Let beer be for those who are perishing, wine for those who
are in anguish!
Let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their
misery no more.
Book of Proverbs, 31:6-7
Drinking unsweetened Darjeeling tea was not a problem.
Resisting the three crispy little biscuits taunting him
from the white porcelain dish was another thing. The
evening before, his wife had told him the time had come to
shed the extra pounds that were making his shirts gape
between the buttons. Benjamin Cooker had, indeed, filled
out a bit over the past few months. He preferred to think
that his heavy neck and chin, full cheeks, prominent belly,
and belt hooked in the first notch gave him the look of a
bon vivant, a well-off and satisfied man in his fifties.
Elisabeth Cooker, however, did not agree. The extra weight
wasn’t good for his looks or his health, so she had taken
matters into her own hands. She had gotten hold of a
cabbage soup diet purportedly prescribed by the cardiology
department of a large urban hospital for obese patients who
needed to lose weight before surgery. Elizabeth had cut a
large head of cabbage, four slivers of garlic, six large
onions, a dozen peeled tomatoes, six carrots, two green
peppers, and one stalk of celery and plunged them into
three quarts of water with three cubes of fat-free chick-
en broth. The mixture, seasoned with salt, pepper, curry
powder, and parsley, had been boiled for ten minutes and
then simmered until all the vegetables were tender.
Benjamin was supposed to eat this soup whenever he was
hungry over the course of seven days. It was not meant to
be the only source of nourishment, and to avoid nutritional
deficiencies, he would be allowed fruits, additional
vegetables, rice, milk, or a piece of red meat, depending
on the day.
The first day promised to be especially grueling. Other
than the soup, fruit was all that Benjamin was permitted.
And that was limited. He couldn’t have any bananas.
Benjamin surmised they were too tasty for this Spartan
regimen. For drinks he could have only unsweetened tea,
natural fruit juice, and water. The wine expert had
initially rebelled, citing his professional obligations,
upcoming wine tastings, and business lunches. Elisabeth had
responded by giving one of his love handles an affectionate
pinch. Surrendering, he had leaned over her and planted a
grumpy kiss in the hollow of her neck.
There were only a few patrons on the terrace of the Café
Régent in downtown Bordeaux, and the damp morning
foreshadowed the first chill of fall. Benjamin drank his
scalding-hot tea, reached for the small white dish without
looking at the perfectly golden crust on the biscuits, and
offered it to the person at the next table: an elderly lady
with hair pulled back in a bun who was attentively reading
the last pages of the local daily newspaper, the Sud-Ouest,
which contained the weather forecast and the horoscopes.
She thanked him and gobbled the pastries in three quick
bites. He stood, nodded good-bye, and resolutely took off
toward the Allées de Tourny.
He was about to climb the large staircase to his office
when a digital toccata rang out from the cell phone deep
inside the pocket of his Loden. He dug the device out,
pressed the answer button, and Inspector Barbaroux’s
gravelly voice assaulted his eardrum. Getting straight to
the point without so much as a greeting, the police inspec-
tor asked Benjamin to come immediately to 8B Rue
Maucoudinat. The detective had a clipped, authoritative
tone, perhaps to give away as little information as
possible. Irritated, Benjamin made a quick about-face and
headed for the Saint Pierre neighborhood. He was not in the
habit of complying so swiftly, and he was almost angry with
himself for doing what the captain wanted without getting
any explanation.
Arriving at the Place Camille Jullian, Benjamin spotted two
police cars blocking the narrow street, their doors wide
open and lights flashing. An ambulance was parked nearby.
The street had also been cordoned off. A uniformed officer
recognized Benjamin from afar and unhooked the crime-scene
tape to let him pass. He explained that the captain was
waiting for him on the third floor of the small building at
the corner of the Rue des Trois Chandeliers. Other police
officers were holding back a crowd of onlookers, many of
whom were standing on their toes to catch a glimpse of
whatever was happening behind the flowerpots on the
balcony. Benjamin rushed up the two flights of wooden
stairs without so much as holding onto the railing and made
his way down the hall, where two plainclothes detectives
were talking with a woman in a white coat. They all turned
and looked him up and down without a word.
“Hello,” Benjamin panted. “I believe the inspector is
expecting me.”
“I don’t know if he can be disturbed,” said one of the men.
“Access to the area is prohibited.”
“This way, Mr. Cooker,” Barbaroux bellowed from inside the
apartment.
In the hallway, an empty gurney sat next to an umbrella
stand, which was also empty. The wallpaper, with tedious
rows of droopy floral bouquets, oozed a musty odor. Faded
prints of religious scenes, shepherds on the heath, and
dove hunters added little charm to the stuffy dark tunnel
that opened onto a cramped living room furnished in birch
veneer.
“Sorry to trouble you, but I needed to see you right away,”
the inspector said, his hands stuffed into the pockets of
his trousers. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“What happened?” Benjamin asked, overlooking the fact that
Barbaroux hadn’t bothered to shake his hand. “It must be
serious if you’ve blocked the road off.”
“Everyone says you’re the most brilliant wine expert of
your generation,” Barbaroux said.
“Some even claim that you’re one of the best in the world.
Is that true?”
“You didn’t bring me here to shower me with compliments, I
hope.”
“Don’t think I’m being sarcastic, Mr. Cooker. That’s not my
style. But it happens that I need your expertise right
now.”
The woman in the white coat came into the room. Her hand
was raised, and she appeared to be asking permission to cut
the conversation short. Two morgue attendants wearing
serious expressions were standing behind her.
