Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) (7 page)

“Is he the one who limped? The one Napoleon called ‘shit in silk stockings’?” Virgil asked, knitting his eyebrows.

“The description is terse but rather well summarized. Tallyrand was a grim man but brilliant. He is even said to have made a recommendation about Haut-Brion that some should follow more often: ‘Before raising such a nectar to one’s lips, hold the glass high, and look at it, sniff it at length, and then, set your glass down, and talk about it!’ Nice, isn’t it?”

“Very perceptive and well formulated,” Virgile said, nodding.

“Tallyrand did not stay in Haut-Brion for long. He sold everything in 1804. He had other things to do, and he didn’t have a farmer’s soul. You have to be a little bit of a farmer to love a land like this one, even if is your coffers are full of gold, and you’re chock full of honors. As was the Larrieu family, which was next in line. They were a dynasty of jurists with a number of more or less happy successors throughout the 19
^th
century. After Joseph-Eugène Larrieu and his son Amédée came Eugène, who inherited in 1873 and went on to impose a near-military discipline on his winemakers. This was an important step, since the Larrieu family bought the third that belonged to the Countess of Vergennes and united the domaine again. They always had energetic stewards, and you have to admit that were it not for Eugène Larrieu’s authoritarian determination, the estate would have suffered more from the Phylloxera and mildew epidemics that ravaged all of Bordeaux’s vineyards. He managed the estate with an iron fist until 1896, but he had no heir. His vines were prolific, but he was dry.”

Benjamin was in brilliant form, and the ups and downs of Haut-Brion’s history loosened his tongue. He enjoyed initiating Virgile into this world with its codes that were sometimes difficult to decrypt. He went on to talk about the various problems linked to the joint ownership of the property and the Compagnie Algérienne, a bank that owned the château for a time before selling it to the extravagant André Gibert. He was a stickler for rules but loved experimenting. He also lacked an heir, so the estate ended up in the hands of the American financier Clarence Dillon after several months of harsh negotiations. On May 13, 1935, the Château Haut-Brion was transferred to the Dillon family. Over time, the majority of its heirs were attached enough to the estate to forget the bustle of New York and show an interest in its operations. Some even settled there.

“OK, I’ll stop there! I think I’ve overwhelmed you,” Cooker said, getting up rather carelessly.

They returned to Bordeaux at dusk. Benjamin dropped his assistant off at the Place de la Victoire and drove down the Cours de la Marne to reach the Saint-Jean train station. He double-parked and ran to the departure hall to get some pictures made in a photo booth. The harsh flash surprised him as he tried to put on an impassive, dignified expression. The result was astonishing, to say the least. The four small pictures showed three-quarters of his face. He had raised eyebrows, one eye was half closed, the other red, and he had a splotch of white light running across his forehead. Benjamin was quite amused by his startled look. “Clearly, reality is nothing but an illusion,” he thought, slipping the photos into his inside jacket pocket. He was sure that Pascale Dartigeas would be talented enough to rework his portrait and reproduce his features accurately.

The end-of-April evening breeze was warm. As he left the train station, he removed a parking ticket from under the windshield wiper of his Mercedes and tossed it onto the back seat. Benjamin Cooker had just spent an excellent day.

D
O YOU THINK YOU can suffocate on your own vomit?” Virgile asked, folding the newspaper.

“Spare me the details, please,” Cooker said, looking disgusted.

The winemaker hadn’t read more than the first paragraph of the article in the latest edition of the
Sud-Ouest
before setting it on the edge of the table.

It was late morning, still chilly, and there were only a few scattered patrons at the Régent’s outside tables. A handful of regulars, comfortably sheltered by a large red awning and ensconced in their rattan chairs, took in the city’s moods. Some were deep in their newspapers, not paying any attention to their neighbors, while others sipped their coffee in seats at the front to better observe the comings and goings on the Place Gambetta, with its buses swerving along the Cours Clemenceau and young women hurrying between stopped cars.

