Deadly Tasting (The Winemaker Detective Series) Read online

  “That’s the kind of sensitivity I appreciate in a historian. In a nutshell, I can tell you that Bordeaux and the entire Aquitaine region experienced pretty much what the rest of France experienced: the same indifference and the same magnanimity, spinelessness and bravery, cowardice and heroism, selfishness and generosity. You find a bit of everything.”

  “So, the worst and the best, you say. You can talk to me frankly. I have no illusions about human beings, even though I have faith in humanity.”

  “I see. Well then, knowing the history of Bordeaux during the occupation will either strengthen your belief in humanity or feed your doubts.”

  “What do you know about political movements like the French Popular Party and the group called Fire?” Benjamin asked casually.

  Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet seemed to hesitate. He pushed his glasses up his nose, folded his arms, and pursed his lips before answering.

  “From the start of the occupation, collaborationist groups sprang up all over the country, and some of them took root in this area. One of them was the French Popular Party, led by Jacques Doriot, a communist who was converted to fascism. Another was the National Popular Rally, founded by Marcel Déat. They were two large political groups under Marshal Pétain. I won’t go into the various theories that were expounded in all the propaganda they disseminated.”

  “Was there a lot of support for these people in Bordeaux?”

  “Yes, there was. It’s rather shocking, in fact. In any case, even the Vichy sympathizers who weren’t card-carrying members of any party cheered on their little leaders. More than three thousand people were at the Athenaeum to welcome Déat on May 17, 1941. He was invited by his friend Adrien Marquet, the mayor of Bordeaux and minister of the interior in the Vichy government. People were clamoring to get in to hear him talk. The topic was the New France in the New Europe. And there were dozens of meetings and rallies of this ilk all over Bordeaux. You can’t imagine how many talks were organized on anti-Semitism, national reconstruction, the evils of freemasonry, Bolshevism, capitalism, the glory of Germanic myths, and the war on stateless people. And, of course, there were the countless leaflets and posters.”

  “In addition to these two main organizations, I imagine there were other groups,” Benjamin interjected. “What do you know about the group called Fire?”

  The bookstore owner, who had been unpacking and organizing old paperbacks at the back of the store, walked over to the cash register and sat down. Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet waited until he was settled and took two steps to the side. Benjamin listened carefully as he enumerated the various movements and factions that proliferated more or less successfully during the war.

  The Fire group was really no more than an ephemeral spark. It never claimed more than three dozen members, Renaud told Benjamin. The group was led by a fanatic destined for mediocrity, a certain Maurice Delauney. He had started the newspaper La Tempête in 1941 to spread his hatred of Jews and everyone else he deemed responsible for France’s degradation. Before this puppet group disappeared, it was headquartered at 22 Cours Clemenceau.

  “A multitude of groups emerged, and some French citizens embraced them with queasy fervor,” Renaud said. “The organizations advocated collaboration with Nazi Germany and a purging of liberal demons and Judeo-Masonic riffraff. Each one of these organizations had committees in the provinces, and Bordeaux was a strategic platform for spreading the doctrine in the region. Among them were the Social Revolutionary Movement, built on the ruins of the Cagoule and led by Eugène Deloncle, headquartered at 1 Rue du Maréchal-Joffre; Francisme, founded by Marcel Bucard, a fascist organization in line with Mussolini’s precepts that eventually petered out; the French League, whose members blindly followed Pierre Costantini and whose most active subsidiary in the Gironde was established in Arcachon in June 1942; the facist Falange at 16 Rue Barada, directed by Pierre Paparan, who owed allegiance to SS leader Herbert Hagen; the French National-Collectivist Party and its branch at 50 Cours Clemenceau; and the Socialist French National Front at 27 Rue Gouvion, with forty followers united under the Pétain flag.”

