Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

rough country, it was the only vehicle that sparked a touch of envy. But he knew he’d be more comfortable with the army surplus Citroën jeep that he was saving for.
    Bruno quickly took in the scene. Nearest the entrance, with one door open and a shouting match under way all around it, was a white Porsche convertible with an extremely pretty young woman sitting in the passenger seat. Hubert himself was standing in front of the driver’s door, gripping the steering wheel to prevent a very angry man in bright yellow trousers and a pink polo shirt from climbing in and driving away. Nathalie sat grimly on the Porsche’s hood, a younger woman whom Bruno did not know, presumably some new employee, perched beside her. With the sun gleaming off the thick ringlets of her blond hair, the new girl with the large dark eyes was attractive enough for Bruno’s glance to linger. She stared back at him boldly, the kind of frank appraisal he might expect from an older and more experienced woman.
    Standing beside the new girl was Max, a handsome youth with blond streaks in his hair whose skin glowed with good health. He grinned at the sight of Bruno, who had taught the boy to play rugby. Now at a university in Bordeaux, Max had asummer job working for Hubert. He lived at his father Alphonse’s commune. As backdrop to the scene around the Porsche, a small audience of enthralled customers was gathered in the door of the
cave
.
    The blue light on his van still flashing, Bruno had stopped with his front bumper almost touching the Porsche, blocking its exit. He took out his notebook and recorded the license plate number. It ended in 75, which meant Paris. He strode up to the group, which now fell silent. This was no time for the habitual round of kissing and hand-shaking. It was an occasion for the anonymous majesty of the law.
    “Messieurs-dames,”
he began, touching his peaked cap in salute and taking in the scene.
“Chef de Police Courrèges à votre service.”
    Bruno took a good look at the strangers and their expensive car. The man in pink and yellow must have been in his late fifties. He had a magnificent head of long, curling white hair and a small paunch, and he wore a gold wedding ring. The woman in his Porsche looked to be in her twenties. She was wearing big sunglasses and shoes that cost—Bruno guessed—at least two weeks of his pay. He noted that she wore an impressive collection of diamonds on her fingers but no wedding ring. An exquisitely groomed small white poodle with a diamanté collar sat at her feet.
    “He dropped the Château Pétrus ’82 and is refusing to pay for it,” said Hubert, in a voice that somehow expressed grief as well as anger.
    “You mean, he broke it?” Bruno was awed. “A bottle of the ’82?” This was like a death in the family.
    “Two thousand two hundred euros’ worth of wine, smashed on the floor,” said Nathalie.
    “It was an accident,” said the man in pink. “The bottle was slippery, greasy. It wasn’t my fault.”
    “And you are, monsieur?” inquired Bruno.
    “Just a tourist, on a short vacation.”
    “Your papers, please.”
    “Look, I’m just passing through. I’ll be on my way once these people stop blocking my car.”
    “Your papers, monsieur. And yours, please, madame.”
    “Mademoiselle,” the well-groomed young woman corrected him, fishing in her purse for her identity card. Bruno recognized the distinctive Chanel logo.
    “Apologies, Mademoiselle, ah, d’Alambert. This is still your address, boulevard Maurice-Barrès in Paris?”
    She nodded. Bruno took down in his notebook the relevant information. She was twenty-four and had been born in Lille. It was quite a jump from an industrial city in northern France to boulevard Barrès, a celebrated street overlooking the Bois de Boulogne in the richest part of Paris. Her profession was listed as model.
    “Monsieur, your papers,” he repeated.
    The man pursed his lips as if to object, then shrugged and reached for his wallet, an expensive slim design of crocodile skin, and handed Bruno his identity card and his driver’s license.
    “Monsieur Hector d’Aubergny Dupuy, of avenue Foch, Paris, sixteenth arrondissement. Is that right?” The man nodded. Avenue Foch was a grand address, and but a pleasant stroll from the Bois de Boulogne and boulevard Barrès.
    “And if I were to call your home, monsieur, would someone be there who could confirm that you are who you say you are?” Bruno paused and glanced