10

A ravenous crowd had descended on La Ferme aux Moines. Benjamin took one look at all the patrons, who just a few hours earlier were in church, begging the Almighty to drive the vine cutter from their land, and wondered if they had been fasting a whole week in their effort to banish the evildoer. More than three hundred people were elbow-to-elbow in the immense refectory, which specialized in buffets.

Massive and rustic-looking wrought-iron chandeliers hung above long wooden tables, where patrons—too eager to dig in to give saying grace a second thought—filled themselves with tartes flambées, braised sauerkraut, and perch in wine sauce. On the walls, three-dimensional accents depicted Benedictine monks and craftsmen going about their daily duties, which involved the fruit of the vine and good food.

Benjamin spotted Bernadette Lefonte eating by herself. He didn’t care to join her, so he worked his way to the other side of the room, found a seat behind a pillar, and tried to avoid making eye contact.

The winemaker wasn’t all that hungry. Without enthusiasm and without even consulting the menu, he ordered a duck and sour cherry terrine and a veal fillet served with girolle mushrooms. Then he pulled out the flier and examined all the power tool’s technical details.

He was familiar with power shears, successor to the pneumatic shears, although he himself had always refused to use them. No doubt the flier bore a message. Someone wanted him to know the identity of the weapon used in the vineyard vandalisms. But not that many people were aware that he was here in Thierenbach and staying at Les Violettes. Benjamin couldn’t think of a single person who could have left it, except…

To accompany his veal fillet and add a note of humor to his meal, Benjamin ordered a glass of Fumant de la Sorcière—Smoking Witch wine made by Pierre Meyer of Orschwihr.

When Virgile burst into the refectory, most of the overdressed customers had left to go strolling along the Route des Crêtes, toward the Alsace hills. It was unseasonably warm outside, far too nice to remain in the dimly lit Ferme aux Moines.

Having finished his wine and dinner, Benjamin was sipping his tepid coffee. He waved to Virgile, who was hurrying toward him, looking famished and excited.

“Boss, I’ve been searching for you for two hours! I checked the hotel first thing. They told me you were ‘on a pilgrimage.’ God knows where. I looked all over and went back to your hotel. Then they told me that you had gone up to your room, only to hurry out a few minutes later.”

“Virgile, are you the one who left me this flier?”

“Yeah,” said the young man, already seated and expecting to be served. “I found it in a hardware store in Colmar yesterday. And I’m afraid I left a trail of mud in the lobby of your hotel. I got my Converses pretty dirty in the vineyards.”

“I presume you haven’t had anything to eat?”

“No. I had coffee with Inspector Fauchié this morning. I’m starving!”

“I’m afraid they’ve stopped serving, Virgile. Maybe you can charm a waitress into scaring up something for you in the kitchen.”

Virgile negotiated a tarte flambée and a Château Monastique beer, but not from the young Alsatian woman with the turned-up nose who was clearing the tables and snuffing out the big candles. Rather, it was a boy with a silly grin who worked in both the kitchen and the dining room who took his order.

Meanwhile, the winemaker had taken a Quai d’Orsay Imperiales from his leather case. The Havana had been carefully rolled in a Cuban factory and brought back into fashion by its French importer. He intended to smoke the cigar later, after Virgile had finished reporting all the conclusions of his independent investigation.

Benjamin took pleasure in watching Virgile devour his extra-large portion of tarte flambée as though he were celebrating the end of Lent. Happy to be reunited with his sidekick, the winemaker ordered a glass of chartreuse liqueur to better enjoy Virgile’s revelations.

But instead of conclusions, the conversation was soon filled with conjecture. Benjamin was angry with himself for not grilling Gaesler the morning he visited the café. Now he’d have to start from scratch. He was inclined to believe that the Ammerschwihr vandalism, along with the others, had nothing to do with the war. But he hadn’t ruled out the possibility. And Roch didn’t have a clue. He had abandoned the lead altogether, saying any suspected culprits were far too old.

“In the countryside, Virgile, grudges can go on for generations, and it’s always the most disreputable family member who refuels an old quarrel. A grudge over a torn-down boundary marker, a blind horse sold at full price, or a grape picker who abandoned a neighbor’s daughter can be passed down from grandfather, to son, and finally to grandson. Some grudges can go back much further. As Paul Gauguin said, ‘Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.’”

“You’re telling me? I know all about resentment in rural life.”

“Of course you do, but you’re too good-hearted, son, to understand the rancor that motivates those the world rejects.”

“Still, there’s no evidence to show that any of those destroyed vines were owned by the descendants of collaborators. Fauchié is clear on that point. The Kipsherrers in Eguisheim bought their property ten years ago, after making a fortune in the Yellow Valley in Australia. The Flancks had two family members who died at Buchenwald. I don’t think you can accuse them of sleeping with the enemy. No, boss, following that lead will get us nowhere. So we’re left with the weapon as our lead.”

