Dying on the Vine (18 page)

He was starting to laugh again and argue that statement, but he caught my eye and thought better of it.

“Do you want to come and get cleaned up?” he asked instead.

“Thanks, but I'd better go back to the auberge and clean up properly.”

He nodded. “I'll try my luck a little longer, then. I saw some fat quail up here but haven't been able to get any yet.”

“Those pigs …”

“Yes?”

“They live in the caves?”

“They were Emil's. He bought them some time ago. They were extremely attached to him—they are very friendly animals.”

“What did you think about his death?”

He got a faraway look in his eye and avoided my gaze.

“That couldn't have been his own pigs. They are all female, they don't have tusks. He must have run into a real sanglier—a wild one.” He brought his attention back to me. “Were you looking for something in the caves?”

“Just curious,” I said. “Did the Romans really use them for storage?”

“So they say.” Like many rural French, history in his own backyard didn't interest him much.

“The Templars too?”

“People come looking for their treasure.” He sounded dismissive.

“Do they ever find any?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? If you found any, would you tell?”

He had a point there. He pulled out a couple of shotgun shells and snapped them home.

“I must get on with my hunting now. Good day to you.”

Once again, I had to run the gauntlet to get to my room without raising an alarm. I had a warm, relaxing bath, firmly resisted the idea of a glass of champagne, and phoned Sir Charles.

“It's not two weeks already, is it?” were his first words. His next were a short time later after I had described Fox's death.

“An accident,” he said anxiously. “Nothing to do with our business.”

“It's not clear yet.”

“What's all this dowsing?” he wanted to know. “Never heard of a vineyard hiring a dowser,” he muttered after I had told him what I knew of Fox's activities.

“Nor did I. Could be unconnected.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Anything else?”

I thought it better not to worry him with tales of beehives falling from me sky and near drowning in a vat of red wine. As for being attacked by a herd of killer sangliers and nearly having my head blown off by a shotgun—well, there are just some things an investigator doesn't report.

I went down for a swim, changed, and went into the lounge, where I ordered an atypical scotch and soda. I settled down with it in a comfortable armchair and looked through a pile of magazines on the table. My browsing came to an abrupt stop as I came upon an article headlined “Seeking the Treasure of the Templars.” It was in a
National Geographic
-style publication and the whole issue was devoted to the myth and legend of Provence. I recalled only fragments about the Templars and this was an excellent summary of their history.

They were monks who were also warriors. They protected pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land during the first Crusades. They took their name from the Temple in Jerusalem, swearing to win it back for Christianity. By the time of the later Crusades, they were the most powerful organization in Europe. They paid no taxes and were richer than most countries.

Inevitably, as their power and wealth increased, envious eyes were cast upon them, and King Philip of France, his own finances in disastrous shape, denounced the Templars as devil worshippers and seized their possessions. Many Templars were killed and others tortured to death. Frequent and determined efforts to find the treasure had been unsuccessful, though there was a lot of truth in Marcel's statement that anyone finding any of it would hardly be likely to let out the news. Metal detectors, ultrasonic beams, X-rays, and other technical equipment had been employed in the search as well as … I reread the phrase twice … “as well as dowsers.”

Had Elwyn Fox been one of those dowsers? Who could have hired him? Had he been killed because of what he had found? I remembered him telling me what a wonderful day he had had the day before. Had he actually found treasure?

Henri, the headwaiter, came to bring the menu and tell me that one of the specials of the day was crayfish, so his recommendation was to start with the
gratin de queues d'ecrevisses.
I told him that he evidently went along with the French proverb that “the best cooking is that which takes into consideration the products of the season.” He beamed and agreed, going on to say that for the next course, the kitchen had just received some
daurades,
a popular Mediterranean fish that is at its best when eaten straight from the sea. Henri proposed it poached in champagne and I concurred. After three attempts on my life, I deserved a good meal.

