Deadly Tasting (7 page)

“Getting back to Jules-Ernest Grémillon,” Benjamin hurriedly interceded, giving Virgile a moment to collect himself. “Do you know what role he played in the organizations he belonged to?”

“He didn’t have any important duties. He was pretty much at the bottom of the ladder. He put up posters and did some security work. He was an underling. In any case, it doesn’t appear that he was involved in any sordid business, led any activities, or disseminated propaganda other than what was on the posters he put up.”

“A gofer,” Virgile said.

“You got that right. At the time, there was covert fund-raising and some extortion. These organizations needed money, and they often broke up or became weakened for lack of funds.”

“Do you have anything else on him?” Benjamin asked.

“No, absolutely nothing on Grémillon and even less on Armand Jouvenaze. That guy is nowhere to be found. I could find no affiliation with any movement, no evidence that he ever paid membership dues, or any mention of him on attendance lists. His name never appears on the documents I could get my hands on. I do, however, have some information that will be of interest to you regarding Émile Chaussagne. He’s in an entirely different category! He was an excellent student at Périgueux High School and a promising law student at the University of Bordeaux until he decided to lend his talents to the French Popular Party and become one of its leaders. He diligently visited the committee room on the Rue Sainte-Catherine and often delivered articles to the movement’s two news organizations, sometimes
Le Cri du people,
but especially
L’Assaut
, which had a circulation of barely two thousand but managed to churn out tons of hate-filled propaganda. I have here, as proof, an article from July 18, 1942, which reveals his state of mind. ‘It took the June 7 measure ordering Jews to wear the yellow star to get a clear picture of how many inhabit the area. Let’s deny Jews access to the main thoroughfares of our city. Deny them access to the trams. Take away their property for the benefit of the bombing victims.’”

“There was already a tramway at that time?” Virgile asked, looking up.

“Yes, even on that point, history is confusing,” Benjamin said. He tried to look Renaud in the eye through his thick glasses. “Let’s just hope history does not repeat itself! Listening to you, young man, one gets the impression that Bordeaux simply acquiesced to all the grim oppression without attempting any counterforce at all.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Cooker, there were also people who rose up against the occupiers, the economic plunder and food shortages, the Milice, the roundups, and the forced labor. You know the people of this region. How could they not react? Spontaneous groups and clandestine networks sprang up, but unfortunately, they were harshly repressed. It’s too long a story, but there were leaks, denunciations, and betrayals that undermined the local Resistance movements. I’ll spare you the details, but don’t forget that the Gestapo played its hand well, and the Resistance fighters in Bordeaux could not hold out. There were also great men in this city’s history who acted with dignity. I’m sure you must know the incredible story of Aristide de Sousa Mendès.”

Benjamin had never heard of the man. He was surprised, considering the length of time he had lived in the region and his interest in its history. Renaud explained.

“Sousa Mendès was the consul from Portugal,” he said. “When the first German convoys arrived in town, there was unbelievable chaos. We have a few pictures of it, notably on the Pont de Pierre, or Stone Bridge, and I guarantee there were never any traffic jams like it, even during construction of the tramway. Everyone was trying to escape, especially the Jews, whether French or Eastern European. There were also stateless people whose nationality was contested or disputed, a heterogeneous population that didn’t have the means to obtain visas. The Portuguese consul’s office at 14 Quai Louis-XVIII was under siege, and Sousa Mendès was suddenly faced with an enormous moral dilemma. His country was under the thumb of António de Oliveira Salazar. It was an extremely repressive regime. Officially, Portugal was neutral, and Salazar was under orders not to intervene in any occupation activities. Sousa Mendès, however, could not bear the desperate situation of the people who looked to him for help. How could this traditional family man, father of fourteen, and fervent Catholic go against orders that came from a place that was much higher than Salazar—from God Himself?

“Sousa Mendès went off for three days to contemplate the terrifying dilemma he faced, and I believe he did a lot of praying. Then, for two weeks, he traveled from Bordeaux and Bayonne to Biarritz and Hendaye. He handed out passes round the clock. He signed and stamped tirelessly, over and over again, without stopping—on the hoods of cars, on suitcases, in makeshift offices, on loose-leaf paper. When there was no paper left, he wrote visas on the pages of magazines and newspapers. He single-handedly saved some thirty thousand Jews. Do you realize? Thirty
thousand human beings with only a pen for a weapon!

