Deadly Tasting (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 7

  The teapot was empty and Renaud called his housekeeper, who appeared so quickly, Benjamin thought she might have been listening at the door. She picked up the teapot and left without acknowledging Benjamin or Virgile. Her colorless complexion and white hair blended in with the room’s washed-out colors.

  “I imagine you’ve heard of Louis Eschenauer?” the host asked, slipping a piece of onionskin paper out of the dossier.

  “The one everyone in Chartrons called Uncle Louis?” Benjamin said. “He was a strange fellow, it seems.”

  “To say the least,” Renaud agreed, exposing his teeth in a foolish-looking grin. “He was seventy years old during the occupation, and you could say he had already seen a thing or two.”

  “Never heard of him!” Virgile interjected.

  “You might not have, but you’re certainly familiar with the Eschenauer family. They were from Alsace originally, but they have been important wine merchants and estate owners in Bordeaux since 1821. This particular Eschenauer was an amiable man—he was also called the king of Bordeaux—and very clever, as well. During Prohibition in the United States, for example, he pulled off a fabulous scheme to send Sauternes and other white wines to American clients in crystal vials labeled ‘Roman bath water.’ He did very well with that. More tea, gentlemen?”

  Benjamin and Virgile held out their cups and made themselves comfortable in their chairs to listen to the adventures of this character nicknamed Uncle Louis. With statistics in hand, Renaud described his business activities and risky investments, his passion for modern art, his stable of race horses, his numerous sports cars, his romantic disappointments, his eccentricities, his winter vacations in Egypt, and his friendship with Joachim von Ribbentrop, who, once he had become foreign affairs minister of the Third Reich, had helped him increase his revenues considerably.

  “When the war broke out, more than half of his company’s business was already coming from Germany, and it seemed natural to continue this relationship when Bömers, the weinführer, arrived in Bordeaux, especially because Louis Eschenauer was the uncle of Captain Ernst Kühnemann, the German wine merchant who had been given command of Bordeaux’s port,” Renaud explained.

  “Virgile, here’s an intriguing tidbit: at the time Uncle Louis owned Le Chapon Fin, where we’ve enjoyed many a fine meal. Uncle Louis used the restaurant to entertain Kühnemann, Bömers, and other prominent Germans. Needless to say, the German patrons of Le Chapon Fin were not subject to any restrictions and obviously enjoyed the best crus of Médoc, Saint-Émilion, and beyond.”

  Renaud shifted in his seat and went on, “Uncle Louis was a show-off, arrogant, and smug about his successes to the point of arousing resentment among his acquaintances in Bordeaux. And he was as opportunistic as they come. For example, he snatched up two Jewish estates after they had been abandoned. He kept them productive during the occupation. But no one ever heard him utter a disparaging remark about the Jews. Many of the Rothschilds had fled Bordeaux, and Baron Philippe de Rothschild had joined the British military. It’s believed that Uncle Louis interceded for the Rothschilds while they were gone and succeeded in keeping much of the estate’s wine from being seized. It’s also believed that he did much behind the scenes to protect the city of Bordeaux, as well as the region. After the allied invasion, his nephew was given the assignment of destroying the port. Although this hasn’t been confirmed, some think the port was spared because of Uncle Louis.”

  Benjamin and Virgile sipped at their tea without a word.

  “When the Resistance forces arrested him a few days after the occupying forces left, he really did not realize the danger he was in. He defended himself poorly and was sentenced to two years in prison. His property was seized, and he was forced to pay a penalty of sixty-two million francs. In addition, he was permanently banned from doing business in Bordeaux,” Renaud continued.

  “In my opinion, Uncle Louis was made an example because he had a high profile during the occupation,” Renaud said as he blew on his steaming tea. “But he certainly wasn’t the only businessman who collaborated with the enemy, and as far as I’m concerned, he had no blood on his hands. I don’t even think he bought into the Nazi ideology. Compared with certain crooks who made out just fine, they were unduly harsh with Uncle Louis. Just compare his case with Maurice Papon’s.”