“My team has finished, Chief. Can we remove the body now?”
“You haven’t forgotten anything?” Barbaroux growled.
“Everything’s ready to go. We have what we need.”
“What about those samples we rushed to the lab?”
“You should be getting the results any minute now.”
“In that case, get him out of here!”?The men pushed the
gurney through a door that Benjamin had not noticed before,
leaving it open as they attempted to lift the half-naked
and bloody body. It took several tries, and at one point
they almost dropped the corpse. The wine expert averted his
eyes and made a sign of the cross.
“Jules-Ernest Grémillon, ninety-three years old,” said
Barbaroux. “Not a bad age to die.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened in this apartment
or not?”
“Do you really want to know?” he asked, looking Cooker in
the eye. “Well then, follow me.”
They went into the kitchen, which looked hardly bigger than
a few square feet. The floor, laminate counter, and wall
tiles were splattered with dark stains that looked nearly
black, except where the dim ceiling light reflected ruby
red spots. Cooker felt his stomach lurch, and he was
grateful there wasn’t much in it. He frowned.
“Total carnage!” Barbaroux said. “The old man was butchered
like a pig. What a mess! According to preliminary findings,
the victim tried to defend himself before he was struck. It
looks like the killer attacked quickly. Over there, the
clean dishes on the drain board fell onto the dirty dishes
in the sink. They’re all smashed. And there, the pans were
knocked off the hooks. A box of macaroni is spilled all
over the floor.”
Benjamin looked on without a word, trying to control the
revulsion he felt in this ravaged, bloodstained kitchen, a
repugnant cesspool where the most barbaric violence had
mixed with the ordinary misery of everyday life.
“But the strangest thing, Mr. Cooker, is behind you,” the
inspector said, touching the winemaker lightly on the
shoulder. “Turn around. I want you to see this. Odd, isn’t
it?”
On a small wooden table wedged behind the door, right
beside the refrigerator, a dozen wine glasses were arranged
in a semicircle. Only one, the glass on the extreme right,
was full.
“What’s the meaning of that?” Benjamin asked, dumbfounded.
“Well, exactly, it’s incomprehensible! We’re all shocked, I
have to admit. This neat little scene in the midst of
bloody chaos. Obviously, the murderer took his sweet time
leaving a calling card. But what’s the message?”
“And what’s in the glass?”
“Don’t worry. It’s not the victim’s blood. I’m sure it’s
just red wine. We sent a sample to the lab. We’ve taken all
the photos and measurements we need. We’ve dusted for
fingerprints, tested everything—absolutely everything—under
UV light. Now all I need is you.”
“And how can I be of use?”
“Other than you, I don’t know anyone who can tell me what
is in this glass.”
“You’re kidding, Inspector. You want me to do a blind
tasting on the spot, at the scene of the crime, amid this
slaughter?”
“I suppose these are not ideal conditions, but you would be
doing me a great favor.”
“I’m sorry, Inspector. I would like to help you. But how do
we know that what’s in the glass, which looks like wine,
hasn’t been tainted? You can’t ask me to taste it without
giving me some assurance that there’s nothing in it that
could make me sick.”
“As I said, we sent a sample to the lab, and they’re
rushing a tox screen. I’ll know in a minute or two.”
Benjamin didn’t have enough time to refuse the detective’s
request. Barbaroux’s cell phone rang. The inspector pulled
it out, put it to his ear, and mumbled a few words before
ending the call and tucking the device back into his
pocket.
“That was the lab. Quick, aren’t they? It’s wine, and the
tox screen didn’t reveal anything worrisome. You can go
ahead and do your tasting.”
Benjamin sighed. There was no way out. He picked up the
glass and tipped it carefully to observe the color, search
for particles, and ex- amine the density of the surface
reflection. Then he brought the glass to his nose and
closed his eyes. There was dead silence, barely interrupted
by a slight swishing sound when the wine finally rolled
into Benjamin’s mouth. He savored it slowly, taking some
air into his throat before letting the wine slide to the
back of his mouth. He spit the wine onto the dish shards in
the sink. Then he began all over, his eyes still half-
closed, as the inspector watched. Benjamin sensed the man’s
impatience but still took his time, employing the same
expert approach, the same palpitating nostrils, lip
movements, and slow, almost lazy chewing, punctuated with
wet and noisy clicks.
“Well?” Barbaroux asked, unable to conceal his impatience
any longer.
“Astonishing!”
“Where’s it from?”
“A very nice nose! Delicate, generous, balanced!”
“Where’s it from?”
“On the palate, it’s a bit disappointing.”
“But where’s it from?”
“The aromas are elegant, but the mouthfeel is somewhat
faded.”
“You don’t know?”
“Time has softened the structure.”
“And where’s it from?”
“Pomerol.”
“Without a doubt?”
“Without a doubt.”
“And what else?”
“Let me see...”
“What estate?”
“I have an idea what it might be.”
“So tell me, for God’s sake!”
“I can never be sure, but...”
“But?”
“Pétrus.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost sure... Yes, absolutely.”
“Almost or absolutely?”
“Both.”
“What year?”
“You’re asking too much.”
“More or less?”
“An old vintage.”
“Approximately how old?”
“It could be sixty years old. Possibly even older.”
“Really? You don’t say! Still, you’re not being very
precise.”
“Sorry.”
“Any memory of it?”
“I never tasted it before.”