Virgile had joined Cooker a little late. He sputtered an excuse and immediately started talking about the story in the paper. The headline read, “Pessac loses its living archives.” The story took up two columns but didn’t have any pictures.

“It’s strange. There is no time or date mentioned for the funeral,” Virgile said.

“I’m not surprised.”

“They’re not going to bury him like a dog, are they?”

“You never know. I suppose they’ll do an autopsy to make sure his death was accidental,” Benjamin said, getting up from the table.

“You think so?”

“What I think is that it is high time we get to Moniales and check some things out. Don’t you agree, Virgile?”

“If you say so.”

ALEXANDRINE de la Palussière was already at work when they arrived at the cellars. She had checked the steel tanks, taking a few new samples before intervening to treat the contamination. She was wearing a pair of beige leather espadrilles, plain linen pants and a sky-blue cashmere sweater. She looked like she was off to a private golfing resort or some sailing club for spoiled teenagers. Her bob cut, held back by the never-changing mother-of-pearl hairband, brought out the best in her smooth face.

She carefully descended the stepladder on which she was perched to join her employer, who was fretting at the door of the building, his face pale. Alexandrine put on a smile as she walked over to him with a light swaying step. She shook Cooker’s hand and gave Virgile a look-over. She thought he might actually be nice, but his good looks were a little too impertinent. Denis Massepain had just arrived from his office, where a phone call had tied him up for an hour.

“Excuse me,” he said, uncomfortable. “I didn’t even have time to greet Mademoiselle de la Palussière. I was on the phone with some American buyers. Business must go on.”

He said hello to the young woman, who excused him immediately and introduced herself with a respectable modesty. The owner apologized again and thanked her for coming. She thanked him for his trust and said she was sorry, in turn, for not introducing herself earlier.

“Where are we, Alexandrine?” Benjamin asked, putting an end to the unproductive civilities.

“I considered two different approaches. I didn’t have the time to discuss them with you, but I quickly abandoned the idea of using diethyl pyrocarbonate in its new dimethyl form. It is not stable enough, because it is too quick to hydrolyze into ethanol and carbonic gas. In my opinion, that could leave minor secondary products that might give the wine an overly fruity aroma. In addition, we would have to use over 200 milligrams per liter to totally destroy the infection.”

“That’s unthinkable!” Cooker said. “It is absolutely impossible, and it’s forbidden by European regulations.”

“In that case, I think that we should fall back on the more traditional sulfur dioxide treatment. It’s the only alternative.”

Denis Massepain listened attentively. He was trained as an embryologist and spent years working in the pharmaceutical industry, so he understood what the alchemist was saying. Virgile, however, found it too esoteric for his taste.

Alexandrine continued her presentation as if she were addressing only her employer. “It is very important that the barrels were cleaned and rinsed. Now the wood should be healthy, which will prevent any yeast proliferation in the cellars. We are now doing a residual analysis of the cleaned barrels, but if the work was done properly, there should be no problem.”

Virgile did not falter.

“I have no doubt about the results,” Cooker said dryly.

“I hope not,” Alexandrine responded. “All we have left to do then is to add the sodium dioxide, and I think that will be done in an hour or two. I used the most recent readings to determine the pH of each lot to adjust the dosage. I won’t use wicks because they are not precise enough.”

The biologist was referring to a technique dating from the 18
^th
century that was still in use. Sulfur candles, introduced by the Dutch, were nothing more than wicks dipped in sulfur that produced a sanitizing gas when burned in wine barrels. Cooker had often used them to eliminate germs and minimize their effect. He knew the advantages and limitations of this system, which had been used to save some great wines while preserving their purity and aromatic characteristics.

“What method do you suggest?” he asked.

“I will use effervescent sulfur that allows for more precise dosing. It is easier, although the trouble with metabisulfite discs is homogenous distribution of the sodium dioxide. We’ll have to stir from time to time. Mr. Massepain can make sure the lees get in suspension on a daily basis.”