  Renaud’s historical knowledge seemed endless. He was eager to share information and made no attempt to conceal the muddy twists and turns France had gotten caught up in. In a low voice he recalled how fear dominated the region in those days. Civilian and paramilitary organizations did their insidious work in the dark. Those groups also included the Anti-Bolshevik Action Committee, the Legion of French Volunteers, the Legionary Order Service, the Corps of French Volunteers, and Milice, whose regional offices were at 11 Cours Tournon. That organization was under the leadership of Vichy Lieutenant Colonel Robert Franc.

  Renaud took a breath and exhaled, as if trying to expel the black plague of that time period in French history.

  “Do the names Jules-Ernest Grémillon, Émile Chaussagne, and Armand Jouvenaze ring a bell, by any chance?” Benjamin asked.

  “You know, Mr. Cooker, chance rarely plays a part in this type of research. It just takes work, lots of it, and patience, and a bit of self-sacrifice. Searching the archives again and again, consulting official documents, and then, of course, studying the papers that are much less well-known, if not secret…”

  “What kind?”

  “I cannot tell you or even reveal my methods, but please understand that conventional routes do not always pay off, and sometimes you have to know the shortcuts.”

  “Could you possibly help me flush out some information on these three names?”

  “Out of context, nothing comes to mind.”

  “Would you like me to write them down on a piece of paper?”

  “No need for that. I have them in my head. I’m able to retain all sorts of details. It’s a must in my line of work. The slightest clue, the faintest allusion, the smallest piece of information can lead to a breakthrough. I’ll see what I can do, but don’t be too optimistic. It could take a long time, and it might end in disappointment.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Benjamin said. He looked Renaud in the eye through the distorted lenses of his glasses. “I think we’ll be seeing each other again.”

  6

  Against all odds, Benjamin Cooker was entering the third day of his diet with newfound serenity. The evening before, Elisabeth had greeted him in Grangebelle’s kitchen with a baked potato, a priceless reward of succulent warmth, which he savored to the last bite. On this day he would be allowed fresh fruits and green vegetables, in addition to his cabbage soup. Resisting the seductive window displays of foie gras and truffles at Dubernet and canelés at Baillardran, Benjamin headed on foot toward the Grands Hommes shopping center.

  He walked under the glass dome of the shopping center, which spilled light over the vast array of merchandise. After stopping at the newsstand to pick up his papers and magazines on winemaking and tableware, he took the circular aisle that led to the leather shop. A man in his sixties with dazzling white hair that was closely cropped and a round bearded face greeted him from behind the window. Benjamin waved to him, indicating he did not want to bother him in his shop but preferred to wait outside.

  Alain Massip was a classy gentleman whom Benjamin regretted not seeing more often. They had many things in common. They both tended to be dandies, albeit refined dandies. They valued well-made conservative clothing and had a taste for beautiful objects, fine food, and elegant convertibles. Each was brilliant, but also reserved. They also shared an amused detachment regarding money, a caustic regard for the antics of powerful people, a desire for spirituality and social justice, and an irrepressible zest for life despite the grief that often derailed it.

  Massap, however, was more extroverted than Benjamin. The winemaker unconsciously took a step back when the leather merchant patted him warmly on the shoulder while shaking his hand.

  “What a surprise, Benjamin! How are you?”

  “Hello, Alain, I can’t pretend that I was just walking by. I need a favor, or rather, some information.”

  �
�In that case, we’ll be more comfortable in the workshop. Follow me!”

  They left the shopping center and crossed the street to a building whose façade had been recently renovated. They went up to the second floor of the building’s annex, where the strong odor of leather, mixed with the sweet fragrance of glue, permeated the air. Two employees were bent over large worktables, where they measured, cut, and sewed swatches of finely cured kidskin. Alain made his way to a workbench cluttered with silver buckles and showed Benjamin a handbag. It was made of soft pink leather and featured a locking mechanism and adjustable strap that were particularly clever. Alain told Benjamin that this was a prototype. He planned to introduce a line of handbags in a range of colors the following season.

