The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel (19 page)

“It’s almost unbelievable that a French officer could get into the Soviet defense ministry in the middle of a coup d’état,” said Gilles. Hearing his tone, Fabiola turned to look at him, and the three women stopped their conversation to listen.

“Quite right, it was unthinkable, or it should have been,” said Crimson. “But Gilbert had these amazing contacts and, above all, by day two of the coup he was going in and out with the Patriarch. The old man had just flown in from Paris at Mitterrand’s request. His was one of the few planes they allowed into Soviet airspace. The Patriarch and Akhromeyev were old friends, and the marshal wanted his private channel to the Western leaders, just to reassure them that the coup was a purely internal matter and there’d be no need for any military alerts. Akhromeyev arranged for the Patriarch to fly into one of the military bases, and they took him into Moscow by chopper.”

“I don’t think that is publicly known,” said Gilles. “I know he acted as de Gaulle’s private emissary to the Kremlin but not that he did the same for Mitterrand, nor that he was in touch with the coup leaders.”

“He must have been one of the last people to see Akhromeyev alive. The old man killed himself when it was clear the coup had failed.” Crimson sipped at his Monbazillac. “It’s all history now, a long time ago. And I’ve just remembered something one of our own generals told me after he’d had some meeting with Akhromeyev. The old fellow had two words of English, both of them coming from World War Two. The first was ‘Spam,’ that tinned American meat, and the second was ‘Studebaker,’ the name of an American truck. Akhromeyev said the Red Army could never have got to Berlin without the Spam to eat and the Studebakers to bring up the troops and the supplies. He talked of that Spam with such nostalgia that we arranged to bring him in cans of the stuff. He’d open one and eat it straightaway.”

“It sounds like Proust’s madeleine; that little cake brought back all his memories of childhood when he tasted it,” said Miranda. “And now, who would like coffee?”

“Do you think the Patriarch might give me an interview?” Gilles asked. “A last, unwritten chapter of a French role in ending the Cold War.”

“You can always ask,” said Crimson, rising from the table and inviting them to take their coffee in the sitting room.

Bruno followed, wondering at his growing suspicions of Crimson, a man he’d thought of as a friend. It was all circumstantial, of course, but he was increasingly sure that Gilbert’s death had not been natural, that the roots of his death went back to his years in Moscow, a period in which Crimson had been closely involved. And Crimson not only had the opportunity to spike Gilbert’s drink, he’d also given Gilbert the very flask from which the doomed colonel had taken his final drink. Had it really been the original flask from twenty years ago? Or had Crimson obtained a new one, of the same type, to fill with superproof vodka and give it to Gilbert at the Patriarch’s party?

But what would the motive have been for Gilbert’s death? Were there still any secrets of importance from that Moscow of two decades ago? Or was the motive connected to Gilbert’s trust fund? If so, was Crimson among those who knew of the fund’s existence?

Imogène looked beatifically happy, sitting beside the animal cages at the rear of the veterinary clinic, feeding the fawn on her lap from what looked like a baby’s bottle. She looked up as Bruno entered and smiled a welcome that broadened when she saw Balzac potter in behind his master, sniffing curiously at the mingled scents of deer, dog, cat, disinfectant and fresh straw that filled the long room. Then Balzac saw the fawn and stopped, adopting the classic stance: one paw raised, head cocked, tail straight out and flat behind him, a pose he’d inherited from generations of bassets.

“Some good news,” Bruno said, crouching to stroke Balzac’s neck and hold his collar. He didn’t want his dog leaping playfully at the fawn and terrifying it. Bruno usually listened to the local radio news bulletin as he did his early morning exercises, and there had been two items of interest. The first was that Peyrefitte’s son had been declared out of danger and transferred from the intensive care unit. The second was that the
procureur
had decided not to bring criminal charges against Imogène. He’d called Raquelle on her mobile, and she told him he’d find Imogène at the clinic.

“I think that means you can go back to your home and resume your life,” said Bruno. He did not mention the still-pending threat of a private lawsuit by Peyrefitte, hoping that time and the need to help his children move on from the tragedy might soften Peyrefitte’s anger at his loss. “I presume you’ll take the fawn with you. And this is Balzac; he’s still very young, not much more than a puppy, and very friendly.”

“He’s a lovely dog,” said Imogène. “I remember seeing you with your old basset in the market. Was he Balzac’s father?”

Bruno shook his head. “Balzac was a gift. If I hold him, can he come and say hello to your fawn? He’s very good with other animals, often sleeps in a stable with my horse.”

Imogène nodded slightly warily, and Bruno let Balzac creep forward, sniffing delicately until he was at Imogène’s feet, his head raised to look at the fawn, which was only a little larger than he. The fawn twitched but stayed in place, apparently reassured by the shelter of Imogène’s arms, and slowly turned her head to examine Balzac. The two animals looked curiously at each other, and then the fawn stretched out a long neck and delicately advanced her head toward Balzac. The two noses almost touched and then, as though satisfied the dog represented no threat, the fawn curled back into Imogène’s embrace. Balzac sat on the ground at her feet and continued to stare.

