Twenty

It wasn’t long before Max began to suspect that he’d been had. The first, most glaring clue was the overnight disappearance of Maître Auzet, which was to be the subject of fascinated speculation in the village for months, possibly years, to come. She had left no forwarding address at the post office, which the village took as a sure sign of irregular or possibly criminal behavior. Had she run off with a lover? Or was there-a thought always accompanied by a morbid but delicious shiver-something more sinister? A crime passionnel that would account for her empty office and shuttered house? Rumor was rampant-she had been spotted in Marseille, a light had been seen in her house, she had absconded with clients’ funds, she had forsaken this wicked world and joined the Sisters of Mercy. There was a fresh story every day. As one of the old men in the café said, it was better than anything on television.

Max and Roussel, for obvious reasons, kept their theories to themselves, hoping that in the way of these things, interest would fade. Eventually, they told one another, the case of the missing notaire would become just one of many unexplained incidents in the nine-hundred-year history of Saint-Pons.

Max discovered another disappearing piece in the puzzle when he tried to contact Fitzgerald in Bordeaux, only to find that his phone number had been discontinued. But what finally confirmed the deception was another call, this one made at the urging of Roussel.

Because he was a principal in the original scheme-even, it could be argued by the state prosecutor, the instigator-Roussel was an extremely worried man. Again and again he turned over in his mind the penalties he might face if the authorities chose to enforce them: back taxes (with copious interest) on the money he had made, fines for not declaring that income, bankruptcy, possible imprisonment, his family destitute, his life in ruins. During the days that followed the events in Bordeaux, one could almost see the black cloud over his head as he went through the motions of tending the vines. He lost his appetite, hardly spoke to his wife, snapped at his dog. At last, when he could bear it no longer, he persuaded Max to contact the Bordeaux police; knowing the worst, he felt, would somehow be better than fearing it.

The two men sat in the kitchen while Max called information for the number in Bordeaux and, after some delay, was put through to Inspector Lambert.

“Oui?” It was the clipped, impatient voice of an overworked man.

“It’s Monsieur Skinner here. Max Skinner.”

“Who?”

“You remember? We, ah, met last week in Bordeaux.”

“No, monsieur. I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“You are Inspector Lambert?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, but is there another Inspector Lambert in Bordeaux?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? It was only last week that…”

“Monsieur”-the voice was now sounding exasperated-“Lambert is a common name. I happen to know that there are approximately sixty-seven thousand families in France with the name of Lambert. However, I also know that there is only one Lambert in the Bordeaux police department, and that is me. I’m sure you have something better to do than to waste my time. Good day, monsieur.”

Roussel had been leaning forward intently, chewing his lip, trying to guess at the other half of the conversation. Max put the phone down and shook his head, the beginnings of a grin on his face. “That crafty sod.”

“Who?”

“Fitzgerald. He must have set it up. Lambert, or whatever he’s really called, was no more a police inspector than I am. The whole thing was a fraud.” Max couldn’t stop shaking his head, like a man who’s just been shown how the white rabbit gets into the magician’s hat. “We’ve been conned,” he said. “Isn’t that great? We’ve been conned.”

The frown disappeared as hope began to dawn on Roussel’s face. “But the policemen…”

“Claude, you can rent anything nowadays, especially uniforms. Remember, we didn’t ask for any identification. You don’t, not in a situation like that. No, I’m sure of it. The only people who know what’s been going on are us and Fitzgerald and his friends. And they’re not about to tell anyone, are they? I mean, if it all got out, what are the penalties for impersonating a police officer? I think you can relax. We can relax.”

Roussel got to his feet and came round the table, his arms spread as wide as his smile. “ Cher ami. Cher ami.” He plucked Max from his chair, clasped him in an embrace that threatened to crack his spine, whirled him off his feet as if he were no heavier than a sack of fertilizer, and kissed him on each cheek.

“Steady on, Claude,” said Max. “Put me down. I’d better call Charlie and tell him the good news.”

The rest of the summer passed under blue skies, with only the traditional mid-August storm as a temporary relief from the heat. There was hard, unremitting work in the vines and in the cave, with Fanny providing food and sweet consolation at the end of each long, blistering day. Max learned to drive a tractor and, as the shining season of autumn came, to pick the grapes and sort them according to size without bruising them. His face and arms turned the color of a pickled nut; his hands developed a thick carapace of rough skin; his clothes became dusty and faded; his hair grew shaggy. He had never been happier.

Madame Passepartout took enormous pleasure in the postcards that arrived regularly from London, particularly those featuring members of the royal family. It appeared, to her great satisfaction, that Christie and Charlie were carrying on what had begun under her very eyes in Saint-Pons.

It became a litany. “I should never be surprised,” she would say to Max without fail every time a new postcard arrived, “if this doesn’t end in something more permanent. A ceremony at the Mairie would be most appropriate, non? I must think of something to wear. Of course, Monsieur Max, you will be the témoin de mariage.”

And even taking into account his friend’s past success at avoiding matrimony, Max was inclined to agree.

He and Roussel, with the help of a loan arranged by Maurice at the local Crédit Agricole, were planning to uproot the tired old vines during the winter and replace them with Roussel’s Cabernet and Merlot mixture. Working with a cousin in the building trade, they had made much-needed changes to the cave, scrubbing it out, whitewashing the ceiling and walls, and installing a simple stone bar just inside the door. They leveled the track that led to the barn and put up a plain but handsome sign on the road for passers-by who might want to stop for a dégustation.

As for their pride and joy and hope for the future, the wine from the stony patch, it was no longer called Le Coin Perdu. Instead, they had decided to use the name of the property, with a presentation suitable for an exceptional wine. The corks were long, the capsules were lead, the bottles were feuille morte, that particular and expensive type of glass that prevents the penetration of harmful ultraviolet rays. And the label was a model of classic understatement: Le Griffon. Vin de Pays du Vaucluse. M. Skinner et C. Roussel Propriétaires. Their ambition was to join that other distinguished vin de pays, the Domaine de Trévallon, as one of the very few non-appellation wines worthy of a connoisseur’s consideration.

These were early days, of course, but the indications were encouraging. Several good restaurants, one as far away as Aix, had agreed to put Le Griffon on their lists; this despite its price, which was very high by Luberon standards. Next year, when May came around, Max and Roussel planned to enter the wine at Macon, to see if it could win a coveted medal. But already the word of mouth was good, and growing.