“His whole life was upended by this decision, which he made freely. He was falsely accused of taking money for the visas he granted. Sousa Mendès died in poverty, forgotten and ostracized by Portuguese society. But he never regretted his acts of disobedience. In 1961, a tree was planted in honor of Sousa Mendès in the Allée des Justes in Jerusalem. But it wasn’t until 1994, after years of silence, that a bust and a commemorative plaque were erected in his memory in Bordeaux. And even then, do you know where it is? In the middle of nowhere, in some obscure corner of Mériadeck. He deserved at least to be recognized at the place where he initially resisted: on the banks of the Garonne!”

Renaud’s voice remained suspended in heavy silence. To Benjamin, the apartment felt cut off from the rest of the world, isolated behind the thick velour curtains, numb and frozen in time under the dusty chandelier crystals and faded silk embroidery.

“That’s a moving story,” Benjamin finally murmured. “It reminds me of a simple and enchanting line by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa: “‘My head aches, and the universe aches, as well.’”

Before leaving, Benjamin agreed to take a look at Renaud’s collection of military paraphernalia in a small area off the living room. Behind the glass cabinets were dozens of medals, gold braids and epaulettes, and ancient arms, some of which were rare pieces from the Napoleonic era. The most impressive specimens seemed to be a medal of merit, the Blue Max, the highest German distinction from the end of the nineteenth century, and a feldgrau, a Prussian officer’s uniform. The dark gray of the coat set off the barely intact decorations. Benjamin pretended to admire them while looking repeatedly at his watch. He couldn’t stay any longer. When Benjamin and Virgile left the apartment, Renaud was still wearing his raincoat.

8

All Saints Day was approaching, and autumn had finally arrived in Aquitaine. The last hints of summer had been swept away by strong southwesterly winds. The warm air, which had held on until then, had given way to a wet chill that turned the cheeks pink and swelled the fingers. With their coat collars turned up to their ears and their hands plunged deep in their pockets, Benjamin and Virgile stood side by side among the graves in the Libourne cemetery. They were in front of another shattered headstone. Benjamin tried to suppress a sly grin as he pulled a banana out of his Loden. It was hard not to react to Inspector Barbaroux’s stupefied look.

“Excuse me,” he said as he slowly peeled the fruit. “I am in the middle of a diet, and today I am feasting. I am allowed to have three bananas.”

“Go right ahead,” the inspector answered. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Since this morning, all I’ve heard about is the black market, hardships, ration cards, and poor people starving to death, and here I am complaining about the low-calorie diet my wife is inflicting on me because I’ve had the luxury of overindulging for months, if not years.”

“Do you really need to diet?” the inspector asked, passing a hand over his paunch.

“So it seems. Too many restaurant meals, not to mention the wines that I must drink because sometimes it’s a sin to spit it out. I’ve put on some pounds.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s true. There wasn’t much need for diets during the occupation. It was easy to keep a girlish figure in those days.”

“I don’t really appreciate your sense of humor, Inspector. I can’t bring myself to joke about such things.”

“Sorry. I admit I’m not very witty. And yesterday afternoon I wasn’t very considerate either. Édouard Prébourg’s corpse made me want to puke. But in this line of work, you see so much crap, you have to develop a thick skin. The best way to do that is to joke about it.”

“I understand,” Benjamin said as he savored the taste and smell of his banana. He sent up an inaudible thank-you for this moment of mercy in his barely tolerable eating regimen. “I brought along my assistant, Virgile Lanssien, who was with me the other day. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not in the least. I assume he’s been with you in this business from the beginning.”

“Absolutely. He knows about all of it, and I can vouch for his discretion. You know it’s one of the golden rules of Cooker & Co.” Benjamin fully realized his assistant was catching every word.

“Okay, Mr. Cooker. Let’s not beat around the bush. You know exactly what must have happened here. Look at this shit!”

Another grave site had been wrecked, just as Armand Jouvenaze’s had been. The white marble plaque, a ceramic wreath, and two black stone vases had been smashed. The headstone was in two pieces. And twelve wine glasses, five of them filled with red wine, had been placed in a semicircle at the edge of the grave. There was also the red paint, but it was more muted. And instead of the word Nazi, there were two angular
s
’s, made to look like lightning strikes. They covered the first letter of the last name:

JEAN SAUVETERRE

1914–1959

“I’m supposed to conclude that this Sauveterre was an SS officer?” Benjamin asked.

“That would be a bit hasty, I think. Maybe he wasn’t any more an SS officer than Jouvenaze was a Nazi. We’re dealing with a smart aleck who keeps giving us messages and doesn’t tell us too much. He wants to keep us intrigued while he goes on wrecking havoc.”

“One thing is sure: he can’t help committing his murders and desecrations without giving them some meaning.”

“Why do you say that? Do you have an idea, perhaps?”