“Agreed,” Benjamin said. “But Roch isn’t about to call in all the owners of power shears. Only catching someone in the act will save him.”

“A little lesson on viticulture, boss. How many acres of vineyards are there in Alsace?”

Benjamin appreciated his assistant’s quick thinking and didn’t take offense when his youthful manner bordered on insolence.

“I’d say a little over thirty-seven thousand acres,” the winemaker replied.

“Precisely! You wouldn’t happen to be the creator of France’s most authoritative guidebook on wines, would you?”

Benjamin smiled and looked around. La Ferme aux Moines had emptied out.

“Let’s go for a walk, Virgile. I’d like to enjoy my cigar, and I want to take another look at the church.”

Benjamin blinked in the bright sunlight. As they headed toward the church, its onion dome gleaming, the winemaker and his assistant continued to discuss the case.

“I understand Roch has called for reinforcements,” Benjamin said. “It seems this matter is greatly irritating the higher-ups in Paris. The minister of the interior was summoned by the prime minister just this morning.”

“So?” asked Virgile.

“So, I don’t think that a Mass like this morning’s will make any difference. I think our madman will either take a break, or else he’ll walk into the lion’s den.”

“I’m willing to bet he’ll strike again. What will you wager, boss?”

“I’d bet a bottle of Albert Seltz’s Zotzenberg grand cru sylvaner—late harvest,” Benjamin answered before taking two puffs of his Imperiales. They had reached the square in front of the basilica.

“Do you want to ruin me, boss?”

“One must either be sure of his instincts or keep quiet,” Benjamin answered.

“I’d agree with you on that score. But some people’s instincts are way off. Take Roch. His men busted that young hunter and then had to release him. The poor fellow was just rendezvousing behind the chapel of the Quatorze-Auxiliaires. Not exactly a good place to screw, if you ask me. He accidentally set off the bird cannon. That’s why they went after him.”

“He set off the bird cannon? That part of the story wasn’t in the news. You have some good sources, Virgile.”

“Fauchié told me this morning. Yeah, there are so many birds up there trying to loot the grapes, they installed those repeaters near the chapel to scare them away. Considering the price of a bottle of grand cru Steinklotz, you can imagine the damage the birds can do.”

The winemaker nodded. “I’m glad the boy was cleared so quickly.”

“It seems he had more than one thing going for him. And they wound up causing our gendarme a lot of embarrassment,” Virgile said. “The hunter is also a volunteer firefighter, and the night the vines in Ammerschwihr were attacked, he was called to an accident in some godforsaken place to extricate a poor guy from his car. As for the other…”

“Yes?” Benjamin urged his assistant on as he played with his cigar.

“The woman he was with was none other than the wife of the president of the local wine cellar. It was a big scandal. Said president convinced Roch that the guy in question was the one he was looking for. And Roch didn’t bother to do his legwork. All he wanted to do was appease the prefecture. But it backfired, and the higher-ups were very unhappy when they learned what Roch was doing. I think you were right when you predicted that he would soon end his career in Lozère or in Guyana.”

“What does Fauchié think of Roch?”

“In my opinion, he doesn’t hold him in high esteem.”

“Perfect. Tomorrow, let’s go back to Colmar. I know there are a few samples waiting for me at Le Maréchal. And then we’ll decide.”

“Why not go back right now?” Virgile asked.

“Because you don’t turn down the opportunity to spend a night at Les Violettes. Also, I’d like to show you the owner’s collection of roadsters. Real gems, with engines that run like clockwork. And since there aren’t any nightclubs for twenty miles around, I’m sure you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

“That’s a plan,” Virgile agreed.

“Glad to hear it.”

No sooner had Benjamin said this than he started feeling woozy. He lost his footing as he began climbing the stairs to the church, and a second later he was sprawled at his assistant’s feet.

“Are you all right, boss? That was a nasty spill.”

Virgile helped the winemaker get back on his feet. Benjamin felt his left hip and elbow, brushed off his Loden, and didn’t bother to pick up his half-consumed cigar, which had rolled like a Musketeer’s rapier to the bottom of the monumental staircase.

“I seem to be in one piece, although I’ll probably have a bruise or two tomorrow.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, Virgile, nothing. Just a little dizzy spell…”

“Are you sure? You didn’t break anything? This streak of bad luck is lasting a bit too long, if you ask me.”

“I’m fine. Let’s just go back to the hotel.”

“You seem to be limping, boss.”

“As I said, Virgile, I’m fine!”

Annoyed, Benjamin declined Virgile’s invitation to take his rented car back to the hotel.

“I’ll just walk, Virgile. The hotel’s close by. You go on ahead of me.”

Benjamin waved his assistant good-bye and waited for him to take off before he started walking back to Les Violettes. He didn’t want Virgile to see that he was, indeed, limping.