He could see only one problem that might interfere with his otherwise well-ordered and prosperous future: the Englishman, who had showed a little too much interest in the vines for Fitzgerald’s liking. This year’s vintage would be safe; tests and investigations would delay an oenologue’s report until well after the vendange. But after that? If only the Englishman could be persuaded to sell.
Fitzgerald made a note to talk to Nathalie. As he well knew, she could be extremely persuasive.
When Christie, Charlie, and Max reached the village, they saw very little trace of the previous evening’s festivities. The strings of colored lights were still there, hanging like tropical fruit among the leaves of the plane trees, but the trestle tables, the benches, and the stage were all gone, dismantled and loaded up overnight on the truck that would take them to the next fête. A sprinkling of tourists lounged on the café terrace, and from inside came the slap of cards that punctuated the never-ending game played by four ancient gentlemen at a table in the back. The square was empty except for one or two hurrying figures, clutching bread and late for lunch. Normality had returned to Saint-Pons.
It would have taken a keen observer to notice any difference in the way Fanny treated Max from any other well-liked client. She might have nuzzled his cheek for a second or two longer than usual when they were exchanging kisses, and her thigh was touching his shoulder while she was standing by the table taking their order. The same keen observer might also have detected an extra twitch to her hips as she walked away. But on the whole she was, as Charlie remarked, a model of discretion, and a girl you could very definitely take home to meet your mother. “Now then,” he said, taking a creased envelope from his pocket and smoothing it on the table, “this mystery wine.” He held his empty glass out to Max to be filled as he looked down at his notes. “Billy had a job getting the details, but he knows his stuff. I’m sure he’s got his facts straight, even if they’re a bit hard to believe.
“First of all, we can’t afford it. It’s not at all widely known, except to hard-core connoisseurs with what Billy calls ample funds. It’s part of a fairly recent phenomenon in the business-garage wines, Max, remember?-tiny vineyards with very limited production. Well, they’ve taken off like mad in the past few years, and they’re fetching prices that would make your eyes water; just the thing for wine snobs with more loot than sense.” He paused to sip his wine and look at Max. “Actually, it’s exactly what I was talking about when we had dinner in London. Pity Uncle Henry didn’t leave you a bit of land in Bordeaux.
“Anyway, the wine from this particular vineyard is selling for serious money: thirty or forty thousand dollars a case-that’s wholesale, if you can get any. And you’d be lucky to get any because the production is never more than a few hundred cases each year. Almost all of it goes to Asia, a dribble to the States, a dribble to Germany, but none to France. Don’t ask me why. And they’re keeping it very close to the chest. Tasting is strictly by invitation only, and you have to deal with the sole representative. Let’s see now”-Charlie turned over the envelope and squinted at the scribbles on the back-“yes, here we are. I suppose it’s a bloke, but you never can tell with French names. Someone called Jean-Marie Fitzgerald.”
Max, in mid-swallow, almost choked. “Who?”
“But we met that guy.” Christie leaned across to check the name on the envelope. “How many Jean-Marie Fitzgeralds can there be in Bordeaux?”
Charlie looked from one puzzled face to the other. Max described Fitzgerald’s visit to the vineyard, and that made three puzzled faces around the table. “If it is the same guy,” said Christie, “what was he doing down here pretending to be…”
“… an oenologue recommended by Nathalie Auzet,” said Max. “Who we know is up to something.”
They had been neglecting their first course, and ate in thoughtful silence until the last scrap of jambon cru and the last sweet scoop of Cavaillon melon was finished. “I’m just thinking out loud,” said Max, “but suppose Roussel’s wine-our wine-that Nathalie Auzet pays for in cash and arranges to have shipped out by truck every year-suppose that’s going to Fitzgerald.” He was distracted by Fanny’s breast brushing his ear as she bent forward to take away his plate. Coming back to earth, he went on: “And suppose he bottles it, sticks on a fancy label, and jacks up the price.”
Charlie consulted his envelope. “I got the right name, didn’t I? Le Coin Perdu-that’s what was on the label you saw.”
Max nodded, leaning back in his chair. “What a scam. But if you could pull it off you’d make a fortune. The best Luberon wines fetch twenty or twenty-five dollars a bottle. Give the same wine a Bordeaux label, keep it exclusive, make up a convincing bit of history, and the sky’s the limit.”
Christie shook her head. “People would know. They can’t be that dumb.”
“Don’t bet on it,” said Charlie. “You’d be amazed. This is the wine business, remember? The emperor’s new clothes in a bottle.” He nodded his thanks as Fanny put a plate of moules farcies, fragrant with butter, parsley, and garlic, in front of him. “Look, say you put the word out very discreetly to one or two of the top buyers and let them in on the secret of this fabulously exclusive wine-well, their clients aren’t likely to argue. The emperor’s new clothes in a bottle,” he said again as he speared a mussel, clearly pleased with the description. “And you’ve got human nature working for you, don’t you see? Pick your man, appeal to his ego, flatter him rigid, tell him how much you admire his taste and his extraordinary palate. Then tell him that this is an unknown treasure-there’s an old chestnut that’s worked a couple of times in the property business, I can tell you-and you’d like him to be one of the lucky few to discover it. These people love to be the first to spot a great wine. And, most important”-Charlie jabbed the air with his fork in emphasis-“you tell them to share the secret only with a few trusted clients. Publicity would spoil everything. Come to think of it, that’s probably why they don’t sell it in France. The frogs would ask awkward questions.” He raised his eyebrows at the other two. “Well? It could work, couldn’t it?”
It seemed wildly improbable. Although, as Christie said, it seemed more than wildly improbable-inconceivable, even-that a man would spend half a million dollars on a single bottle of wine. And yet it had happened. This was news to Charlie, and he jumped on it. “There you are,” he said. “Exactly what I’ve been saying. Common sense goes out of the window all the time in the wine business.”
“Suppose you’re right about this,” Christie said. “How do you prove it?”
Suggestions and countersuggestions went back and forth over the mussels and then the cheese. Max ruled out calling in the police, which would ruin Roussel as well as the others. A confrontation with Nathalie Auzet was raised again, and discarded for the same reason: she would simply deny everything, and for lack of proof she would get away with it. The more they talked, the more it became clear that they should concentrate on Jean-Marie Fitzgerald.