Black Diamond bop-3

by Martin Walker

  “Smells like a poule de luxe,” said the baron, and Bruno wondered why truffles made men think of sex. It had the same effect on him.

  Hercule turned to the bottles on the tray. “This first one is the real thing. Olive oil with one of my decent blacks from last year.” He held it out for them. “Now try this. That’s a Chinese black in the same oil. Can you tell the difference?”

  Bruno could. There was a sour note to the odor, like poor soil baked into dust by the sun. And another flavor lingered behind it, almost like gasoline.

  “Now try this. That’s what they’re getting in Paris. It’s mainly Chinese, with a bit of the real thing to add flavor.”

  This time Bruno smelled the real black Perigord first, but then the flavor seemed to die away. The sample had the same woodsy smell, but the vegetation had a touch of rankness.

  “It starts off okay, but after a few moments my brumale is better than that,” he said.

  “Big difference.” The baron nodded.

  “Any idea who might be behind this?”

  Hercule shrugged. “It has to be one of the regulars, someone we know and trust. It takes a long time to accept strangers in the market.”

  “If the mayor decided to take you seriously, what could be done to stop this?” Bruno asked.

  “Constant spot checks of everything that’s shipped out. It’s tough to fool the locals and the renifleurs. It’s no coincidence that this has started to happen with the online market. People buy over the Internet, and it gets shipped in vacuum packs. But checking all the shipments would mean time, extra staff and money.”

  “And it wouldn’t catch the bad guys,” the baron said thoughtfully.

  “I think this is a lot bigger than it looks,” Hercule went on. “It’s not just the odd Chinese merchant pulling a fast one. Or if it is, then it’s like reconnaissance to see if they can expand this business and start making real money.”

  “How big is this?” Bruno asked. “Could organized crime be involved?”

  “We harvested over fifty tons of truffles in France last year, and they went for between seven hundred and fifteen hundred a kilo. That’s a fifty-million-euro business, enough to attract some big players. China bought more than five million euros’ worth of Perigord truffles. It’s our fastest-growing market. Just three years ago, they bought nothing. It’s like cognac; anything that’s really rare and expensive has a snob appeal for China’s new rich. So if you can add a few scraps of our good stuff and then sell cheap Chinese truffles as if they were from France, there’s real money to be made at the Chinese end. But it won’t last long before they get caught and the market collapses in scandal. And that means the end of our truffle business, just as it’s about to take off.”

  “You mean with these new plantations I’ve heard about?” asked the baron.

  Hercule nodded. “A hundred years ago, we’d produce seven hundred tons a year here in France, mostly from plantations as people learned to infect young trees with truffle spores. But the trade collapsed with the Great War. Truffles weren’t just common in the old days, they were used in huge quantities. Did you ever hear of Escoffier’s great recipe for his Salade Jockey-Club, composed of equal parts chicken, asparagus and truffles? Nobody could afford to do that these days. But now the plantations are starting up again after that Spanish guy, Arotzarena, began producing ten and twenty tons a year down in Navaleno.”

  “I remember old Pons started a plantation near here a few years back,” the baron said. “Then he got into that lawsuit over his sawmill, and he needed money fast. He cut down the trees for the timber and lost a fortune.”

  “He must be doing better because he’s started a new plantation,” said Hercule. “And he’s not the only one. That’s why the mayor launched the new market building. These new plantations can produce a hundred kilos of truffles per acre, which makes a lot more money than the four hundred euros you’ll get from an acre of wheat. It’s a growth industry for this region, unless it all gets ruined by these frauds.”

  “What would happen if one of these Paris hotels made a formal complaint, or even a polite inquiry?” Bruno asked.

  “That would certainly get the mayor’s attention. If you’re prepared to help me it’s worth trying him even though he probably thinks I’m just an old fool.”

  “I don’t think any real Frenchman would dare think that,” said the baron, looking at the corner beside the desk where Hercule’s Croix de Guerre hung, with his citation for the Legion d’Honneur in pride of place above it.