“Yes, I’ll try and take the fawn home but only to see if she’ll be accepted by some of the other deer. One or two are already back,” Imogène said. “Raquelle drove us up to my house on the way here this morning, and I was happy to see it was still standing, despite your fears. If the other deer won’t take her, Raquelle says she can add her to all the other animals they have at Le Thot, and I’ll be able to visit her. She’s been very kind, and at her suggestion I’ve applied for a job in the gift shop there.”

“There’s some more good news,” Bruno said. The mayor had agreed to his suggestion of a small exhibition of Imogène’s wildlife photos in the local tourist information office. There was a large room in the building that was regularly used for shows by local artists, mostly amateurs. “So if you pick out about thirty of your best photos, we’ll get them framed. You might want to get some extra prints made so you can sell them. I’ll certainly want to buy one.”

“That’s wonderful, but I think you’re entitled to one as a gift,” Imogène replied. The bottle was empty, but the deer stayed calmly in her lap as she caressed its back. “Raquelle explained how you’d been trying to help, so I’d like to say thank you, and I apologize for being difficult and taking all my anger and frustration out on you.”

“I’m sorry it worked out the way it did, for you and your deer as well as for Peyrefitte and his family.” Bruno paused and looked around. “Where is Raquelle? I thought I might find her here with you.”

“She’s gone to work. I usually stay on here and help the vet by cleaning out the cages, walking the dogs and generally trying to make myself useful. We picked up my car at the house, so I’m independent again. That reminds me, the vet had an idea I’d like you to think about: deer whistles.”

She explained that the vet had wondered if dog whistles, which operated at a frequency too high for humans to hear, might also be used for deer. Imogène had done some research on the Internet at Raquelle’s house and found that they had become quite common in the United States and in Scandinavia, fitted to cars so the wind of their passage drove the whistle that warned deer to stay away.

“I never thought of that,” Bruno said. “It’s a great idea.” He thought of Jean-Luc who ran the metalwork class at the
collège;
maybe he could get the students to start making some of them for sale. They couldn’t be that complicated, and if demand built up it could be a useful little business for St. Denis.

Imogène beamed at his reaction and said, “I’ll go back up to the house when I’m finished here and start selecting photos.”

Back in his office, with Balzac scouting the familiar corridors of the
mairie
to see which of his master’s colleagues might be offering biscuits that day, Bruno scanned his mail. There was an e-mail from the mayor-
notaire
handling Gilbert’s will, saying he was having trouble contacting the various heirs and asking Bruno to call him. He tried and got a recording. He left a message and began dealing with other office work, wondering vaguely why he’d been called;
notaires
were supposed to be skilled at tracking down elusive heirs. He’d just finished drafting a note to the mayor about Imogène’s deer-whistle plan when the phone rang, and Gilbert’s
notaire
thanked him for his message.

“Let’s get the easy one out of the way first,” said the
notaire.
Had Bruno heard of someone named Larignac, for whom there was a bequest? Bruno recalled the name and told the
notaire
he’d been one of Gilbert’s mechanics in the air force and had tried to get Gilbert into Alcoholics Anonymous. Larignac had lived near Libourne, and he might be able to find a phone number.

“One moment,” he said and from his cupboard took the box in which he’d been collecting various items of potential evidence. He pulled out the plastic bag containing Gilbert’s phone, a cheap model with a standard charging socket. He used his own charger and turned it on. It took a moment before the screen came to life. There was no password protecting it, and he thumbed through the address book to “Larignac” and read the number over his own phone to the
notaire.

“Thank you, but that’s not it. The will names a woman named Nicole Larignac, not a man.”

“There’s no number for her,” said Bruno.

“We’ll put that to one side for a moment. The second one might be impossible, a Russian, Yevgeny Markovitch Garanov?”

“He had a Russian friend called Yevgeny, but the other names aren’t familiar. It may be the same guy.” Bruno was thinking he could easily call Yevgeny and check the surname, but it was probably listed in the phone book. He was just thumbing through it when the
notaire
spoke again.

“I believe the second name in Russian is a patronymic that indicates his father’s name is Marc,” said the
notaire.

“Marc, Marco,” said Bruno, “that must be the Patriarch. Yevgeny is his Russian son.” He scrolled through Gilbert’s address book until he came to “Garanov, Yevgeny,” and it was a local Périgord number. He gave it to the
notaire.

“Thank you, and now my last question is rather different,” the
notaire
said. “I need some advice on a rather-delicate matter. The main bequest is to a member of the Desaix family, and I wrote to the person in question at the address you gave me, but I’ve had no reply.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Victor Desaix was his oldest friend, a man he listed as next of kin after his sister died,” Bruno said. “They were pilots together in the same squadron, and Gilbert was godfather to Victor’s children. I’m sure if you call the vineyard they’ll put you through to him.”

“Thank you, that’s helpful, but it’s also where it becomes delicate. Just one person inherits. Would Chantal Eleanor Rochechouart Desaix be one of Gilbert’s godchildren?”

