Dying on the Vine (20 page)

The rib steak Beaujolais came from Charolais beef, the best in France, and in preparing it this way a large quantity of Beaujolais wine is used and simmered down to less than a quarter of its volume along with shallots, garlic, thyme, bay leaf, and brandy. It was expertly done and served with tiny pureed potatoes, the minuscule French peas known as Petits Pois, and a ragout of morels, a mushroom cultivated in Provence. There was no escape from the truffle, for the morel ragout had slivers of truffle to accentuate the woody flavor.

Congratulations to the chef were fully deserved. After some discussion with the sommelier, it was a bottle of Volnay that had accompanied the meal. The Clos Ducs was tempting but I restrained myself and chose the Pommard-Epenots at one-fifth the price. It was smooth, full-bodied, firmly tannic, and exotic with wild berry aromas.

Back in the car, I studied the map. The journey out here had been a tense drive with the sole objective of keeping Monika's red Maserati in sight and I wasn't sure exactly what part of the Var I was in. The menu gave the address of Le Petit Manoir as the village of Palliac and I finally located it. As I did so … another name, very close on the map, leapt out at me—Pontveran. Why did that name strike a chord? I remembered a card… the one Professor Rahmani had handed me on Masterson's yacht. The Institute for the Study of Planetary Influences the card had said, and the address was in the Var—in Pontveran. I checked the road numbers and direction and headed that way.

A few palatial homes studded the hillsides, perched on narrow ledges of land that gave them magnificent views. I passed a clinic for respiratory diseases, the pure, clean air at this altitude no doubt accounting for its location. The bicyclists were gone, having continued straining muscles and sinews all the time I had been indulging myself with food and drink. I felt no remorse.

A signpost to the institute appeared before I reached the village of Pontveran. I followed it along a paved road and came to a pair of large metal gates. There was a speaker and a button on one of the brick posts. I gave my name and said I wanted to see the professor. He came on the line himself, asking me to repeat who I was. I reminded him that we had met on Masterson's yacht and said I was accepting his invitation to see his facilities. I was prepared for him to be testy and speak of appointments but he sounded affable and invited me to come in. The gates swung open.

It was a long stone block building that looked like a museum. It had two stories and plenty of windows. Several wooden outbuildings were scattered off one side and the grounds were so extensive, I couldn't see where they ended. The entrance had double glass doors, and a young Arab girl stood there, smiling. She led me through the. building and up a flight of stairs. The corridors were wide and offices and laboratories seemed to alternate. I had little chance to see anything, for at the top of the stairs the girl tapped at a door, opened it, and motioned me to enter.

French decorators are fond of Oriental carpets and a large, expensive-looking one almost filled the room. Professor Rahmani came walking across it, his hand outstretched. The craggy face was more suited to a construction worker than a scientist. His unruly hair still stood up from his scalp and he had an ungainly way of moving his body, but his reception was friendly.

“Ah, my friend! How kind of you to favor us with a visit! Please come in and sit down.”

His antique desk was surprisingly small but magnificently carved. The walls were white plaster in the Provencal style with photographs and copies of letters all over them. A table was piled with books, many of them appearing to be very old. A long wooden cabinet was against one wall, its carving matching the professor's desk. The one unusual feature of the room was a large freestanding model of the solar system with the sun as a bright golden orb and the planets around it, each painted to represent its main characteristics, Earth blue, Mars red, Neptune black, Jupiter brown, and so on.

“When we met on Grant Masterson's yacht, your views sounded fascinating,” I told him, “and as I'm writing about vineyards, naturally I'm interested in any influences on grapes. You said you can grow grapes that are larger and juicier by making use of your theories?”

“I have done so. Without any loss in quality, either. In fact, the taste was fuller and richer.”

“You did this in collaboration with a vineyard, I suppose?”

“No, it was done here.”

“There must be many of the local vineyards that would like to take advantage of your ideas,” I suggested.

He growled a negative. “None of them are receptive to new ideas. They want to keep on making wine the same way it's been made for the last five thousand years.”

“They've all turned you down?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Did you make any wine from the bigger, juicier, tastier grapes that you grew?”

“We don't have wine making facilities here.” He went on to contrast the wine industry unfavorably with the Citrus Guild. “Now, with oranges and lemons, we get considerable support…” He went on at length on that topic and I had to steer him back onto the grape track.

“Let me take you on a tour of the premises,” he offered.

Much intriguing work was being done. Some of it seemed worthwhile research but I wondered if the rest had any real hope of success. Many projects were focused on yeasts and molds.

“These are the plants that contain no chlorophyll,” Professor Rahmani explained. “They are unable to photosynthesize sugars and have to live on the decaying remains of other organisms.”

“What's the purpose of such research?” I asked. “Or is it just research with no immediate likelihood of any application?”

“Oh, it has a strong likelihood of bringing tangible rewards. One of the plant groups includes the tubers.”

“You mean potatoes?”

“Yes, potatoes, and also yams and water chestnuts. All are valuable foodstuffs and ways of growing them larger and more quickly have very real attractions, especially in poor areas. You will have heard of the terrible potato famine in Ireland in 1845 when a million people died of starvation due to their dependence on the crop and another million and a half emigrated?”

“A national disaster that has never been forgotten.”

“Precisely. We are hoping that our work will make the potato immune to the blight that caused that famine.”

“Presumably you have no difficulty in raising money for this research?”

Rahmani smiled, making his irregular features yet more uneven.

“Raising money is always difficult, but for these projects it is easier than most.”

“Your… can I say, unorthodox, views on the influence of planetary movements must limit your sponsorship,” I said, being as delicate as I could.

“Oh, not all of our work involves the planets,” the professor said, not at all perturbed. “We have excellent facilities and staff so we accept contracts for more, as you say, orthodox research. Come, I'll show you some of these.”

