IT WAS A DREAM of a study, most of the books leather-bound and mellow with age and gilt lettering. Subdued orange lamps cast a restful glow and two large globes on floor stands showed the ancient and modern worlds. Masterson indicated a couple of deep leather armchairs and we sat. A waiter appeared and took our orders for coffee and I went along with Masterson’s suggestion of the Ethiopian brand.
I found I was thinking of him as Masterson again, now that we were alone. He leaned back and eyed me with an amused grin.
“It took a long time for you to figure it out, didn’t it?”
“Yes. The meal tonight clinched it, of course. It was not just a meal—it was also a statement.”
He considered that. “I think that sums it up—yes, a statement.”
“Every course contained the truffle,” I said. “But they weren’t just truffles—they were a sublime improvement on the original, they were truffles raised to the nth degree.”
He nodded, pleased. “So what’s your summary?”
“The blue truffle is still a legend, of course and always will be, but we can call this one the blue truffle. Chantier found it—a hybrid, some natural offspring of the finest black truffle with a very much higher percentage of glutamic acid, the component that enables the truffle to accentuate the taste of any food it accompanies. Chantier cooked it for his friend, Emil Laplace.
“Chantier probably knew only that it was a super-truffle but Laplace recognized its potential value and bought some truffle pigs to look for more. It was convenient to spread a rumor about sangliers—that would keep others away and would explain the presence of the pigs. Finding that the truffle grew only on Willesford land, Laplace struck a deal with Arundel to sell it. As he didn’t have the money, Arundel approached you, and he’s been working for you ever since. You probably told him he could take over control of the vineyard when you bought it. At the same time, you were telling Girardet he’d be in charge.”
He regarded me, unperturbed. “What you have been doing is testing out all these truffle dishes by using Le Petit Manoir. I don’t know how much you told Rostaing, but he knew he was onto something good and sent samples to his cousin Tourcoing to try out on the Paris market.”
I paused to let the waiter bring and pour the coffee. Masterson sipped.
“Don’t you find this Ethiopian brand really excellent?” asked Masterson.
I marveled at his complacency but was not going to let him know it.
“Yes. The pity of it all is that you found it necessary to kill several people to develop this blue truffle, sensational as it is.”
Masterson shook his head, slowly and sadly.
“I’m disappointed that you think that of me. I was rather hoping you might join me in this great crusade to bring the food world a breathtaking discovery.” He sipped his coffee approvingly. “I didn’t kill any of those people, you know.”
His barefaced denial took me unawares. “Chantier?” I asked.
“Drowned accidentally.”
“Laplace?”
“Gored by a sanglier.”
“Fox?”
“An accident. A crossbowman stumbled and his weapon discharged. He shouldn’t have had a bolt—”
“Morel?”
“Signs warn against unauthorized prowlers in Herculanum. Those two-thousand-year-old buildings are just not safe.”
I gazed into his face. Somehow, he looked different from my companion at the truffle market. … “You don’t really believe ah that.”.
“Certainly I do.” He gave me an injured look. “I’m Grant Masterson—I haven’t killed anybody.”
I had the creepy feeling that his acquisition of the title of viscomte was segregating his two personalities—and establishing a convenient way of dismissing responsibility. It was probably the same approach he had used with Arundel, others, too, perhaps including Monika.
“You brought in Fox to dowse for truffles …”
Masterson nodded. “The pigs weren’t doing the job. We turned them loose.”
“But then Fox’s dowsing found a large bed of truffles. He was so pleased, he was drinking and talking about it. You had the crossbowman kill him before he could say too much.”
“Professor Rahmani has the task of cultivating the truffle,” said Masterson. “And, d’you know, he may succeed! If he does, I’ll be sorry I let my enthusiasm soar and made those offers for Willesford. Suvarov and his ultralights took care of local transport, of course—with the help of an experienced rally driver.”
