Black Diamond

by Martin Walker

  “Bab el-Oued, when they still loved the French army. I recognize that corner by the St. Eugène Cemetery,” the baron said as Bruno looked over his shoulder. “That’s General Massu himself on the right, so it must be fifty-seven, when he was running the battle of Algiers. I didn’t know you knew Massu that well, Hercule.” He put it down and looked at his old friend. “You had something on your mind. Tell us.”

  “I don’t know if you can do anything to help, but I’ve got to get this off my chest.” He knelt to put a match to the nest of newspapers beneath the kindling in the fireplace and then stood, watching the fire catch hold.

  “A drink? Coffee?” They shook their heads. “It’s the market. There’s something nasty going on, and they won’t listen to me. When they think of fraud, they think only of the old tricks like people dyeing the white summer truffles and selling them as blacks. But this is different. One of the renifleurs, not the one you met, says a couple of his big clients in Paris claim they’ve been fobbed off with fakes, cheap sinensis, Chinese black truffles. It’s common enough in oils and prepared foods, but each of them reckoned they got some Chinese rubbish in a shipment of tailings, that’s the small and crumbled stuff they use for truffle oil and stews.”

  “No official complaints yet?” asked Bruno.

  “The big hotels hate to do it because it could hurt their reputation. These are places where they’ll pay a thousand, fifteen hundred euros for a good Périgord black. But if they feel cheated they just won’t buy any more.”

  “You said nobody will listen to you. Who did you tell?” asked Bruno.

  “Didier, the market manager. When he said I was crazy I went to the mayor. But he’s invested a lot of money in the market and new equipment designed to make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen. He gave me the brush-off. And Nicco is so close to retirement he didn’t want to know. So I thought of you, Bruno. You know truffles, you know what they mean to this part of the world.”

  “How do these Chinese truffles get here?”

  “Straight from the thirteenth arrondissement in Paris, down around place d’Italie. It’s the biggest Chinatown in Europe. The truffles come in from China, and we’re the next stop. There’s a lot of money to be made, but it’s going to ruin Ste. Alvère. Look, I’ll show you what I mean.”

  Hercule went to his kitchen and came back with a tray. It held a cheeseboard with a quarter of what looked like Brie de Meaux, some slices from a baguette and three small bottles, each filled with oil covering a layer of small black lumps.

  “I want you to try this,” Hercule said, putting down the tray as a rich, almost gamy scent reached Bruno’s nostrils. “A couple of days ago, I sliced this Brie in half horizontally and slipped three slices of truffle between the halves. I just took them out, but the perfume will be wonderful.”

  He smeared thin wedges of Brie onto three slices of bread and handed one each to Bruno and the baron.

  “Glorious,” said Bruno. The rich and succulent cheese had suddenly developed whole new depths and layers of taste, as if … Bruno tried to think of a way to put it. And then he thought that it tasted as if it had grown up and gone to university and won doctorates and become a professor and had a loving wife and handsome children and won a Nobel Prize and spent the money on expensive mistresses and vintage champagne.

  “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 Périgord 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 Périgord 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 Légion 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. Alvère. 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. Alvère would help him get elected to be the next chairman of the Conseil Régional.

  “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 bécasses.”

  “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 contrôle 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 Citroën he tells me how the car saved de Gaulle’s life when the OAS tried to assassinate him.”

  “Organisation de l’Armée Secrète. 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 Périgord 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 manage
r of the truffle market in Ste. Alvère, 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.”