Black Diamond bop-3

by Martin Walker

  “The profit looks pretty healthy to me.”

  “It is, and that’s how the mayor wants it. And I think our controls are good, so I was surprised when we got word of a complaint.”

  “More than one,” said Bruno. “The first came from a hotel group in Paris and the second from a brasserie in Montparnasse. They both said the same. The individual truffles were fine, but they weren’t satisfied with the quality of the tailings. I suppose those are the scraps that they use to make truffle oils.”

  “And in stews and risottos,” said Didier. “The quality’s always lower. The chefs want to get some truffle flavor without paying for real truffle quality.”

  “But their complaint states that they had your tailings analyzed and they included some sinensis, cheap Chinese truffles.”

  “They say that, but who knows when the sinensis were added? It could’ve been during the delivery or even in Paris. We’ve never found any trace of sinensis in the stocks here. I think they’re saying that just to try to get us to give them a discount.”

  “It doesn’t sound like good business to accuse your customers of pulling a fast one,” said Bruno. “And they’ve never complained before. I’d take this more seriously if I were you. Is there any point in your operation where low-grade truffles could be sneaked into a shipment without your knowledge?”

  “Theoretically, I suppose you could have some sleight of hand, but I think I’d spot some sinensis in a batch. Once a basket leaves the market hall it goes either to the test lab or to the shipping point and that’s all controlled.”

  “How do you mean ‘controlled’?” Bruno asked. This was what he needed to understand.

  “Once we accept a basket it leaves the market hall through that hatch in the wall and goes onto a table in the hall behind us. Anything to be tested is put on the left and goes to Madame Pantowsky in the lab. Items for shipment are left on the right for Jean-Luc and Alain, who pack them for shipping. Nobody but us is allowed through that door.”

  “So in theory, you could have the cheap truffles added at any stage by any of the staff.”

  “In theory, yes, but I trust them all. I presume you’ll want to question them?”

  “Of course, but that’ll be later. Is it possible that this sleight of hand could be done on a crowded market day?”

  “Yes, but even when it’s crowded the public can’t get close to the hatch. And every basket is weighed. Anybody trying to take out good scraps and put in bad ones would have to make an exact match of the weight. I don’t think it’s possible. Once we accept a basket, we weigh it. The weight and basket number are the two identifiers we put on the label for each basket. Everything is checked at packing, so if the weight changed, Jean-Luc would spot the difference and call me.”

  During this exchange, Bruno had been drafting a diagram of each step in the process, from the arrival of a hunter with a basket of truffles through to final shipment. He showed the diagram to Didier.

  “Is there anything I’ve left out? I want to make sure I have every single step tracked.”

  “No, it’s all there, except for a final bid. Once we’ve fulfilled all the orders on hand, we then let the renifleurs bid for any stock that’s left over. It’s like an auction. I don’t like to keep stocks here, so we try to ensure that everything gets sold.”

  “Where does that happen?”

  “Here in the market hall at the end of the day. We list each sale by weight, quality, price and name of buyer, and of course the date.”

  “I’d like to see those records, please.”

  Didier seemed to hesitate. “All the logbooks and records were put into storage at the mairie.”

  “So I’ll be able to find them there?”

  Didier nodded. “They’re not very well organized. I don’t have any secretarial help.”

  “Why not? The truffle market makes enough money, and I’ve never heard of a mayor who wouldn’t like to find someone a job.”

  Again Didier seemed to hesitate, and then spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “He seems happy enough for me to do it as part of my duties. Of course, my figures are then checked by the town auditor for the taxes and social security charges.”

  Bruno resigned himself to a day in a dusty basement file room. “The complaints refer to truffles bought in two different ways,” he said. “The hotel group bought from you direct, but the brasserie bought its truffles from a renifleur who attached one of your quality assurance certificates to his shipment. Would he have got that in such a bidding process?”

  “Yes. But he could then have substituted some cheap tailings for what we’d approved. He’d have to open the vacuum-sealed bag we use, put in the cheap stuff and then get another vacuum pack. He’d have to steam off our quality label from the original pack.”

  “Why not use a steamproof glue for your labels so he couldn’t do that?”

  “Good idea. I’ll look into it, see what special glue we might need.”

  Bruno paused. The procedure seemed sound enough as a safeguard against adulteration. That left the human element.

  “Tell me,” Bruno said, “just as a hypothetical, if you ever wanted to cheat the system, how would you go about it and not get caught?”

  “I really don’t know,” Didier replied with a shrug that turned into a confident half smile. “I’ve asked myself that and I don’t see how because at the end of the day the final step in quality control rests with the customers. If they aren’t happy, we’re out of business, and I’m out of a job.”

  Didier switched his half smile to full beam and spread his arms wide. Bruno forced himself to smile back.

  “Who designed this system you have?”

  “I did, and had it approved by the mayor. We’ve had three years with no trouble.”

  “Until now.”

