4

A day had not gone by without a phone call from Virgile. Cooker suspected that it was a feeling of helplessness, rather than thoughtfulness, prompting his assistant’s calls. He sensed Virgile worried that the convalescence would drag on and that he couldn’t carry on all by himself. After all, Cooker was overly sensitive, as much as he tried to hide it behind an easy-going attitude or the opposite, a foul temper. He was also impulsive and never went half way. This supposed retreat in the country, which he had decided on without really consulting Virgile, would inevitably have some repercussions.

And to be quite frank, rest and relaxation were not Cooker’s strong points. The sooner he got back to his office on the Allées de Tourny in Bordeaux, the sooner he would return to his usual witty, strong-minded self. Furthermore, over the past two weeks, samples had been piling up in the lab, and a number of his loyal customers had been trying to get in touch with him. He was being summoned not only to South Africa and Argentina but also to Burgundy and near Rasteau in Provence, where, according to his lab tech Alexandrine de la Palussière, there were a few pending emergencies. Without Cooker, day-to-day business was turning into a mess.

“Sir, you’re wanted all over the place.”

“That’s giving me too much credit. For now, I’m doing a Vouvray cure. Once I’ve gotten through it, perhaps, my dear Virgile, I will focus on the small concerns of Cooker & Co. As for Rasteau, you should go, my good man. And give me a report.”

Before hanging up, Cooker added, “By the way, Virgile, from now on, you are forbidden to say anything bad about the police. This morning, I learned that they found my convertible. It got picked up in Leipzig!”

“Where’s that?”

“In Germany.”

“You can’t expect me to know the names of twenty-five hundred grape varieties and also be skilled in geography,” Virgile said, clearly pleased with the news.

“I agree, but you could improve very quickly by taking the first plane to Berlin and bringing my favorite toy home, if you see what I mean.”

“Which implies that I swing by the Loire Valley to pick you up, I gather.”

“You’re a quick learner. Go strut your stuff across the Rhine.”

“What about Rasteau?”

“Rasteau can wait. They are as close to paradise as you can get. Nature serves them well. Isn’t patience the mother of all virtues? Use that as an excuse when you talk to the head of the co-op. He’s a friend of mine, another one of those winemakers who left Bordeaux, selling his soul to the devil in Provence.”

Virgile laughed. He seemed to be pleased with the turn of events and the tone of the conversation. “I’ll be at La Potinière in under two days.”

“It’s Tortinière, Virgile. Clean your ears, for God’s sake.”

“And what about your notebook? Still no news?”

“Don’t even mention it.”

Changing the subject, Cooker asked, “Anything new in Bordeaux?”

“Yes, in fact, the shop La Vinothèque de Dionysos on Cours de l’Intendance was robbed last night. It was weird. Just like in Paris, they took only the Angélus.”

“I’m surprised my friend Hubert de Boüard has not called me yet. How many bottles?”

“I don’t know, but it’s your friend Mr. Delfranc, the former cop from Saint-Estèphe, who called the office to tell you. He asked after you and wants you to call him when you have a chance.”

“Nothing else?”

“Oh, yes. Someone broke into Alexandrine de la Palussière’s apartment.”

“What did they take?”

“Nothing. That’s what’s strange about it.”

“It’s not a thief, then, but one of her exes,” Cooker said, sure of himself.

“That’s going a bit far, sir.”

“Women are ghastly to each other, my dear Virgile. You’re too young to know that.”

“Excuse me for being so naïve.”

“I’m not interested in Ms. de la Palussière’s private life. But before you get your ticket for Germany, go sniff around La Vinothèque de Dionysos. I want to know which vintages were stolen, how many bottles, and, for that matter, how the thieves pulled off the heist.”

“Fine, Mr. Cooker,” Virgile said, sounding excited.

“Perfect. I’ll let the authorities in Leipzig know that you are coming, and before you leave, send Alexandrine some flowers from me.”

“Roses?”

“Whatever you like. After all, you’re the one who knows how to communicate with women.”

Cooker cut the conversation short when the hotel owner told him a certain Hubert de Boüard was on one of the hotel’s lines.

“I’ll take it right away,” he said.

An impish look was returning to his eyes.

“Hello, Hubert? I need to give you my cell phone number again so you don’t have to keep calling the front desk. I just heard the news from Virgile. You’ve devised a very clever publicity campaign, my friend. Your wine will be all over the papers tomorrow.”