  “That scum!” Virgile said, gritting his teeth.

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Benjamin said calmly. “Papon was worse than scum. He was a behind-the-scenes criminal with no conscience. The worst possible kind. I’ve always wondered how a fairly intelligent and well-educated guy could agree to send hundreds of people to their death. As simple that, with a stroke of his pen! Just a signature at the bottom of a business form!”

  Virgile nodded while Renaud leafed through the file.

  “Accomplice to murder, abuse of authority, arrest orders, deportation orders.” Benjamin ticked off the charges and the evidence in a monotone. “I think Papon was nothing but a cold and meticulous technician, an agent of organized death. Given the conclusive case against him, I don’t understand how he could have had the arrogance to justify himself.”

  “If you’re interested, Mr. Cooker, I have some photocopies of papers he signed while he performed his duties as secretary general of the Gironde prefecture. Most of them are internment orders to the Mérignac camp.”

  “There was an internment camp at Mérignac?” asked Virgile.

  “At the Beaudésert site, at a place called Pichey,” Renaud said. “At the corner of the Avenue des Marronniers and the Avenue de l’Hippodrome. After each roundup, Jews, communists, gypsies, and others deemed undesirable were confined to barracks there, in the cold and vermin-filled filth, with no food at all. It was just a half mile as the crow flies from Pey-Berland. Then they were deported. During the time Papon was in charge, more than ten train convoys took deportees to the concentration camp at Drancy near Paris, the last stop before the gas chambers at Auschwitz. Look, here’s the list.”

  Benjamin took the paper and skimmed it before handing it to his assistant, who began to read it aloud.

  July 18, 1942, one hundred and sixty-one people; August 26, 1942, four hundred and forty-three people; September 21, 1942, seventy-one people; October 26, 1942, seventy-three; February 2, 1943, one hundred and seven; June 7, 1943, thirty-four; November 25, 1943, ninety-two; December 30, 1943, one hundred and thirty-six; January 12, 1944, three hundred and seventeen; May 13, 1944, fifty; June 5, 1944, seventy-six.

  “I will never look at that city the same way again, especially when I walk along the platforms at the Saint Jean train station,” Virgile said. His voice sounded constricted. Benjamin felt sure it was because of the lump in his throat.

  “Getting back to Jules-Ernest Grémillon,” Benjamin hurriedly interceded, giving Virgile a moment to collect himself. “Do you know what role he played in the organizations he belonged to?”

  “He didn’t have any important duties. He was pretty much at the bottom of the ladder. He put up posters and did some security work. He was an underling. In any case, it doesn’t appear that he was involved in any sordid business, led any activities, or disseminated propaganda other than what was on the posters he put up.”

  “A gofer,” Virgile said.

  “You got that right. At the time, there was covert fund-raising and some extortion. These organizations needed money, and they often broke up or became weakened for lack of funds.”

  “Do you have anything else on him?” Benjamin asked.

  “No, absolutely nothing on Grémillon and even less on Armand Jouvenaze. That guy is nowhere to be found. I could find no affiliation with any movement, no evidence that he ever paid membership dues, or any mention of him on attendance lists. His name never appears on the documents I could get my hands on. I do, however, have some information that will be of interest to you regarding Émile Chaussagne. He’s in an entirely different category! He was an excellent student at Périgueux High School and a promising la
w student at the University of Bordeaux until he decided to lend his talents to the French Popular Party and become one of its leaders. He diligently visited the committee room on the Rue Sainte-Catherine and often delivered articles to the movement’s two news organizations, sometimes Le Cri du people, but especially L’Assaut, which had a circulation of barely two thousand but managed to churn out tons of hate-filled propaganda. I have here, as proof, an article from July 18, 1942, which reveals his state of mind. ‘It took the June 7 measure ordering Jews to wear the yellow star to get a clear picture of how many inhabit the area. Let’s deny Jews access to the main thoroughfares of our city. Deny them access to the trams. Take away their property for the benefit of the bombing victims.’”

  “There was already a tramway at that time?” Virgile asked, looking up.