“Virgile will stop by and do it, don’t worry,” Cooker said. “He will also take samples from the tanks and bring them to the lab so you can monitor the treatment.”

“As you wish,” Alexandrine answered without looking at the assistant.

Benjamin wished his biologist luck and then motioned to Denis and Virgile to follow him.

“That woman is a gem,” he said softly. “But honestly, I prefer sparing you another presentation about yeast dosing, active ingredients, gauging antiseptics and all those damn molecules. They are enough to make you hate wine.”

The Moniales estate owner would have chuckled, were the situation not so serious, and Virgile held back a quiet laugh himself for fear of appearing mean-spirited. “Denis, I’m going to talk to you as a friend and certainly not as a client,” the winemaker said suddenly. “In any case, you’re not a client, and you never will be. Don’t even expect to get a bill!”

“But I insist!” Massepain said firmly.

“We can talk about that later. We have another matter to discuss. I would like you to tell me very frankly if you have had any trouble with a member of your staff.”

“No, not at all. I even gave some raises not so long ago. Overall, my employees are not complaining, and I must say that I have been very touched by their reaction to this problem.”

“Are you absolutely sure there hasn’t been any problem?”

“No, I told you. You have seen their attitude. Everyone is working late and not counting their hours.”

“Who is responsible for the cellar keys and the security system?”

“Why are you asking me all these question?” Massepain asked.

“Answer me. Who has the keys? Who knows the code to the alarm?”

“Two of us: the steward and I.”

“Nobody else? Not even your secretary?”

“No. And I don’t even want to hear what you are trying to insinuate. Jean Laborde has been my steward for years. He’s a wonderful man and has my total trust. It sounds like you …”

“I have to, Denis,” interrupted Benjamin. “We are more and more convinced that this infection did not get here on its own. I don’t want to make any accusations, but it could be an act of treachery. Virgile agrees with me, isn’t that so?”

The assistant nodded, without commenting.

“But you’ve seen infections like this in other cellars, haven’t you?” Denis Massepain asked. “This is something that happens to others. It was my turn.”

“This is true,” acquiesced the winemaker. “And I won’t tell you the names of the estates where I’ve had to intervene. But each time, it was a result of negligence or questionable sanitation. That is totally impossible here.”

“What do you plan to do then?”

“Have there been any people visiting the estate recently who had access to the cellars? Reporters? Salespeople? Interns? Visitors? You get the picture, any comings and goings from people outside the estate?”

“There was a magazine reporter this winter, with a photographer. They interviewed me for an article, but we only went through the cellars to take some pictures. That’s all.”

“Have there been any visitors?”

“Very few, and they stayed mainly in the tasting room. I don’t like to have people in the barrel room. Most of the time it is locked, as you know.”

“Have there been any interns from the wine school? You must get some in from time to time.”

“I’ve had four since last year, each for a month and no longer. You know that if you really want to train young people, you need to take time, and I don’t have a lot of it to spare. We don’t have enough staff.”

“What became of these interns? Have you seen them since?”

“What do I know? Some must have graduated, and others are probably still at school.”

“Could you give me their names, along with the members of your usual staff and their addresses?”

“My secretary will have all that information. Follow me.”

They went to the reception area near the entrance gate. They climbed the stairs, consulted a large green notebook and made several photocopies that Benjamin gave to Virgile.

When they got back to the Mercedes, they heard thunder. The ocean must have been rumbling in the distance. A west wind carried rolling clouds that were dark and threatening. A few heavy drops of cold rain came down on the two men, who hurried to put the convertible top up. The assistant held the handful of photocopies over his head to protect himself. Cooker grabbed them out of his hands and sheltered them under his jacket. The pavement gave off the sweet aroma of wet dust.

“Hurry, Virgile! Get this car covered up. This is good weather for winemakers. Here you could say ‘April showers, good for wine and flowers.’ ”