  “I have a plan,” said Hercule. “I told our mayor that if he doesn’t call in the police now, the least he needs is an outside security review. If this blows up he has to be able to say he tried something. I suggested he ask for you, since you know truffles, you’re independent and you’re a cop with no jurisdiction in Ste. Alvere. You’re qualified, friendly, independent and deniable. That makes you perfect.”

  “What you need is a complaint, even a letter of inquiry, to the mayor from these big clients, something to force the issue,” said Bruno. “Call your renifleur, get that letter sent and then suggest your mayor call mine and ask for me to be made available for a discreet inquiry. And I’ll see what I can do.”

  “The guy in trouble will be Didier, the market manager,” said Hercule. “I don’t trust him an inch.”

  “He seemed like a fussy type,” said Bruno, recalling the scurrying figure, half trotting to open the market building as the mayor stood impatiently waiting. “How did this Chinese stuff get past him?”

  “They’re trying to do everything too fast with this Internet market,” said Hercule. “And Didier’s not that good. He used to run that truffle plantation that Pons set up. Didier only got that job because his wife was Pons’s cousin. But when Pons had to sell the timber, Didier was out of work. Then they built the new market and he got the job. His sister’s husband is related to the mayor’s wife.”

  Bruno nodded. Family connections were the way it worked around here, probably the way it worked everywhere. And his own mayor would be eager to help, since the support of Ste. Alvere would help him get elected to be the next chairman of the Conseil Regional.

  “Now to more pleasant matters,” said Hercule. “It’s my turn to host the hunting. When’s your next day off?”

  “Thursday.”

  “I’d like some venison this winter, and the season’s open. We’ve got some roe deer on the land and some of your favorite becasses.”

  “I’ll have to join you late, maybe around ten. The mayor won’t fork out for a new police van, so I’ll have to take the old one into the garage for the controle technique. ”

  “Thursday at ten it is. I’ll go out early, take a look around. We can meet at the farthest shack, the one on the track that leads off the road to Paunat.”

  “I know the place,” said Bruno. “I’ll bring a thermos of coffee.”

  “And I’ll bring the cognac,” said the baron.

  “One thing I wanted to ask you,” Bruno said quickly. “That place you mentioned-Bab el-Oued. What was it?”

  “It’s a suburb of Algiers, where the pieds-noirs used to live before we lost the war and they fled back to France. They were French settlers, the poorer ones, but they wanted Algeria to stay French. When de Gaulle decided to pull out, Bab el-Oued became the heart of the OAS. But that photo was taken before then, when they still loved us, before de Gaulle decided that there was no choice but to grant Algeria its independence.”

  “Like the rest of the army, I found some very welcoming girlfriends there,” said the baron. He was staring into the fire. He looked up. “You were already married, Hercule.”

  “This was all before I was born,” Bruno said, who read enough history to know the broad outlines of the Algerian War. “Still, every time I ride in the baron’s Citroen he tells me how the car saved de Gaulle’s life when the OAS tried to assassinate him.”

  “Organisation de l’Armee Secrete. Not only did they come close to killing de Gaulle,
they came damn close to staging a military coup back in sixty-one, with half the army on their side. They took over Algiers, and people were panicking about parachute drops on Paris. De Gaulle ordered the air force to patrol the Mediterranean coast with orders to shoot down any transport planes heading north. The baron was one of the few in his unit who didn’t join the OAS.”

  “Would you still be friends if he had?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Hercule. “I’d probably have shot him.”

  3

  Pamela turned her deux chevaux into the gate and down the newly built road that led to the restaurant. Bruno whistled softly and tried to calculate how much money had been spent on what had been a derelict old farm. It lay at the extreme edge of the commune of St. Denis, nearly five miles from the town, atop the ridge that overlooked the river and the road to Les Eyzies. Newly planted fruit trees formed an avenue on each side of the lane that led to a large old stone archway guarding the entrance to the farmyard. Beside the arch stood a large and floodlit sign, white scrolled letters on a green background, that read L’AUBERGE DES VERTS.

