Flambé in Armagnac by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

that opportunist Alban found favor in his eyes.
    § § §
    An hour and twenty-eight minutes later, the winemaker arrived at Château Blanzac with two reluctant-looking officers.
    Benjamin turned to Virgile. “Well, what do you have to show us, Virgile?”
    The assistant handed over his evidence. Benjamin examined it for a few moments and then gave it to the police officers. “It appears, gentlemen, that the cellar was locked from the outside.”
    From the beginning, the police—and just about everyone else in the region—had theorized that Francisco Vasquez’s death was accidental.
    “Considering Mr. Castayrac’s reputation…” one of the officers stammered.
    His fellow officer looked at Virgile and then at Benjamin.
    “Mr. Cooker, will you authorize us to take credit for this crucial discovery by your invaluable colleague?”
    “You need to ask him yourself. It isn’t my decision to make,” Benjamin grumbled.
    Virgile shrugged. Although he felt like saying more, “yeah” was his only response.
    The two officers walked over to their van, carefully took off their shoes, and pulled on khaki waders, which made them look ridiculous. They started searching for new clues in the charred debris.
    With little to do, Benjamin tugged at Virgile’s coat sleeve. “Come with me, Virgile. I can’t resist stealing another look at the black Citroën DS hibernating at the back of the garage. I know you appreciate vintage cars too. After all, you have one yourself.”
    The Citroën was covered in canvas. Only the shiny hubcaps were visible. Virgile could tell that the winemaker’s desire to slip into this sleek 1957 car—aerodynamic before its time—was irresistible. Benjamin started to lift the cover. Not one second later, a beady-eyed Valmont de Castayrac emerged from the shadows.
    “I believe I already told you, Mr. Cooker. This car is absolutely not for sale!”
    Instantly, Virgile recognized the supple and robust figure, which the night before had appeared ready to throw himself under the car.
    § § §
    Benjamin slipped into the back of the public hearing room, hoping not to be noticed. Jean-Charles de Castayrac kept proclaiming his innocence and denouncing the plot against him. Brought before the prosecutor, he cited his entire family tree, the war records of his ancestors, and his tireless battle to promote Armagnac throughout the world as evidence of his good character. But the Landes public prosecutor remained implacable. The baron’s forebears and efforts on behalf of Armagnac—which weren’t selfless, because he benefitted from them—did not make him a man of virtue. Indeed, Castayrac had admitted his bankruptcy, his chronic inability to manage his property, and his weakness for gambling, society life, and beautiful women. He also admitted to the staggering amount of money he had taken from his in-laws before his wife’s death to cover his abysmal losses from a deal gone bad.
    “They were already so rich, sir, with their Alvignac spring water!” Castayrac had shouted.
    To which the prosecutor responded, “You were just as rich from your own waters: eau-de vie!”
    But the cavalier and frivolous behavior of the cynical baron wasn’t what mattered most to the public servant. The baron had cheated the tax authorities, carried out insurance fraud, and, even more important, committed arson. His own cellar master had died in that fire.
    “Does it take courage or heartlessness to set fire to one’s own property?” the infuriated prosecutor had asked.
    “But I am utterly incapable of that, sir.”
    “Incapable of love, yes. That I believe. You knowingly locked Francisco Valdez, the unfortunate man who had been faithful to your family for almost a half century, in your wine cellar before reducing it to ashes.”
    “I did nothing of the sort.”
    “Everyone knows that you had defaulted on your mortgage, and Crédit Agricole was planning to sell your estate at auction. Only the insurance payout could save