did and said, and not do any harm to the Cooker image.

But then he realized that he had one more thing to do. The winemaker's assistant circled around the shops and homes and ended up where he had started. He spotted his boss at the intersection of the Rue de la Grenouille and the Rue du Chasseur. Benjamin was just ahead of him and heading toward Avenue d'Alsace. Virgile whistled twice, and the winemaker turned around, a surprised look on his face. The young man gestured toward the Rue du Chasseur. Benjamin frowned but waited. When Virgile caught up, he took the winemaker by the elbow and led him to the police station.

“Let's make a report about the slashed tires,” he said.

“Since when do I take orders from you?” Benjamin said.

“If I can't be your son-in-law, let me at least be your most faithful ally.”

Benjamin stared at Virgile, and he thought his boss was about to say something. Instead, the winemaker just shrugged.

“We're here to file a complaint,” Benjamin told the duty officer.

“Second door on the left, at the end of the hall. But you'll have to wait. We've got more complaints than usual this morning, and two people are ahead of you…”

Two women of a certain age, one in a gray suit, heels, and a pearl necklace, the other in a stained raincoat, frayed stockings, and a Hermès scarf were sitting on opposite sides of the reception area, glaring at each other. Two boys in handcuffs were on another bench. Virgile had heard them talking, and he thought they were speaking one of the Baltic languages. He didn't know which. He wondered if they were undocumented immigrants destined to be returned to their homeland. As the older one awaited his fate, he stared at the woman in the gray suit while running his hand up and down his sweatpants. The other one was dozing on his shoulder.

“We'll come back another time,” Benjamin told the duty officer.

“What was stolen?”

“Nothing. My car was vandalized.”

“Windshield? Scratches?” the duty officer asked mechanically.

“The tires were slashed. To be precise, two pneumatic Pirelli tires on my Mercedes convertible. I have reason to believe that the instrument the vandal used was identical to the one wielded by the person or persons who've been chopping down vines all over Alsace, if you follow me.”

The duty officer put down his pen and gave Benjamin a hard look.

“I'll go see what I can do for you.”

The officer disappeared behind a gray metal door that bore the name Inspector Fauchié.

An officer who had been guarding the boys in handcuffs walked over to the reception desk and slid into the duty officer's seat. He picked up a pen and started going over the papers on a clipboard.

Before long, the first officer emerged from his superior's quarters. Seeing the smile on his face, Virgile surmised that this Inspector Fauchié had given the officer a pat on the back for not sending them away.

“Gentlemen, the inspector will see you. Give him a few moments.”

Not even a minute later, Inspector Fauchié opened his door and invited Benjamin and Virgile in. Virgile took one look at him and wondered why the man was still working. He was clearly eligible for retirement. His hair was white, and the backs of his hands were covered with liver spots. He was slightly stooped, but his eyes were keen and ferret-like.

Once they were in his office, the police inspector waved his arm at two chairs and asked the winemaker and his assistant to sit down. Then he summoned a clerk to record the complaint.

“What makes you think that your tires were slashed by something other than an ordinary kitchen or hunting knife?” he asked.

“I'm telling you what the mechanic at the Mercedes dealership told me late yesterday, when I got back to my hotel,” Benjamin said. “According to him, only a power tool could make cuts that clean. If you want to verify what he said, have your own people take a look at my tires.”

“You're making quite a leap there. Why would the person who's wreaking havoc in the vineyards have reason to vandalize your car?”

“Because there's a connection, Inspector.”

“And tell me, Mr. Cooker, what's the connection?”

“Wine, of course!”

“Good Lord, you could be onto something! I forgot that I have an authority on the subject sitting right here in my office. Please forgive me. I drink nothing but water these days—trying to practice a healthy lifestyle, you know.”

“That's my attitude, as well, Inspector. As far as I'm concerned, water is absolutely essential. I make it a practice to shower in it every morning.” Benjamin turned to Virgile and gave him a discreet wink.

The officer typing the statement grinned at Virgile. The inspector's affectations were comical, indeed.

Fauchié smoothed his hair back and changed his tone.

“Tell me, Mr. Cooker, why are you in Alsace?”

“Writing my guide requires that I travel all over France. I do numerous tastings and familiarize myself with the various terrains and the people who produce our country's wines, both the vintners who go back generations and those who are just starting out. My line of work is more about a philosophy of life than a healthy lifestyle.”

“I see. And do you have any enemies? A winegrower, for example, who may have gotten a bad rating in your guide? I believe you give both high and not-so-high ratings. You have an economic influence that goes well beyond handing out laurels and lashings.”

“I never administer a lashing, Inspector. My guide is objective. As for my economic influence, you flatter me.”

“I'm only repeating what I read in the papers. A good rating in the
Cooker Guide
guarantees sales, does it not?”

“If that were true, those who get the highest ratings in my guide would be putting me up for canonization. But the wine world is experiencing a crisis without precedent, and I'm no guru. I'm just a man with a lot of requirements whose aim is guiding consumers in their choices.”

“All right, Mr. Cooker. Just for the sake of argument, let's eliminate the possibility that the person who slashed your tires was some marginalized individual insulted by the flamboyance of a Mercedes convertible. And, by the way, parking your car on a public square without any surveillance seems rather reckless.”

“I grant you that,” Benjamin said. “So we were saying…”

“If we reject the first hypothesis, we're looking at a premeditated act that we could classify under the heading ‘willful damage.' The question is: who's angry with us. Perhaps you have an idea, Mr. Cooker?”

Virgile was intrigued by the police inspector's line of reasoning, but he couldn't take his eyes off a black-and-white photograph in a black leather frame. Pictured were a bare-chested man—obviously the inspector in his younger days—on a beach, with a smiling woman at his side. The woman, in turn, had her arm around a teenage boy with Down's syndrome.

“Speaking of possible animosities. I've already talked with Captain Roch of the gendarmerie. Tell me: there wouldn't be any rivalry between the gendarmes and the Colmar police, would there?”

Fauchié shrugged halfheartedly. “Theoretically, we always work together.”

Benjamin didn't ask the inspector to explain. Instead, he related his encounter with Captain Roch at the Deutzlers. “He's the one who specifically asked me to file a complaint with you regarding the two slashed tires.”