  “Ah, I got it wrong,” said Pamela. “It’s not the Green Inn but the Inn of the Greens. It’s still meant to be the first bioorganic restaurant in the department and the first to have a zero-energy footprint.” Impulsively she took her hand from the steering wheel and squeezed Bruno’s knee. “I’m so glad you agreed to come. I’ve been wanting to try this place.”

  The original farmhouse was still there, its honey-colored stone lit by carefully situated lamps, but most of it was obscured by a new conservatory that linked the house to the neighboring stables and barn. Through the big windows that had been built into the stables, Bruno saw a chef’s white toque and kitchen workers moving through glittering rows of stainless-steel ovens and shelving. The facing wall of the barn had been removed to leave it open to the elements, but lights picked out the huge beams of ancient chestnut. Paved in gravel, the barn gaped emptily as if waiting for warmer times and summer customers. Most of the conservatory windows were screened by thick curtains, but through two wide gaps Bruno could see customers around tables lit by candlelight and covered in white cloths.

  Pamela turned off the ignition, and in the sudden silence he heard a low shirring sound and looked up to see two curious windmills that bore none of the usual propeller blades. Instead, three curved and vertical blades whirled around a central axis, going remarkably fast in what was still a gentle breeze. The parking lot was dimly lit at ankle level by a row of solar-powered garden lights. A larger spotlight illuminated a large vegetable garden, picking out the bright orange of pumpkins and lines of fat cauliflowers. Behind the garden glinted some greenhouses with two more windmills beside them. Beyond the garden stood another small grouping of buildings, presumably where the staff lived.

  “They spent a lot of money on this place,” said Bruno, thinking about the likely size of the dinner bill.

  “Fabiola doesn’t want to be treated by the baron, so she’s asked us all to pay our own way,” Pamela said, as if reading his mind. “And don’t worry about me. Thanks to Fabiola I’ve got a tenant through the winter for once, so I’m feeling unusually prosperous.”

  She was suddenly backlit by the flare of headlights, and Bruno recognized the baron’s DS as it turned and parked. His friend emerged and moved swiftly to the passenger door to hold it open for Fabiola, who was renting one of Pamela’s vacation cottages.

  “Fabiola came straight from work,” Pamela said. “Otherwise I’d have brought her. But I’ll take her back with me.” She looked at Bruno, her eyes twinkling affectionately. “And you too, if you’re good.”

  “You’ll get a reputation,” he replied, watching her as she swept her hair back from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear in a way he knew well. Usually she wore no makeup but for this evening she had applied a dark red lipstick and mascara and done something artful that made her eyes look larger. She was wearing a long black raincoat that flared from her hips, a white silk scarf and high heels that gave her the same height as Bruno.

  “You ruined my reputation months ago,” she said, taking his arm as the others joined them.

  The restaurant was more than half full, rare in Perigord for a weekday evening in winter, with an unusual mix of customers. Some were well dressed in suits and ties and cocktail dresses while others were in dowdy casual clothes that probably counted as Green chic. Among them Bruno recognized a couple of people who sold organic foods at the St. Denis market and his friend Alphonse the councillor, who patted his stomach and gave Bruno a thumbs-up of approval for the food.

  At the table beside Alphonse, Bruno noticed Didier, the manager of the truffle market in Ste. Alvere, dining in silence with a plump woman who wore a discontented air. There was a long table at the rear for a dozen that was filled this evening by a festive family group. A large balloon that read JOYEUSE ANNIVERSAIRE floated above a woman with white hair who was beaming at the well-dressed children beside her as they attacked two large pizzas.

  “Welcome to L’Auberge des Verts,” said Guillaume Pons, signaling a young waiter to take their coats. Pons was wearing crisply pressed slacks and a starched white dress shirt, open at the neck. Its sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing what Bruno thought might be a Rolex. Pons’s good looks were marred by two black eyes and two thin strips of white tape across the bridge of his nose. His voice was thick and nasal, as if Axelle’s butting had given him a heavy cold.

