Late Harvest Havoc Read online

  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,” B
enjamin 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.”

  “And he was right to do that,” Fauchié said. “He’ll get a copy of your statement. Would you like to add anything, Mr. Cooker?”

  “Yes. I don’t mean to interfere in your affairs, but you should interview a man named Séverin Gaesler. He owns a café on the Place de la Cathédrale. An older man, very round and ruddy. At first he doesn’t seem very nice, but he’s not a bad guy. He said he knows things about the vine cutter.”

  Virgile was disappointed with his boss. Why hadn’t the winemaker told him? Despite his desire to leave Alsace immediately, he was conducting his own investigation at that very moment, and it was even possible that he was one step ahead of everyone else.

  “All this can’t be the work of a single person. He must have accomplices, or maybe there’s a gang of crazies raiding the vineyards just to create havoc,” the inspector suggested, fiddling with a paperclip.

  Virgile decided it was time to add his own insights.

  “So the nutcase—or nutcases—destroyed two vineyards more than twenty miles apart in one night. Of course, it’s feasible, but considering all the rain we had yesterday, you’d think the vehicle the perpetrator used would leave tire tracks in the mud. If he parked on a paved road before going into the vines, at least he’d leave footprints.”

  “To this point, young man, you’ve been stating the obvious,” the inspector said as he motioned to his subordinate to print out the statement so the winemaker could sign it.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss what my assistant is telling you,” Benjamin said. “Let’s take a closer look at this. Con
tinue, Virgile.”

  “We have, to date, four attacks in less than a week, and it seems to me the gangrene is spreading. The destruction of thirty, fifty, one hundred vines is not the act of extraterrestrials or supernatural creatures. I know witchcraft is still practiced in your land, but still. The guy in question must be having a blast, considering the way he’s screwing you every night. For him, it’s almost a game. In my opinion, he has some know-how, because he’s good with a chainsaw and he can do his work quietly. I’d guess he’s fairly athletic too.”

  “Okay, Virgile, but that’s really not much to work with,” said Benjamin.

  “Let me finish, boss. I think the guy is acting kind of like an arsonist. The first time, it was to settle a score. Given the uproar the initial crime caused and all the attention he got from the press, the guy decided to take another shot at it and hit harder and better. Like the arsonist who gets more excited the more the forest burns, this guy was getting more exhilarated each time he took a chainsaw to a vineyard.”

  The inspector leaned in a little closer.

  “Now, humor me in my comparison,” Virgile continued. “The hills are vast and deserted, and the weather forecaster predicts a strong wind from the south. Soon the idea of setting a fire spreads to other disturbed minds. Little by little, the whole countryside is on fire. Each arsonist is settling scores with little risk of being found out.”

  “An intriguing theory, Virgile,” Benjamin said. “Tell us more.”

  “Now there’s not just one suspect, but many,” Virgile continued. “Consider what happens around the Mediterranean some years in the summer. And I don’t think a gang is behind this. You’ll see. I predict much more chainsaw vandalism in the vineyards. I’m willing to bet on it.”

  “I, for one, am always reluctant to bet against you, Virgile. Perhaps we shouldn’t be looking at the possibility of many culprits, but definitely we should be considering the possibility of two or more.”

  “Yes,” Virgile nearly shouted.

  Seemingly unimpressed by Virgile’s enthusiasm, Fauchié presented the statement to Benjamin and indicated where it needed to be signed. The winemaker took out his pen and scribbled his signature without even reading it.