“No more than you do.”

“Listen, Mr. Cooker, let’s stop playing these idiotic games. I know very well that you’ve been nosing around at Duboyne de Ladonnet’s. You were seen leaving his place just this morning.”

“How do you know that? Are you having me followed?”

“It’s not worth my time. Who do you take me for?”

“Well then, who told you we met with this young man, who, by the way, is quite a scholar?”

“There are no secrets in Bordeaux. Let’s just say that I hear what people say, and gossip keeps doing its thing. At any rate, we’re not here at the Libourne cemetery to talk about this.”

“Do I have to do another tasting?” Benjamin asked, peering at the sky. It was beginning to darken with clouds.

“No, we don’t care. I’ll have the samples sent to your office and to your winemaker friend, the famous Depardieu.”

“It’s Dubourdieu, Inspector,” Virgile said.

“It’s all the same to me,” Barbaroux grumbled. “I tell you, we don’t care about this wine. Whether it’s a grand cru or a two-buck chuck, it has no bearing!”

“Allow me to have an opinion that’s a bit different,” Benjamin said.

“Do you have any solid reason to say that?” the inspector asked without waiting for an answer. “Are there any new developments? I want you to know that at this very moment, two of my men are talking to Duboyne de Ladonnet. In a few short hours, their report will be on my desk. I bet they’ll find out exactly what you did.”

“He had information on the first two victims but nothing at all on Jouvenaze, who is buried nearby,” Virgile said. His tone was full of authority. He was letting the inspector know that he was to be taken as seriously as his boss. Benjamin could see that. The captain shot Virgile a surprised and amused look.

“He’s a strange fellow, that Duboyne,” Barbaroux grumbled as he continued to stare at Virgile.

Now Benjamin was amused. It was clear that the arrogant captain was confronting Virgile, waiting for him to lower his eyes first. Virgile, apparently aware of the inspector’s maneuver, refused. Barbaroux finally turned back to Benjamin.

“I’ve been watching him hang around the city hall archives for quite a while now, interrogating the last people who lived through World War Two, stirring up stacks of dusty documents. It seems he’s trying to prove his grandfather’s innocence, although he was embroiled in some dark tale of paintings that were stolen for the Krauts. He’s claiming that he wants to honor the memory of his grandfather, but by slaving away on this dossier, he’ll end up ruining his maritime insurance company. I don’t know how he finds the time to do all that futile research. Wouldn’t it look great, the frigging Duboyne de Ladonnet coat of arms, if the heir caused a bankruptcy by screwing around with his grandpa’s legacy? He might be a smart guy and a competent historian, but he’s just as much of a troublemaker as the rest of them. That was a good idea you had to contact him like that.”

“Do you mean that?” Benjamin asked, shocked.

“Do I look like I’m kidding? You have intuition, as we all know, and I have nothing better to do than trail you. But be careful, Mr. Cooker. Don’t ever try to hide anything from me again!”

“I hope you didn’t have us come here from Bordeaux to give us a lecture or try to intimidate us with unfounded accusations, Inspector.”

“Don’t be angry. There’s nothing threatening in what I’m saying. It’s just that it’s impossible to sit down calmly with you and discuss our little matter. You seem elusive and not very available. Yesterday you popped in at Édouard Prébourg’s place, and then you took off as soon as you finished tasting the wine. You seem to be avoiding me right now. So I might as well meet you informally.”

“So, let me get this straight; this new desecration is rather opportune? Do you realize I have a job, too, and duties, urgent matters, employees to manage and pay? I don’t imagine your office is sending me a check at the end of the month.”

Barbaroux burst out laughing. “You’re quite right, Mr. Cooker, because you would be disappointed by the amount.”

“Don’t be so sure. I find this case very rewarding. And with some luck, we’ll eventually reach a settlement.”

“You do have a way with words. You always surprise me, Mr. Cooker. Observing you is like being at the theater!”

Benjamin remained stone-faced. He could see Virgile pursing his lips to keep from laughing.

“Ah, there he is, finally!” Barbaroux said when he spied a man walking toward them from a distance. “A good fifteen minutes late, that guy! We’ve discovered that the two graves are in the same family plot. Jouvenaze and Sauveterre were first cousins. The cemetery office located the only remaining family member in the region. He’s Armand’s nephew, Dominique Jouvenaze. It’s lucky they were able to find him so quickly.”

The man was walking slowly. He was wearing a navy pea coat, rust-colored corduroy pants that were too short, and tan work boots. He had an unopened black umbrella slung like a shotgun over his shoulder. The red, green, navy, and yellow tartan scarf around the man’s neck was a vivid counterpoint to the otherwise drab look.

