Flambé in Armagnac by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Read Free Book Online Page B

their wicker casings, had been tucked away in storage.
    The assistant took a paper napkin and scribbled a series of numbers. When he was done, Benjamin put on his reading glasses to take a look. Satisfied with the final figures, he copied the calculations into his notebook.
    “Good work, Virgile. It seems that we’re far from the figures Castayrac gave us. His numbers are significantly higher—three times higher as far as the demijohns are concerned. It’s a classic ploy: pad the reserves to bring the business back to an even keel and enjoy the serendipitous flow of cash from the insurance company. And then he can plead ignorance under the pretext that Francisco was the one in charge of the books.”
    “Yes, but to take us for idiots! I don’t care if he’s a baron. I’m going to let him know that we’re onto his game.”
    “You’re not going to say anything, Virgile.”
    “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “It’s better not to rush things. We still need to gather evidence.”
    “But, boss, we have the proof.”
    “Of insurance fraud, perhaps. But I want to know more. Just to make sure we’re not missing something.”
    Benjamin fell quiet. He had opted for coffee and was now staring at the bottom of his cup. The winemaker’s habit of silently musing sometimes irritated his assistant, who always wanted to know what he was thinking. But Benjamin continued to peer into his cup, as if the solution to his investigation lay there.
    “I must tell you, I’m not very good at reading coffee grounds,” Virgile said.
    “I suggest a few drops of Armagnac in the bottom of our cups, Virgile. Perhaps a fresh idea will wind up staring us in the face.”
    The winemaker called the waitress and ordered a Laberdolive. Benjamin had only to request the vintage from Virgile’s year of birth to make his protégé’s face light up. Benjamin poured a few drops of the very amber Armagnac into each coffee cup, ignoring the two balloon glasses brought by the young woman.
    “I have a hunch,” Virgile murmured, “that some liquor might just loosen the baron’s tongue.”
    “I think the same thing, Virgile. But for now, tell me what this eau-de-vie brings to your nose.”
    “Quince, definitely,” Virgile said.
    “Exactly!” Benjamin responded. “I will add: quince paste, and little by little, it tends toward prune, doesn’t it?”
    “I’m staying with quince. Perhaps with a hint of lime?”
    “Do you know, Virgile, how the Latin poet who shares your name described the quince?”
    “No idea.”
    “He described it as ‘pale with tender down.’ Lovely, isn’t it? He was referring to the fuzzy skin, of course.”
    “Since we’re displaying our knowledge, do you know where people used to plant quince trees?” Virgile asked, mischief written on his lips.
    Benjamin shook his head, feeling a bit embarrassed because he didn’t know the answer.
    Virgile was quick to fill him in. “Quince trees were often planted in the corners of a vegetable garden to officially mark where the plot ended.”
    Benjamin smiled at the play on words in French, the word for quince, coign , sounding the same as the one for corner, coin.
    Finishing his Armagnac, Benjamin glanced out the window. The sky looked as ashen as the rubble in the Blanzac cellar. Farmers in the area were predicting that a change in temperature would accompany the new moon. On this point, their waitress happily concurred.
    “The weather’s going to get milder,” she said as Benjamin paid the bill and buttoned up his Loden.
    It had become obvious that this gracious and well-endowed waitress was none other than the owner. The food and the Armagnac had restored the winemaker’s spirits, and he was sure that he would be seeing this woman and her restaurant again. The marinated duck had been a real treat, the duck breast cooked to perfection.
    “So, Virgile, how was that?” Benjamin asked, grinning as Virgile and he slipped into the beige leather seats of the Mercedes. Benjamin