  Didier’s smile was still in place, but his eyes glinted. An innocent man angered at unjust suspicion, or a guilty one worried that his deception wasn’t working? Bruno had no idea. Most of the usual little clues and the local knowledge that helped him in St. Denis simply did not work here. He knew little of Didier, his family and his reputation. Ste. Alvere was virtually unfamiliar territory, and he was groping in the dark, trying to decide whether his hackles were up because he was suspicious of the man or whether he just disliked him and his bad breath.

  “Do you ever see any Chinese in the market?” Bruno asked.

  “We get the occasional tourist. We have some regular customers. There’s a Chinese supermarket chain and an import-export firm in Paris that sells our truffles into the Chinese market. But they get all the profit, so we’re looking at arranging our own distribution in Hong Kong.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Bruno said, rising now that his list of prepared questions had run out. “And now I’d like to see your chemist. Should I stay in this room?”

  “I’ll send her in,” said Didier. “By the way, I know you’re a friend of Hercule Vendrot. Could you ask him to let us borrow his truffle journal? It’s got all the prices and supplies in the market for years past plus weather reports and all sorts of other historical data. He’s turned down me and the mayor. You might have better luck.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “It would help make the market more efficient if we tracked sales and output over time, and since you’re on the payroll now…”

  “How do you mean, ‘on the payroll’?”

  “Well, I presume you’re not doing this security review for nothing.” He winked, rubbing his thumb and index finger together.

  Since the thought of payment had never entered his head until this moment, Bruno said nothing but simply stared at Didier. Why did people think of everything in terms of money? He was doing this for a friend, Hercule, and because his boss, the mayor, had also asked him to perform this small service. If it helped the truffle trade, it helped Bruno and all the other truffle hunters of St. Denis. And where would the Perigord be without the truffles that symbolized its culinary distinction
? Evidently embarrassed by Bruno’s silence, Didier scooped up his papers and bustled out.

  The fair-haired young woman who had earlier brought the coffee came in and stood quietly by the door. Bruno was about to decline more coffee when he suddenly realized he was about to make a fool of himself. Despite her demure pose, there was a sharp and watchful intelligence in her eye.

  “You’re the chemist, madame…?”

  “My name is Florence Pantowsky. Yes, I’m a chemist, employed here part-time.” Her voice was quiet and low, and she kept her eyes downcast, although her posture was upright. She had a fine complexion, and strong cheekbones gave elegance to what would otherwise have been a rather plain face. Bruno noted that while her hair was neatly brushed it was dry and lifeless. She was wearing a very unflattering floral dress that was about thirty years too old for her and canvas tennis shoes. With a little effort, she would have been handsome.

  “Thank you for bringing the coffee earlier. Won’t you please have a seat?”

  “Thank you.” She tucked her slim legs beneath the chair and smoothed her dowdy dress down so that it fell below her knees.

  “What kind of chemist becomes an expert on truffles?” he asked.

  “The unemployed kind with a divorce and two children to raise,” she replied calmly, without hint of humor or resentment. She might have been discussing the weather.

  “How old are they?” He glanced down through her personnel file. She was thirty, born in Amiens. Pantowsky was her maiden name, so she was probably from one of the Polish families that came to work in the coal mines, when there still were coal mines in France.

  “Three. They’re twins, a boy and a girl. But I don’t think they’ve anything to do with this meeting.”

  “Very well, madame. But I need your help. I’m trying to understand how it is that a fraud might be committed here. We’ve had complaints that some of the truffles coming from this market are Chinese.”

  “It’s simple. Somebody must have made a substitution.”

  “Where and how?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Her eyes looked up at him. They were pale blue, almost gray. He thought of the Baltic Sea and remembered her Polish name.

  “Take a guess.”

  “It’s pointless to speculate.” Her face was impassive.

  “Why?”

  “It could take place anywhere along the supply chain, either here at the market or during delivery or at the end user. Proper controls could be installed at each stage, but it would be very expensive.”

  “What proportion of the truffles do you analyze?”

  “I am supposed to make random checks of an average of three percent. In rush periods, like the one that will last into February, the volume is simply too big for that scale of testing. In January, I might not even be checking one percent. The mayor and the market manager know this. They allow me to average out the three percent over the year. That means we are most at risk during the key period, when the really valuable items are being traded.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “Yes, a great deal. I’ve proposed hiring a couple of part-time assistants during January. Any high school graduate could be trained to do the work, under proper supervision. The cost would be minimal, perhaps a thousand euros. But the manager refuses.”

  “Did he give a reason?”

  “Cost,” she said coolly.

  “Did you find this convincing?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What do you think was Didier’s real reason?”

  “I’ve no idea. That is, I don’t know if there is a real reason. He’s a man who often finds it necessary to show that he is in charge.”

  “Is that why you make the coffee?”

  “No, I make the coffee because I need this job.” Her voice was flat. A robot might have shown more emotion, more involvement in the conversation. Accustomed to the instinctive warmth of the people of the region, Bruno felt disconcerted.

  “You really think you could lose the job if you refused to make the coffee?”

  “I’m a part-timer on a contract, so I have no job security. It’s not a risk I want to take.”

  “What a pity you show it by making such bad coffee,” said Bruno, determined to provoke some kind of response from her. “A woman of your education and intelligence could make excellent coffee if she tried.”