“She would; she’s Victor’s daughter. But I think he was also godfather to her brother, or half brother, Marc. He’s Victor’s son by his first marriage, named Marc after his grandfather.”

There was nothing listed in Gilbert’s phone for Chantal, nor was she listed separately under the numbers for the various members of the Desaix family. There was only the general vineyard number and another local landline number for the Patriarch, presumably at the château, and separate mobile numbers for Victor and for Madeleine.

“In my experience, when one child in a family inherits but not another, matters tend to become difficult,” the
notaire
said.

Bruno nodded to himself. He could see where it might involve family jealousies, but that was hardly his problem, or even the
notaire
’s. He said, “I understood that it was simply your job to ensure the will is carried out according to the intentions of the deceased.”

“That’s right, but Gilbert was a friend from childhood, so you’ll understand I don’t want to cause any embarrassment. And since I’ve heard from his bank, I’m aware that there is a surprisingly large sum involved in his trust fund, or rather funds.”

“Really? How much?”

“I can’t say. But it’s more than I’ve ever handled before, a lot more. So I’d like you to do me a favor, or at least a service. I’m empowered to employ private investigators to trace beneficiaries to an estate, so might I hire you to find this Nicole Larignac and to put me in touch with this Chantal girl? It’s all perfectly legal; I’ve used local policemen before on other inquiries. You’d be paid at the same rate as a
huissier,
a court bailiff, thirty-six euros an hour. I presume you’d have to go to Libourne to track down Larignac, and we’d pay the standard rates for mileage. For a day’s work you could be picking up three hundred euros or so.”

“Not bad,” said Bruno, thinking that he’d be able to treat Pamela to dinner at the Vieux Logis, except that she’d probably see such an invitation as a ploy to worm his way back into her bed. It should be enough for him to go up to Paris for the next two rugby internationals, or even fly over to Twickenham to see France play England. “I’ll just check with the mayor that he has no objections and call you back.”

The mayor gave his approval, saying that he might well join Bruno on a weekend jaunt to Twickenham. “And given all the unpaid overtime you do, you don’t have to wait until your day off,” the mayor added.

Bruno told the
notaire
that he could start right away and asked the
notaire
to fax him a letter authorizing him to make inquiries on the
notaire
’s behalf. He began by calling the number listed for Larignac on Gilbert’s phone, but it had been disconnected. Then he called a colleague from the
police municipale
in Libourne. They had met on a couple of the courses run by the justice ministry for the regional police on changes in the law. There was no Larignac in the current
annuaire,
Bruno was told, but a Laurent Larignac had been listed at a Libourne address two years earlier, and another policeman lived on the same street.

Bruno was given the policeman’s name and number and called to learn only that Laurent Larignac had died over a year ago, and his wife, Nicole, had moved to Bordeaux to be nearer her daughter and grandchildren in a suburb called Talence. There was no directory listing for a Larignac in Talence, which was often the case with most people now using mobile phones. Bruno called the
mairie
in Talence, introduced himself and asked for a check of the election register and failing that for the
taxe d’habitation.
He was promised a call back. He checked his fax machine; the
notaire
’s letter had arrived, naming Bruno as his legal representative “in the matter of the last will and testament of Col. Gilbert Clamartin.” That would do.

He tried calling Chantal at the vineyard only to be told she was in Bordeaux at the university. Marie-Françoise was also at the university, so he called her mobile and got the recording telling him to leave a message. He did so and also texted her, saying he’d have to be in Bordeaux shortly and needed to see Chantal on a legal matter. He checked his watch. He could be in Bordeaux before lunch if he took the autoroute. First he needed to check just how Fabrice had been hired. He called the vineyard, asking for Victor or for Madeleine, but neither one was there. He left messages and then called Sergeant Jules at the gendarmerie to let Fabrice go but caution him that the file was going to the
procureur,
and he could expect to be called back for further questioning. Maybe a night in jail would teach him a lesson. Bruno doubted it.

The Talence
mairie
called him back with an address for Nicole Larignac, just off the avenue de Candau. Bruno fetched Balzac, knowing there was no better introduction than to be accompanied by a friendly young basset hound, and the two set off on the road that led to Périgueux and the autoroute.

Bruno never ceased to be amazed at the suburban nature of so much of the Bordeaux wine industry. The vineyards were tucked in between houses and hospitals, and the great estate buildings and châteaux of legendary wines like Haut-Brion and Pape Clément were surrounded by bungalows and small family homes. He found avenue de Candau just off the vineyard-flanked road of Mission Haut-Brion and parked outside Nicole Larignac’s address. Balzac investigated the children’s toys in a sandpit in the garden. The door was opened by a still-handsome woman in her fifties with lively blue eyes and blond streaks in her gray hair. She was wearing jeans, ballet shoes and a black sweatshirt that did little to conceal a trim but shapely figure. A toddler crawled at her heels, erupting in squeaks of delight at seeing Balzac and racing forward to greet him faster than the woman could grab the child.