Martin Walker: Black Diamond

“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 Legion 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. Alvere. 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. Alvere would help him get elected to be the next chairman of the Conseil Regional.

“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 becasses.”

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

“Organisation de l’Armee Secrete. 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.”

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.