  “All my rescuers here at once,” Pons said, smiling gingerly, and pointed across the room to where Albert, the chief pompier, was dining with his wife. Albert raised a hand in salute.

  “I’m afraid I ruined your clothes with my bloody nose,” he said to Pamela. “I had to throw my favorite shirt away, and I suspect you had to do the same with your shirt. I insist on buying you a new outfit. Good Samaritans shouldn’t have to pay for their kindness.”

  “Not at all,” said Pamela. “It was an old skirt, anyway. I soaked it in cold water. It’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Pons turned to Fabiola. “There must be a bill for your medical treatment.”

  “Forget it. The damage doesn’t look too bad,” said Fabiola, in her brisk, professional way. She was wearing one of the dark trouser suits she always wore at work. It set off her trim figure. “Your bruises will go down in a few days, and the nose should heal by itself. Come and see me again in a week, and I’ll check your sinuses. You can pay me for that.”

  Suddenly the door to the kitchen opened and the face of a small and very serious Asian girl peeked out. Pons turned and said something loud and firmly in what Bruno assumed was Chinese, and a tall Chinese man in a chef’s hat appeared behind the girl and pulled her back.

  “Excuse me. One of the nieces of Minxin, my chef,” Pons explained. “You know how curious kids are.”

  “In the meantime, Monsieur Pons, I’m getting hungry,” said the baron.

  “Of course. But I do want to apologize for the way things got so out of hand at the sawmill,” Pons said. “Now let me show you to your table. And please call me Bill. When I hear ‘Monsieur Pons’ I look around for my father. Not a happy relationship, as you know.”

  He smiled to take any reproof from his words and led them to a table by one of the large windows, screened by thick red drapes. He held a chair for Pamela, who somehow made the little black dress she was wearing look festive rather than formal, a wide red suede belt emphasizing her waist and the curve of her hips. Bill pointed to the ice bucket where a bottle of Bollinger awaited their arrival between two tall beeswax candles.

  “With my compliments.” He ripped off the foil to open the bottle. “A small thank-you.” Bruno watched approvingly as Pons twisted the cork, not the bottle, and gave a gentle tap to the bottle’s base to reduce the foam. He carefully filled their glasses, and a young waitress appeared with four leather-bound menus and a wine list.

  “I hope you know that this is
an organic restaurant, and as much of the food as possible is grown locally,” Bill went on. “We want to offer a full wine list so we are not so strict there, but the bio wines are all marked. If you have any questions, just ask for me, and bon appetit.”

  “The champagne is a pleasant gesture,” said Pamela, smiling, once their host had gone. She raised her glass and called for a toast to Bill’s generosity. Bruno nodded and sipped with the rest of them, despite the sense of discomfort he felt at accepting a gift for doing no more than his job. He had seen too many policemen taking free meals and other favors, and he knew that at some point they usually came with a price attached. That may have been the way Bill learned to do business in Asia, but that was not something Bruno wanted to see in St. Denis. Still, he smiled across the table to the baron, and he looked with pleasure at the two handsome women who flanked them, Fabiola’s dark hair piled almost formally high and Pamela’s hair glinting now bronze, now chestnut, in the candlelight.

  “This place is grander than I’d expected,” said Fabiola.

  “I’m not sure about this foie gras poele en etoile d’anis. It sounds like it would ruin a perfectly good foie gras,” grumbled the baron from deep within the menu. “Nor this fresh trout with lemongrass; you won’t be able to taste the fish. Still, the prices aren’t too bad.”

  “But you like the way Bruno does his foie with honey and balsamic vinegar,” said Pamela. “This kind of change is just what we need around here. But do you think people in St. Denis will ever forgive Bill for closing his father’s sawmill? You were born here, Baron. What do you think?”

  “The people who worked there will never forgive him. But that’s a small minority. Old-fashioned types like me regret its passing. But I do wonder about a son who breaks with his father like that, in such a public way.”