Outside, fields and small plantations were growing various crops. Boards and charts at each one recorded figures in great detail. It all seemed extremely efficient and I told the professor so.

“We are aware of the importance of keeping careful and extensive information on every aspect,” he said. “Sometimes, unexpected sources yield data that contribute in ways we hadn't anticipated.”

I left, thinking that I had a few more pieces of the puzzle in my hands. The problem was—I wasn't sure where they fitted.

“A
NOTHER DEATH!” SNAPPED SIR
Charles. “What's going on there? Who is it this time?”

It was the last thing I wanted to do but I had to make it the first. I had two champagne cocktails, then called Sir Charles, and he was not patient. Our conversation began with him telling me of Pertois's call. Sir Charles said he knew that the Association des Vins had an investigative branch and that he told them little other than that I was investigating on his behalf. “I didn't even want to do that,” he grumbled.

Mention of a dowser threw him into further perplexity and I foolishly let slip a word about treasure, which stretched the conversation still longer. We concluded with him agreeing that I should continue for a few days more after I had recklessly promised results in that time.

The dining room was only partly full and Madame was excited over her purchase of a small quantity of
bar,
a sought-after but uncommon Mediterranean fish that is usually called striped bass in English. I promptly ordered it. For the first course, I had grilled eggplant with strips of red pepper flavored with basil, garlic, pine nuts, and lemon juice. The bar was “Duglere” style—covered with tomatoes, onions, thyme, garlic, and bay, then poached in white wine. It was excellent, served with green beans only. I was debating between dessert or just coffee when Madame said there was a lady on the phone for me, so I took it in my room.

It was Veronique. Her voice was shaky. “Edouard just phoned me.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wanted me to come to his office, then he hung up.”

“Are you sure it was your husband?”

She hesitated. “It—it sounded like his voice but I'm not absolutely sure.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going—now. That is—” she hesitated again, “if you'll come with me.”

Before I could ask myself if this was a good idea, I was already saying, “All right. I'll come.”

“The office is at 24 rue de Brabant. It's just near the Opera House. Do you know where that is?” I told her that I did. “There's a little café called Marie's—let's meet there. In about an hour.”

“Veronique—” I said quickly before she could hang up.

“Yes?”

“Remember that revolver you pointed at me? Bring it.”

There was a pause then she said, “I will.”

Even with Nice's parking problems, it was still a few minutes short of an hour when I left the car and walked to the café. She was inside, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. I noticed that there were several butts in the ashtray. She had already put a banknote under her saucer. She stubbed out the cigarette, gave me a half smile, and we went out.

“It's very near,” she said. “Edouard used to come in here quite often.” She sounded quiet but firm. I didn't ask her if she had the gun.

We turned down the first narrow street, which was one block from the Opera House. At one end, the Mediterranean shimmered, a vertical slit of blue with sea and sky merging. We went the other way. The street had cars parked illegally on both sides, half on the sidewalk. Somewhere a horn was blaring, leaned on by a trapped driver. Veronique led me down a tiny alley which garbage cans made an obstacle course and hadn't been cleaned since the Nazis left.

Veronique stopped at a rusting steel door, opened it with a key, and turned a big handle. She led the way up steep narrow stairs and I followed, my eyes on a level with her slim ankles. At the first floor, we stopped, although the stairs went on up. A door had a wood panel saying Edouard Morel, Investigations. Veronique knocked and the sound was loud and hollow, but it brought no response. She turned the knob but the door was locked. She brought out the same keyring and used the smaller key on it.

It was a small compact office with the usual furniture of a tight-budget operation—that is to say, no gadgetry beyond a telephone. She picked up a handful of letters from the floor and looked through them. She put them on the desk and shook her head. “Nothing of importance.”

I pointed to the corner of the office. “What about that?”

At first she was bewildered, then she saw the wastebasket.

“It's full! Yes, that is different.” She lifted it and upended it on the desk. We went through the items together. An invitation to a luncheon at the Hôtel Mercure, an offer of a credit card with unbelievably low interest rates from the Banque Commerciale de Nice, a reminder to renew a subscription to a news magazine, an electricity bill, a request from the Socialist Party for a donation, a lot of advertising leaflets and a restaurant receipt were all it contained.

Veronique was looking at the restaurant receipt.

“Where is it from?”

“La Toque Imperiale in Ajaccio, Corsica, dated four days ago.”

I recalled that the unfortunate Andre Chantier, the worker at the Willesford vineyard, had been found drowned in Marseille—his lungs full of the water of Ajaccio.

She said suddenly, “Look!” Morel had a large spike on his desk with several notes speared on it. We should have noticed it sooner as the note on top had “Veronique” in large printed letters on it. She carefully detached it and smoothed it out. We both read it.

URGENT. SORRY—COULDN
'
T WAIT. COME AT ONCE TO FORUM IN HERCULANUM. KEY IN TOP DRAWER.

“He must have been here. Do you recognize his writing?”

“This printing—I'm not sure. It has to be Edouard though, doesn't it?”

“I suppose so.” I wasn't convinced—everything connected with Edouard Morel was shadowy and uncertain, but I wanted to reassure her.

She opened the top drawer of the desk. A large bronze key was there with a cardboard tag tied to its ring. The tag was labeled only with the letter
H.
With it was a printed brochure describing the site.

“Herculanum? That's the old Roman town, isn't it? The one that's still being excavated?”

“Yes. But what can it have to do with Edouard?”

“I don't know. Are you going out there?” I asked Veronique.

She gave me a stern look. “Of course. Aren't you coming?”

If it was going to be a reunion with her husband, I didn't particularly want to be present, but I doubted it was that straightforward. “You did bring that gun, didn't you?”