Martin Walker - Black Diamond

Bruno nodded encouragingly. “Politics always seems to get involved, that’s true.”

“It’s politics all the way in this town. Especially now that the elections are coming up. I suppose that’s why the mayor called you in. The last thing he wants is a scandal, which would explain why you’re not in uniform.”

“I don’t have any jurisdiction in Ste. Alvere,” Bruno said. “But I don’t think it’s just the elections. The new plantations are going to increase the truffle supply and make the trade even more important for the town.”

Didier nodded and helped himself to more coffee from the jug that a young woman had brought in when Bruno arrived. It was weak and slightly stewed, and Bruno had left his cup unfinished. From his chair in front of Didier’s desk in the office of the market hall, Bruno had a clear view of the tower of the ruined castle that dominated the town center.

“The growth is for the future. But right now, because the mayor doesn’t want to upset the renifleurs, we have to have a double system,” Didier said. “There’s the market we control, where we buy in the truffles and then sell them. And then there’s a consignment system, where we sell the truffles on behalf of the grower or the hunter. We only pay him once we get paid. We charge a small fee when we give a guarantee of quality.”

Bruno had already looked over the account books that lay open before him. Last year, the market had issued certificates for almost eight million euros’ worth of truffles, so the fees for the certificates amounted to a quarter of a million. The figures had surprised him. There was more money involved here than he’d thought. The market was required by the mairie to take a five percent profit on the truffles it bought and sold directly, and last year that had been worth another quarter million.

“It looks like half a million a year in income for the mairie,” said Bruno.

“I’m proud to say that I run the most profitable single department of the mairie,” said Didier, sitting back in his chair with a smug expression on his face. “Of course, buying and selling on our own account means there’s another problem because of the cash flow. We pay cash to buy the truffles, but we don’t get paid until we resell them. That’s a problem when there’s a surge in supply like we get in January. We have to pay interest on the bank overdraft, and that cuts our profit.”

“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.”