  “Yes, even on that point, history is confusing,” Benjamin said. He tried to look Renaud in the eye through his thick glasses. “Let’s just hope history does not repeat itself! Listening to you, young man, one gets the impression that Bordeaux simply acquiesced to all the grim oppression without attempting any counterforce at all.”

  “Rest assured, Mr. Cooker, there were also people who rose up against the occupiers, the economic plunder and food shortages, the Milice, the roundups, and the forced labor. You know the people of this region. How could they not react? Spontaneous groups and clandestine networks sprang up, but unfortunately, they were harshly repressed. It’s too long a story, but there were leaks, denunciations, and betrayals that undermined the local Resistance movements. I’ll spare you the details, but don’t forget that the Gestapo played its hand well, and the Resistance fighters in Bordeaux could not hold out. There were also great men in this city’s history who acted with dignity. I’m sure you must know the incredible story of Aristide de Sousa Mendès.”

  Benjamin had never heard of the man. He was surprised, considering the length of time he had lived in the region and his interest in its history. Renaud explained.

  “Sousa Mendès was the consul from Portugal,” he said. “When the first German convoys arrived in town, there was unbelievable chaos. We have a few pictures of it, notably on the Pont de Pierre, or Stone Bridge, and I guarantee there were never any traffic jams like it, even during construction of the tramway. Everyone was trying to escape, especially the Jews, whether French or Eastern European. There were also stateless people whose nationality was contested or disputed, a heterogeneous population that didn’t have the means to obtain visas. The Portuguese consul’s office at 14 Quai Louis-XVIII was under siege, and Sousa Mendès was suddenly faced with an enormous moral dilemma. His country was under the thumb of António de Oliveira Salazar. It was an extremely repressive regime. Officially, Portugal was neutral, and Salazar was under orders not to intervene in any occupation activities. Sousa Mendès, however, could not bear the desperate situation of the people who looked to him for help. How could this traditional family man, father of fourteen, and fervent Catholic go against orders that came from a place that was much higher than Salazar—from God Himself?

  “Sousa Mendès went off for three days to contemplate the terrifying dilemma he faced, and I believe he did a lot of praying. Then, for two weeks, he traveled from Bordeaux and Bayonne to Biarritz and Hendaye. He handed out passes round the clock. He signed and stamped tirelessly, over and over again, without stopping—on the hoods of cars, on suitcases, in makeshift offices, on loose-leaf paper. When there was no paper left, he wrote visas on the pages of magazines and newspapers. He single-handedly saved some thirty thousand Jews. Do you realize? Thirty thousand human beings with only a pen for a weapon!

  “His whole life was upended by this decision, which he made freely. He was falsely accused of taking money for the visas he granted. Sousa Mendès died in poverty, forgotten and ostracized by Portuguese society. But he never regretted his acts of disobedience. In 1961, a tree was planted in honor of Sousa Mendès in the Allée des Justes in Jerusalem. But it wasn’t until 1994, after years of silence, that a bust and a commemorative plaque were erected in his memory in Bordeaux. And even then, do you know where it is? In the middle of nowhere, in some obscure corner of Mériadeck. He deserved at least to be recognized at the place where he initially resisted: on the banks of the Garonne!”

  Renaud’s voice remained suspended in heavy silence. To Benjamin, the apartment felt cut off from the rest of the world, isolated behind the thick velour curtains, numb and frozen in time under the dusty chandelier crystals and faded silk embroidery.

  “That’s a moving story,” Benjamin finally murmured. “It reminds me of a simple and enchanting line by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa: “‘My head aches, and the universe aches, as well.’”

  Before leaving, Benjamin agreed to take a look at Renaud’s collection of military paraphernalia in a small area off the living room. Behind the glass cabinets were dozens of medals, gold braids and epaulettes, and ancient arms, some of which were rare pieces from the Napoleonic era. The most impressive specimens seemed to be a medal of merit, the Blue Max, the highest German distinction from the end of the nineteenth century, and a feldgrau, a Prussian officer’s uniform. The dark gray of the coat set off the barely intact decorations. Benjamin pretended to admire them while looking repeatedly at his watch. He couldn’t stay any longer. When Benjamin and Virgile left the apartment, Renaud was still wearing his raincoat.