  For the first time, she smiled. It was not a very convincing smile, but Bruno felt encouraged. He let the silence build.

  “I’m not used to dealing with the police,” she said.

  “Who told you I was a policeman? I’m doing a security review.”

  “You’re Bruno of St. Denis. I saw you at the closing of the sawmill.”

  “You were one of the Green protesters?”

  “I’m a Green Party member, yes. A lot of scientists are.”

  “I see you got your degree and your diploma in Paris. What brought you down here?”

  “Marriage, and then I grew to like the place more than I liked my husband. It’s a good place to raise my children. So I’ll do a lot to keep my job.”

  “Would that include turning a blind eye to some irregularities?”

  “No, I know there are irregularities. But I can’t prove it. I don’t know who’s doing what. I do know that by investigating these Chinese truffles you are looking at the molehill rather than the mountain.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  She was studying his face as if trying to assess his character and whether she could trust him. He looked back at her, doubtful that he could control his features nearly as well as this woman controlled hers.

  “You might check the average price being paid at the final biddings for those items not sold by the end of the day,” she said eventually.

  “Why would you recommend that?” he asked. “Please understand that I’m new to this. I want to understand what exactly I should be looking for, and why.”

  This time she responded quickly, as if her decision on whether to trust him had already been made.

  “The prices recorded at the end-of-day auctions seem unreasonably low to me, week after week. I don’t think that happens by accident.”

  “You suspect the bidding process is being rigged?”

  “Yes. But I’m aware my judgment might be flawed by personal prejudice.” She looked at him knowingly.

  Bruno paused, then the realization dawned. Having met Didier, and seen something of the way he chose to treat Florence, Bruno felt pretty sure he knew what lay behind her prejudice. There was no subtle way to confirm his guess. She might even appreciate the frankness of an open question.

  “Please look at me, madame,” he said. When her eyes raised reluctantly to his own, he waited for a long heartbeat before he spoke. “Are you being sexually harassed at work?”

  “No more than usual, and not anymore,” she replied, so brisk it was almost businesslike, but her eyes were suddenly blazing. “I can deal with it. He’s a pig, but he’s also a coward.”

  5

  The Tuesday morning market of St. Denis, which in summer stretched the length of the rue de Paris from the place de la Mairie to the parade ground in front of the gendarmerie, shrank in the autumn after the tourists departed. In the quiet months of November, January and February the stalls barely filled the town square. But it always expanded again for the month before Christmas, which meant eager competition for the favored spots among the pillars in the covered market beneath the mairie. The rule was always that the first arrivals chose their sites, but the definition of what constituted an arrival was sometimes in dispute.

  Usually, it required the placing of a couple of trestles to establish a presence, and Bernard the basket maker had his trestles firmly in place and stood grimly between them, his arms folded. Margot, the housekeeper at the home for retired priests in St. Belvedere, stood equally grimly, her arms also folded, her wide hips defending her small table with its beeswax candles and jars of honey that stood in front of Bernard’
s trestles. Fat Jeanne, whose shape became more spherical with each passing year, was supposed to umpire such confrontations as she collected the five euros per meter of frontage that the mairie charged each stallholder. But Margot, who refused to pay any more than two euros on the grounds that her table measured only eighteen inches a side, tested even Fat Jeanne’s inexhaustible cheeriness.

  “I won’t move,” Margot declared. “I was here first.”

  “My trestle was already here when you arrived,” countered Bernard.

  “Only one of them, and one trestle doesn’t count,” she snapped, brushing aside Fat Jeanne’s offer of an alternative spot beside Fauquet’s cafe.

  “Margot,” said Bruno, attempting his most winning smile. “Just the woman I wanted to see. The mayor needs some help, and I told him we could count on you. It’s for the children.”

  Bruno needed both hands to hold up the big placard that he had collected from the Info-Boutique. THE MAYOR’S FUND, it read, with a picture of Father Christmas and some

  smiling infants. TO MAKE A REAL CHRISTMAS FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE UNEMPLOYED.

  Bruno leaned the placard casually against Bernard’s trestle, kissed Margot on each of her cold cheeks and handed her the collection plate. “Can you take care of the collection here under the pillars?” he asked. “And you know everyone in the market, Margot. Who do you think I should ask to take care of the collection outside?”

  “Now there’s a question,” said Margot, preening. “Your friend Stephane’s a reliable type, at least when he’s not drinking. Or perhaps Aurelie, she’ll have time on her hands, since nobody wants to buy her scrawny ducks.” She cast her eyes over the rest of the market, wondering who might be worthy to share with her the honor of the mayor’s special task.

  “Give me a hand with that other trestle, Bernard,” Bruno said to the basket maker. Catching on, Bernard quickly assembled his stall, and Bruno placed Margot’s small table alongside it and then put the placard atop both of the stalls.

  “So you stand here, Margot, right beside your table with the honey so everyone can see the placard and can see that you’re in charge of the collecting,” Bruno said. “I think you’re right about Aurelie for the other collection box. Why don’t you go and ask her?”