Benjamin and Virgile greeted him with a nod and discreetly stepped aside. Benjamin was careful, however, to remain close enough to hear the conversation between the inspector and Arnaud Jouvenaze’s nephew.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Barbaroux said with a smile that looked forced. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, but this is a serious matter.”

“You didn’t bother me at all, Inspector. I’ve been retired for two years, so I have all the time in the world.”

“Lucky man! At least, that’s what they say about retirement.”

“Indeed, I didn’t expect such a mess when your officer called me this morning. He told me about it.”

“Unfortunately, you’ll have to file a police report. It’s the second grave site in your family that we’ve found vandalized.”

“I read in yesterday’s paper that a grave had been desecrated, but since the deceased’s name wasn’t in the article, I had no idea that it had anything to do with my family. A grave desecration is shocking enough, but that my family was targeted makes it especially upsetting. Will I really have to file a police report?”

“I’ll need a statement from you, at least,” Barbaroux said. “If we find out who did this, your statement and the report will be essential for any charges we file. Your insurance company will also need what you give us to process your claims and cover the damage. But first, can you tell me about the relationship between the two decedents?”

Dominique Jouvenaze looked fatigued. Benjamin surmised that he was in his late sixties or early seventies, but his slouch made him seem much older. With his tartan scarf pulled up to fend off the chill, he spoke in a monotone. He took his time explaining everything in detail. Jouvenaze gave the appearance of a man who was plumbing the depths of his memory to exhume various pieces of the past.

Jouvenaze told the inspector that his uncle Armand had died of cancer. The illness had dragged on, and he had spent his final days in a Libourne hospital. He was a bachelor his entire life and lived in a modest house. He worked as a farmhand on properties in Pomerol and Lalande de Pomerol. He had acquaintances at a bar in Catusseau, but as far as his nephew knew, the man didn’t have any good friends or other close relationships.

The man also admitted that this information was gleaned from what he had been told or had overheard as a child. He had never been allowed to speak to his solitary and taciturn uncle, even though they were neighbors. His parents, Antoine and Simone, both recently deceased, had given him, his brother, and his twin sister strict instructions to never talk to the man. Dominique’s parents had much earlier broken off all contact with certain family members.

As for Jean Sauveterre, Jouvenaze had never even met him. He had died in a plane crash in 1959. The DC7 flight from Paris to Abidjan had crashed in a pine forest just outside Bordeaux. It was the biggest plane crash France had ever known. There were fifty-three charred victims, and the blaze had destroyed a good part of the woods.

When the inspector questioned Jouvenaze about the two men’s political ties, he said he had no idea why the word Nazi and the SS insignia were left on the tombstones. He had never heard any talk of Nazis or the elite guard when he was growing up, other than what his parents told him about the war. It had to be random graffiti left by some delinquent kids from Libourne, Jouvenaze told the detective.

“All said and done, I’m left to take care of this whole thing, even though these two guys were perfect strangers to me,” he wearily concluded. “I have to tell my brother and sister, who live in Paris, and figure out what to do about the graves. And then there’s the matter of Uncle Armand’s house, which we inherited when our parents died.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father died of a heart attack a year ago, and my mother died three months later. When they inherited Armand’s house in 1998, they didn’t even open it or put it up for sale. It’s been closed since then, and we intend to get rid of it.”

“And you’ve never taken the time to go and look at it?” Barbaroux asked.

“I’ve been waiting for my brother and sister to come down. This may sound odd to you, but I have qualms about going in there all by myself. My parents pounded it into my siblings and me that we weren’t supposed to have anything to do with my uncle. Even now I feel like I’m going against their wishes.”

“According to the information I got from the city, it’s in the town of Pomerol, right?”

“Yes, in a place called Petite Racine, at the crossroads of Libourne, Pomerol, and Catusseau. It’s not very hard to find.”

Large drops of rain were beginning to pelt the cemetery. With a handshake, the inspector ended his meeting with Jouvenaze. Benjamin saw the man grimace as he extracted his hand from Barbaroux’s grip. The man had an unpleasant handshake. His palm was sweaty, and his grip was strong enough to break fingers. Jouvenaze promised to give his official statement as quickly as possible. He opened his umbrella and started walking away. A few seconds later, a heavy gust of wind ripped through the cemetery, flipping Jouvenaze’s umbrella inside out. Virgile shivered and pulled his collar even higher as he watched the man struggle with his umbrella in the distance. When Virgile turned back to the grave, rainwater was running down his forehead. He wiped it dry with the back of his hand.