He went on in chatty fashion. “The first blue truffles we found had a very short life—we had to rush them to the table. We handle them better now.”
“Your two red herrings worked very well,” I said. “The story of the Treasure of the Templars, the planting of that coin at the pawn shop—that was good. Even better was the tale of the wonderful wine that helped people live to a ripe old age.”
“Everyone wants to believe that’s true,” purred Masterson.
“You had stories spread around about how many old people were in the region. Doctor Selvier was a willing helper too.”
“The doctor likes seeing his name in print.”
“So all the villagers were convinced that Willesford wine helped them live a long time.”
Masterson pulled a wry face. “That was the original intention, but they’re a stubborn lot. Too many of them were not convinced.”
“But they all drink Willesford wine,” I protested, puzzled.
“Of course they do,” grinned Masterson, “but to get them to do it, I had to subsidize the bars, cafes, restaurants … I paid thirty percent of the cost. They didn’t know the money came from me. Arundel made it look like Willesford was doing it to push its own product.”
“When the Peregrine wine was poured at dinner tonight, I knew right away that you own Peregrine.”
“Of course.”
“Yet you subsidized the drinking of Willesford wine. …”
“The Peregrine vineyard is nothing. I bought it on a whim—many men have a dream of owning a vineyard. I thought of expanding it, then I lost interest. When the blue truffle came, the vineyard was a perfect cover. It’s nothing compared to the market for the blue truffle. It will be worth millions, millions!”
For the first time, I saw a gleam in his eye that was not entirely normal. The man was a megalomaniac.
“You already have millions.”
He shook his head vehemently. “You don’t understand! It’s not the money! I’ll have absolute control over the supply of the most powerful flavor enhancer in the world. I’ll make so many people happy—I’ll be able to give them taste sensations like they’ve never known before!”
“You bought the title of the viscomte de Rougefoucault-Labourget,” I said, wanting to bring him down from his gloating.
“I bought the château—the title came with it.”
He was striving to find justification for his actions and I was getting irritated at his high-handed attitude.
“That doesn’t make you nobility. You’re no more a viscomte than I am.”
His eyes flashed and he sat bolt upright.
“My family is French, on my mother’s side. There was a title in the family at one time—it might have been one of the Rougefoucault family who deprived us of it. I was merely claiming my heritage.”
I drank some coffee and tried to slow down. Most of what I had come to see of his elaborate scheme had been correct. As far as I knew, all the interfering elements had been eliminated. Except one …
I drank some more coffee. “You didn’t send Johann Ditter to kill me, I’ll give you that. I just learned today that the bees here are not deadly. The bee lady at the fair here told me that none of the bee varieties in the south of France are deadly unless one has a specific allergy to them.”
It had been quite an instructive day at the fair. On another stand, I had learned from the pig expert that in the region around the vineyards, sanglier hunt singly. The ‘terrifying’ creatures that I had encountered in the cave were certainly in the plural so they must have been friendly pigs as Delorme said. It was while talking to the pig man that the use of pigs as truffle hunters had arisen.
“The bee episode was a warning—though it served the double purpose of getting me in a position where Monika could introduce me to you, quite “accidentally.” When we went to the truffle market in Aupres, you wanted to find out how much I knew.”
He made no reply.
“I knew nothing at that time—I guess you found that out.”
It was a while before he spoke. “I was disappointed. I had hoped we might work together.”
“In killing people?”
It was a reckless thing to say and it was out before I could stop it.
There was a glint in his eye that I wished weren’t there.
“No, you didn’t know anything then,” he said in a tone without emotion. “You were just a nuisance. I supposed you were another nosy parker, come to find out why Morel hadn’t reported. I do so hope you’ll be the last.”
“Morel—yes, he found out, didn’t he?”
He grimaced. “Instead of denouncing me, he wanted money.”
“So you took him on your yacht to Corsica, tried to work a deal with him. It didn’t work so you had one of your men kill him at Herculanum and try to frame Veronique and me for the murder.”