  Alain Massip’s energy and piercing eyes expressed his passion for the mysteries of this craft, which he had worked hard to preserve for many years. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Benjamin listened attentively, thinking how much this man had to love women. He was able to fulfill their desires, anticipate their needs and whims, pay attention to their complaints, and attend to their concerns, all with the aim of making their lives more convenient and pleasurable.

  “I could listen to you for hours, Alain. But unfortunately, I am short on time,” the winemaker said, picking up a scrap of granulated leather and rubbing it between his fingers. “I need you to give me some information on Jules-Ernest Grémillon.”

  “I read about his murder in the Sud-Ouest,” Massip said. The smile disappeared from his face. “It’s really horrendous! And to think that things like that happen so close to us!”

  Benjamin knew that nothing about the ritual of the twelve glasses had been reported on television or in the newspapers and that no information had been leaked by the police department. He trusted his friend’s discretion but decided to say nothing. He didn’t want to betray Inspector Barbaroux’s trust.

  “Please don’t ask me why I want to know certain things about this man. It’s a rather sensitive situation, but I found out that he worked here for a long time.”

  “Yes, indeed, my father hired him in the early nineteen fifties. He spent nearly forty years with the company. He was primarily a cutter, and he was an excellent employee, according to what my father told me. It’s hard to find really good workers these days.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “I wasn’t with the company when he started, but it seems he learned the trade quickly, and he knew how to do just about everything. We never had any complaints about him.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Well, I worked alongside him when I was just learning the trade, before I became a manager. But I didn’t really know him. He was reserved, quiet, very soft-spoken.”

  “Do you know anything about his political leanings or his past in Bordeaux?”

  “Not in the least. He was the silent type.”

  “It seems he had some big problems after the liberation because of his connections with the collaborationists. You never heard him talk about that?”

  “If my father had known, he would have fired him on the spot. You know very well that’s not the kind of company we run.”

  “You never even caught wind of it, even as a rumor?”

  “I’m telling you that he would not have been allowed to remain here if we had known. My father was interned in Germany. He was a prisoner of war in the Vosges and sent to a brick factory in Kandern, where he finally escaped with two buddies. As a matter of fact, he left a written account for us and our descendants.”

  Alain went over to a shelf and picked up a document covered in a reddish brown dust jacket. In twenty single-spaced typed pages, Maurice Massip had recorded his experiences in an internment camp so that future generations would know. Despite the fear, cold, harsh working conditions, and privations, he had found the strength to break out and reach the Swiss border. Benjamin skimmed the text, written with precision but without grandiloquence or moral preaching. It retraced the ordeal and described the escape. His hope came through in each sentence:

  The forest was close by. We made it to the trees. But we couldn’t stop. We had to keep going, farther and farther. And we did. Our hearts were beating hard in our chests. We were terrified that we would hear the men shouting and the dogs barking at any moment. We forged on, out of breath and our legs so weak, they almost refused to carry us. Still we moved forward, toward freedom.

  “It’s a priceless record,” Benjamin murmured. The man’s bravery in the face of such fear and darkness had moved him.

  “I brought it here to the workshop to restore it a little and reinforce the binding. But the main thing is, I handed it over to my children so that they would know who their grandfather was, and eventually they can have their children read it. It’s important.”

  “Excuse me for insisting, but getting back to Grémillon, can you at least tell me what sort of life he led?”

  “Work was really the only place we saw him. I can tell you that he never married. And I don’t believe he had any serious relationships. At least none that I know of. I think his primary pleasure was an occasional game of pool with friends.”

  “French billiards, I presume?”

  “Exactly. I was much younger then, but as I recall, they would go to the same place, a seedy café called Chez Joseph in the Mériadeck quarter before it was razed and replaced with depressing concrete they call urban renewal.”

  “Do you remember his friends?”

  “Guys his age. They looked more or less the same. They weren’t very chatty either.”