The main course required a lot of deliberation. Sweetbreads in nantua sauce was a contender, and chicken described as being “in the style of Sacha Guitry” was another. I knew that the great writer and director was a lover of good food, but I didn't know which dish it was that he enjoyed so much that it was named after him.

“And what else can you offer?” I asked blithely.

Henri sighed and proposed beef stroganoff as a subtle rebuke for daring to decline such a sublime presentation. I finally settled on another of the “products of the season”—Partridge à la Valentinoise, which Henri said was roasted until just pink and served with a sauce of meat glaze, wine, Armagnac, fresh cream, and black pepper.

The gratin was a little bland but the
daurades
were perfect. The partridge was excellent, too, though I had pangs of regret for not ordering Sacha Guitry's favorite chicken. A white Châteauneuf-du-Pape went very well with it and I even had a dessert—a soufflé with Grand Marnier. I watched some terrible French television for a while—a soap opera episode in which revelations of incest, blackmail, and betrayal were followed by recrimination, revenge, remorse, and reconciliation. I think the episode ended with a suspicion that the family jewels had been replaced by replicas, but that started me in more speculation about Templar treasure. …

“N
OT RED WINE THIS
time! What happened? You get into street fight?” The Vietnamese girl in the cleaner's in Saint Symphorien grinned as she wrote up a slip. “This may take two days—you very hard on clothes.”

The “Poste Provisoire” of the gendarmerie was not easy to find. Pertois had told me that it was in the primary school, but classes were in session and I had no wish to interrupt the flow of wisdom that was being imparted to French youth.

Finally, I spotted a—well, shack was the only description—a wooden construction with a tricolor flag flying above the door and a shiny new telephone line running into it.

I knocked and went in to find Pertois sitting at a school desk that might have fitted him once but didn't now. His long legs stuck way out in front of it and he had a pile of papers in front of him on the tiny top; other piles were on more desks. Around the walls were shelves, mostly empty, and Pertois waved a hand at them.

“This used to be the book depository for the school. They no longer use it and have kindly loaned it to me as
a poste provisoire.”

He carefully withdrew his legs from the small cramped desk, completing the motion with a flourish like pulling a cork from a bottle. He stretched to his maximum height, which was a full six feet. Behind the round lenses, his eyes were like disks of black coal.

“We haven't been able to find the man who fired the crossbow yet,” he said. “We don't even have a physical description. Can you help? You are the only one who recalls seeing him.”

“I had only a fleeting impression. I couldn't point him out in a lineup.”

“Height? Build?”

“I'm afraid not. In those robes, I don't remember any distinguishing characteristics. He was not exceptionally tall, or short. He wasn't noticeably heavy…”

He nodded, resigned.

“There was one thing though …”

“Yes?” He leaned forward eagerly.

“The way he fired the crossbow—he must have been familiar with it. There was no hesitation or fumbling. He swung it up and fired as if he were well practiced in using it.”

Pertois grunted. “That might be some help. It's not a common accomplishment.” He paused. “You still think he was shooting at you?”

“Fox believed I was threatened and after two attempts on my life, I naturally suspected it was a third when a crossbow bolt seemed to be fired at me.”

“Two
attempts on you?” He fixed me with a piercing stare through his round lenses that plainly said I had been holding out on him. “I fished you out of a wine vat—that was presumably one. You didn't tell me about the other.”

I told him now. He rubbed the top of his short, scrubby black hair in a ruminative gesture as he listened. “I was groggy from sleep when I half-woke and saw this huge thing above me. It looked like a giant insect—like a dragonfly. Naturally, I wasn't going to tell anybody—it would have sounded too absurd.”

“Demoiselle …”
He used the same word that I had used, the French for dragonfly. “That's what they call those aircraft—those flimsy little things that look as if Louis Blériot might have flown them.”

I went on to tell him the rest and about Suvarov. “It was his aircraft,” I concluded, “but he says he wasn't flying it. Says he was in Sophia Antipolis—I suppose that could be checked. I saw him at the festival and he said he was close to finding out who flew it that day.”