He finished his coffee. I was dragging mine out—I didn’t want to face what might happen next. “The viscomte is having a hunt tomorrow. I know you’ll join us,” he said silkily.
“Hunting what?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“Oh, there’s lots of game around here. Even some—well, some fairly big game.” He smiled without mirth and there was that maniacal flicker again.
A servant came in to say that Captain Gregali wanted to speak to him urgently. Masterson nodded. Gregali came in looking grim and I walked out of the study, leaving Masterson sitting there, unmoving.
One of the uniformed staff was outside the door. He stepped aside to let me pass. Another of them was at the bottom of the stairs and again I racked my brain to figure out why they all had such a similar look. Build, appearance, manner—what was it?
I walked on down the hall toward where I calculated the garages must be. Another of the ubiquitous men in uniform materialized—there had to be an army of them. “Can I help you, monsieur?” he asked politely.
“I’m looking for the garage,” I said in an assertive tone.
“It is here but it is locked at night.”
“I need something from my car.”
“Monsieur le Viscomte has the keys.”
“No one else?”
“No, monsieur, no one.”
I gave him a dismissive nod and went back through the house, across the stone-flagged floor to the front door. It was locked. Another uniformed man appeared.
“I need some fresh air,” I said. “Will you open the door?” He nodded obediently and uncovered a small panel on the wall. He touched buttons and the door swung open.
“How do I get back in?”
“I’ll be here, monsieur,” he said imperturbably.
I strolled outside. The only gate was the one I had entered. Uniformed men patrolled in a tight pattern everywhere. I went back in the house and found Suvarov in the bar. I took him to a corner at the far end away from where most of the other guests were gathered.
“I want to get out of here,” I said. “Tonight.” He stared at me.
“Tonight? Why?”
I hesitated, then gave him the story I had unfolded before Masterson. He listened, becoming increasingly amazed.
“You told him you knew all this? What did he say?”
“He denied having anything to do with the deaths.”
“What about all these people here?”
“They’re all dependent on him, one way or another.”
“Simone isn’t. I brought her here. I know.” He eyed me. “I’m not either—oh, he’s been a good customer but I’d never condone murder.” He paused, then asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Fly me out of here—tonight.”
His eyes widened. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You flew in here.”
“It’s illegal to fly an ultralight at night.”
“What do I care about illegal?” I snapped at him. “My life’s being threatened.”
“It’s not just that. It really is dangerous—ultralights have no navigation system. The pilot can only fly on visual and you can’t see landmarks at night. They have no lights, so other aircraft can’t see them. Worst of all, if there’s no moon, the pilot can’t see the line between earth and sky. This is hilly terrain—no, it’s just too dangerous.
“Why don’t you just take a car?” he suggested. I told him why not.
He shrugged. “I’d like to help you but I don’t see how I can.”
“This is ridiculous. Here I am, knowing I may be murdered tomorrow, and I can’t do anything about it!”
“Did I hear someone mention murder?” a voice asked and Monika came over, detaching herself from a group in the corner. Suvarov glanced sideways at me. “We were talking about the hunt tomorrow,” I replied. “I said hunting is murder.”
She regarded me coolly. “You’re not a sportsman, eh? Well, I think you’ll get something out of it.” She put down her glass. “I want to be sure of being fresh tomorrow so I’m retiring. Good night.”
When she had gone, Suvarov said plaintively, “Listen, I’d like to help you but—well, what can I do?”
“We’ll both try to think of something,” I told him. “See you in the morning.” As I left, I passed the study. I could hear the subdued voices of Monika and Viscount Masterson.
Up in my room, I dragged a chest before the door, put cushions from chairs under the bedspread, and created a fair facsimile of a body in it. I made myself as comfortable as possible in a chair in the corner. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink.
It was a gentle but persistent rapping at the door that woke me. …