  8

  All Saints Day was approaching, and autumn had finally arrived in Aquitaine. The last hints of summer had been swept away by strong southwesterly winds. The warm air, which had held on until then, had given way to a wet chill that turned the cheeks pink and swelled the fingers. With their coat collars turned up to their ears and their hands plunged deep in their pockets, Benjamin and Virgile stood side by side among the graves in the Libourne cemetery. They were in front of another shattered headstone. Benjamin tried to suppress a sly grin as he pulled a banana out of his Loden. It was hard not to react to Inspector Barbaroux’s stupefied look.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he slowly peeled the fruit. “I am in the middle of a diet, and today I am feasting. I am allowed to have three bananas.”

  “Go right ahead,” the inspector answered. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Since this morning, all I’ve heard about is the black market, hardships, ration cards, and poor people starving to death, and here I am complaining about the low-calorie diet my wife is inflicting on me because I’ve had the luxury of overindulging for months, if not years.”

  “Do you really need to diet?” the inspector asked, passing a hand over his paunch.

  “So it seems. Too many restaurant meals, not to mention the wines that I must drink because sometimes it’s a sin to spit it out. I’ve put on some pounds.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s true. There wasn’t much need for diets during the occupation. It was easy to keep a girlish figure in those days.”

  “I don’t really appreciate your sense of humor, Inspector. I can’t bring myself to joke about such things.”

  “Sorry. I admit I’m not very witty. And yesterday afternoon I wasn’t very considerate either. Édouard Prébourg’s corpse made me want to puke. But in this line of work, you see so much crap, you have to develop a thick skin. The best way to do that is to joke about it.”

  “I understand,” Benjamin said as he savored the taste and smell of his banana. He sent up an inaudible thank-you for this moment of mercy in his barely tolerable eating regimen. “I brought along my assistant, Virgile Lanssien, who was with me the other day. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Not in the least. I assume he’s been with you in this business from the beginning.”

  “Absolutely. He knows about all of it, and I can vouch for his discretion. You know it’s one of the golden rules of Cooker & Co.” Benjamin fully realized his assistant was catching every word.

  “Okay, Mr. Cooker. Let’s not beat around the bush. You know exac
tly what must have happened here. Look at this shit!”

  Another grave site had been wrecked, just as Armand Jouvenaze’s had been. The white marble plaque, a ceramic wreath, and two black stone vases had been smashed. The headstone was in two pieces. And twelve wine glasses, five of them filled with red wine, had been placed in a semicircle at the edge of the grave. There was also the red paint, but it was more muted. And instead of the word Nazi, there were two angular s’s, made to look like lightning strikes. They covered the first letter of the last name:

  JEAN SAUVETERRE

  1914–1959

  “I’m supposed to conclude that this Sauveterre was an SS officer?” Benjamin asked.

  “That would be a bit hasty, I think. Maybe he wasn’t any more an SS officer than Jouvenaze was a Nazi. We’re dealing with a smart aleck who keeps giving us messages and doesn’t tell us too much. He wants to keep us intrigued while he goes on wrecking havoc.”

  “One thing is sure: he can’t help committing his murders and desecrations without giving them some meaning.”

  “Why do you say that? Do you have an idea, perhaps?”

  “No more than you do.”

  “Listen, Mr. Cooker, let’s stop playing these idiotic games. I know very well that you’ve been nosing around at Duboyne de Ladonnet’s. You were seen leaving his place just this morning.”

  “How do you know that? Are you having me followed?”

  “It’s not worth my time. Who do you take me for?”

  “Well then, who told you we met with this young man, who, by the way, is quite a scholar?”

  “There are no secrets in Bordeaux. Let’s just say that I hear what people say, and gossip keeps doing its thing. At any rate, we’re not here at the Libourne cemetery to talk about this.”