Pertois grunted. Abruptly—most of his movements were abrupt and jerky like a marionette—he swept a pile of papers off a desk and waved a hand at it. I sat on the top, not wanting to get trapped in it whereupon school memories might come flooding back. Pertois sat on another. “Two attempts on your life! And now I find you standing next to Elwyn Fox who is shot dead!”

Was this the time to bring up the charge of the sangliers? I thought not.

Pertois shifted his position on the uncomfortable desk top.

“You say you have never heard of Andre Chantier?”

“Not until you asked me about him when we talked in the bar. You said he worked at the Willesford vineyard but left.”

He nodded. “He left, yes, and was found dead a week later.” After a pause he said, “So you can see why I was perturbed to find you standing over a dead body at that same vineyard.”

“I suppose so,” I admitted.

He squinted at me. “And why is someone so determined to kill you? Because you are writing an article in a magazine?”

He had boxed me into a corner very neatly. “Fox warned me,” I said, trying to extricate myself. “How was Chantier killed?” I asked.

“I didn't say he was killed. I said he was found dead. He was drowned.”

“You mean he drowned or he
was
drowned?”

He looked away, pondering how much to tell me. “We had a little luck. As part of a national program, the medical examiner's office was trying out some new methods. These concerned the analysis, of stomach contents and went as far as analyzing water in the stomach and lungs. You see, water varies in different locations. The differences are small but we were able to determine that although Chantier's body was found in Marseille harbor, the water in his lungs was the water of Ajaccio in Corsica.”

“A triumph for French science,” I commented.

“In addition, the forensic people were able to establish the time of death fairly accurately and you didn't have anything to do with it.”

I eased my position on the desk. “I'm glad to hear you … You say you
know I had nothing to do with it?
How?”

“Because you were in Scotland at the time.”

It would have been forgivable if he had looked smug. All I could do was goggle at him.

“How do you know that?”

“Our Sûreté office in Paris talked to Scotland Yard. An inspector there called Hemingway vouched for you. He mentioned your unfortunate habit of having your food investigations become mixed up with criminal activities.”

I probably showed my relief. Better to have my cover blown than be a murder suspect. Pertois continued.

“Chantier's death seemed merely strange at the time, but then the private detective, Morel, began poking into Willesford vineyard affairs. When you found Laplace dead, the vineyard was obviously at the center of the case. I called Willesford in London and asked what you were really doing here. Sir Charles didn't give me much detail but he authorized you to tell me whatever I need to know. You can call him and verify this, of course.”

“Of course,” I said weakly.

“With two—or perhaps three—attempts on your life and now three deaths, you're becoming a one-man crime wave, aren't you?”

“Not me!” I said fervently. “It's this vineyard—”

“My first reaction was to have Sir Charles recall you. This is a murder investigation and it might be better for both us if you were out of it. However, he didn't agree. He reminded me that I am a French policeman and he is a British lord. He pointed out that he would not accept such a—well, such a request.”

“So you're stuck with me,” I said brightly. “We have to cooperate.”

He sniffed. It wasn't the vote of confidence I would have liked but it would have to do. He slid off the desk and stood before me. He said reluctantly, “It also means that I have to confide in you. I am not a gendarme.”

I
INSTINCTIVELY GLANCED AT
the door. Was it locked? Was I trapped in here with an impostor?

“I'm Huitième Bureau,” he said as if that were an explanation.

“I've heard of the ‘Deuxième Bureau,' the famous French Secret Service, but I didn't know you'd got as far as eight.”

“You haven't heard of it,” Pertois said, understandably self-satisfied. “Good, well, our attempts to be … shall we say, discreet, have been successful, then. Wine, as you know, is one of France's most important products. We are still, after many centuries, the world leader in wine production.” It was a point I would enjoy debating with him—but this wasn't the time to do it. “The Huitième Bureau was set up to handle all crimes involved in any way with wine and the business of wine.”