  “Do you have any of their names?”

  “It was all so long ago.”

  “Not a single detail?”

  “I think one of them was called Armand. Yes, that’s it, Armand.”

  “Armand. Was that his first or his last name?”

  “First, I think. But I’m not sure. He’d come by sometimes to pick up Jules-Ernest in a Dauphine sports car, a red one. That I’m sure of!”

  “Is that all?’

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “Well, I’ll make do with that. Thanks all the same!”

  Benjamin shook hands with Alain Massip and promised to stop by before the end of the month to have lunch at Noailles. He went down the stairs, nearly slipping on the bottom step, and found himself in the street under a fine rain.

  “Hey, Benjamin, don’t run off!”

  The winemaker turned and looked up. Alain was leaning from a window on the second floor of the building. “Sometimes there was another guy in the Dauphine,” Alain shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth. “I think they called him ‘the Bull.’ But he wasn’t really a brute.”

  “What do you mean?” Benjamin strained to hear Alain above the traffic noise.

  “He was more of a weakling, this Bull. It must have been a nickname from darts, you know, because of hitting the bull’s-eye.”

  § § §

  Coming through the door to the Cooker & Co. offices on the Allées de Tourny, Benjamin was pleased to find Franck Dubourdieu sipping bergamot tea with his secretary, Jacqueline. Obviously charmed by her boss’s distinguished colleague, Jacqueline was nodding and playing with her gold bracelet, which dripped gaudy and jangly trinkets. Benjamin poured himself a cup of tea and invited Dubourdieu to follow him.

  “Ever since you came by my house, I’ve been thinking about this business,” Dubourdieu said as soon as they were in Benjamin’s office. “I think I have some information that might help you.”

  “I was sure you would look into the matter. To tell the truth, I would have been surprised if you hadn’t.”

  “You are wicked, Benjamin. You knew that if you threw a bottle into the sea, I would jump in to see what was in it.”

  “Especially if it was a bottle of Pétrus!”

  “Precisely. I tasted the samples you had Inspector Barbaroux send over. It’s rather astonishing. I went back several times, and I let some time elapse between each tasting. I still have the same impression.”


  “You’re confirming what you said before about the vintage?”

  “But my opinion is more nuanced now. I found some characteristics of a great wine, but they were mostly in the aroma. The body did not match up. The more I think about it, the more I am leaning toward a 1942.”

  “You don’t say,” Benjamin said, surprised at his friend’s certainty. “That’s not your usual style, to be so sure.”

  “I did take care to verify my opinion before coming here to meet you. I managed to obtain two bottles so that I could be as certain as possible.”

  “Don’t tell me you went out of your way to unearth bottles dating from World War Two. I can’t believe it. You wouldn’t care to reveal your source, would you?”

  “Don’t ask me. I promised to be very hush-hush about it.”

  Benjamin understood he had just been one-upped. He attempted to keep his pride intact. “I think I know where they come from, anyway.”

  “That’s not very likely. At any rate, you won’t find out from me. Besides, it doesn’t matter how I got them. The main thing is moving forward with the investigation, isn’t it?”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “That said, my evaluation isn’t one hundred percent guaranteed, especially because there is a slight difference between the samples.”

  “Exactly. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m delighted to hear you confirm it, because I wasn’t really sure.”

  “If you continue along that line of reasoning, it seems obvious that the killer is using several bottles. The vintage is the same for all of them, but some have been affected by aging.”

  The theory seemed viable, and they were silent while the bronze clock atop the tall file cabinet ticked away the minutes. Benjamin was weighing the information, cross-referencing his deductions, and correcting any biased speculation to satisfy his need for a rational explanation. He knew his friend, also absorbed in thought, was doing the same thing, and he reflected on something the French politician Pierre-Joseph Proudhon had written: “As long as man knows little, he inevitably talks much. The less he reasons, the more he babbles.”