“Oh… Why do you say that?” The man from Saint-Émilion spoke in a hushed tone, his anxiety seeping through. “Benjamin, I got another one of those messages in the mail today.”

“A message?” Cooker asked, just a bit impatient. “Explain yourself.”

“This morning, I got another card. It was the same as the other day. But this one said, ‘Your Angélus is gone, and you don’t stand a prayer.’ And after that, well—”

“And after that, what?”

“It said, ‘Two from you.’”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“Where was it sent from?”

“Spain. Madrid to be exact.”

Cooker paused. “Two from you? This has to be connected to the heist that took place last night at La Vinothèque de Dionysos in Bordeaux. I can’t say that I’m happy to be the one to break the news.”

“This is unbelievable,” Hubert de Boüard said.

“As was the case with the Place de la Madeleine in Paris, the thieves took only your Angélus. I bet the investigators are going to think you’re behind this. I hope you have a good lawyer.”

“But, Benjamin…”

“I’m not kidding. This is very curious. Do you have any enemies? Be honest with me, Hubert.”

“I swear, Benjamin, I don’t understand this at all. I just hope it’s some kind of prank, a practical joke.”

“This could very well be a practical joke, Hubert. There’s no reason to panic. Let’s just wait and see.”

Cooker promised the Angélus estate owner that he would stop by as soon as he was back in Bordeaux, perhaps as early as the following week.

“What about you, Benjamin? How are you feeling after what happened?”

“Helping out friends like you is restoring my appetite for life. You wouldn’t believe it, but one of the guests at the hotel where I’m supposed to be resting was found murdered on the banks of the Loire, and the concierge has inexplicably disappeared. It’s alarming, isn’t it?”

“My mysterious cards must seem dull in comparison.”

“Don’t be so sure. I wouldn’t let anyone sully the image of Angélus. You know how highly I regard your wine. Actually, I think it’s polite of your robbers to inform you every time they commit a break-in. And, as far as I know, they take only the best years. Connoisseurs. You should be happy, Hubert, at the quality of the people who are getting your fine wines into the news.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“Frankly, you would be wrong to think of them any other way,” Cooker said.

“Perhaps you are right,” the Château Angélus owner said, still a little bit skeptical. “Do you think I should tell the police?”

“Wait for the next card. That way you’ll have ample evidence, and you can minimize the possibility of being treated badly by some dismissive rules-obsessed detective.”

“Before this is all over, I might be saying a few extra prayers myself—I don’t care what the card said.”

“I see you have recovered your sense of humor. Sleep soundly, Mr. de Boüard.”

The winter sun had barely won the duel it had been fighting since the early hours of the day with the layers of fog spread over the Indre. Now its pale rays were sparkling on the lazy river. The winemaker felt like walking to escape the grim atmosphere in the château. He was starting to really miss the Médoc. And he could not get his mind off the Angélus case.

Cooker was used to taking long walks in the vineyards and pine groves in the company of his impertinent dog, Bacchus, but he had underestimated the distance that separated La Tortinière from the banks of the Indre. The path he took—it was the one the concierge had liked so much—ran through the woods, the moor, and pastures where cows grazed nonchalantly. He had dressed warmly and had picked up a hazel tree branch to use as a walking stick, as well as a weapon. Since his attack, he was always on guard. He turned to the right and followed a wall bordering a battalion of poplar trees filled with noisy birds. Otherwise, everything seemed peaceful. Cooker sat down on a worm-eaten fallen tree trunk between two weeping willows whose flimsy branches dipped into the slack waters of the river.

The church bells in Montbazon rang out at noon. Cooker was getting hungry, and his stomach was beginning to growl. High up on the top of the hill, La Tortinière was nothing more than a rock formation surrounded by a luxuriant English garden. Gray wisps of smoke were floating out of the chimneys. The winemaker followed them until they melded with the clouds. A sudden desire to eat roasted perch renewed his energy, and he decided to cut across the fields. He was a little winded and trying not to slip on the wet ground when he saw a tall form under a gnarled apple tree.

Wearing dark pants and a white shirt spattered with mud, Gaétan was staring straight ahead, a hemp rope tight around his neck. There was a surprised look on his bluish, nearly purple face. His mouth was open, and his swollen black tongue was hanging out. At the foot of the tree, the winemaker noticed footprints, as if the boy had hesitated at length before putting an end to his life.