Flambé in Armagnac by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page A

you from disgrace.”
    “I admit I was in a bad situation, but good heavens, I never could have committed such an act!”
    “Can you provide the slightest alibi to suggest that on December 24th you were not at Blanzac?”
    The baron was quiet for a long time, as if he had run out of arguments.
    “None,” he finally said, running a weary hand through his hair. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t feel very well.”
    “And for the very good and sole reason that I have put my finger where it hurts. Blanzac was going to be sold, and you were angry with your older son, the only one who could have helped you.”
    “Alban? You must be kidding! Him, help me? He never stopped humiliating me or prowling like a vulture around Blanzac to the point of trying to dispossess me. As recently as last week, he was my fiercest rival for the chairmanship of the APC! No, if you have to point the finger at someone, sir, you should be looking at him.”
    “I knew you were capable of many things,” the prosecutor insisted, adjusting his glasses. “But with you, the worst is always yet to come. Incriminating your own son to clear your name! No one’s buying it. You’re providing enough rope to hang yourself. What interest would your offspring have had, no matter how ungrateful he was, to set your wine cellar ablaze? He’s not the one who stood to collect the fat check from the insurance company. And why would he have done away with Francisco, as well? I believe the relationship between your cellar master and Alban was quite friendly.”
    “I cannot answer that question, sir. For all I know, his father-in-law was conspiring with the bank to buy the estate, and he planned to hand it over to Alban. Nadaillac would have gained control of one of his biggest competitors, and Alban would have been his own boss. My son never had many scruples.”
    “And neither do you, it appears.”
    With his head in his hands, Jean-Charles de Castayrac seemed to be trying to drown out the relentless accusations of the prosecutor. The light from the man’s desk lamp illuminated the baron’s signet ring. One could make out perfectly the Castayrac coat of arms: two unicorns and two matching trefoils.
    “I believe we’ll leave it at that for today,” the prosecutor said, placing his pen in the white porcelain inkwell from another era.
    The guards posted behind the suspect put their caps back on and got ready to leave. The hearing was over.
    “When you feel the pangs of remorse, Mr. Castayrac, let me know. We’ll save time that way. As uncomfortable as Château Blanzac may be, it’s still warmer than our jails.”
    “Actually, I find your cell sufficiently comfortable, sir,” the aristocrat answered, throwing his shoulders back.
    “Lock him up until further notice,” the prosecutor grumbled.
    “Very well, sir,” the first guard responded, taking the baron by the arm and leading him away. Benjamin noted that the prosecutor looked like an anachronism. His silk pinstriped suit looked like it was made by an eighty-year-old tailor. His bearing was pompous, and his voice was high-pitched.
    § § §
    Back in his office, the prosecutor rose from his chair, walked over to the old cast-iron radiator, and warmed his hands while watching the van haul the fallen baron off to the old jail. Then he walked back to his Empire-style desk, picked up his telephone, and called the chief of police in Saint-Justin.
    “Magistrate Canteloube here. I need you to do something for me. Pick up Alban Castayrac and bring him in. Right away.”
    § § §
    “With a father like that, I understand why Alban took off,” Virgile told Benjamin during their lunch at Prada. “He would have married anyone to get away from Blanzac. It just happens that he made out rather well by marrying a Nadaillac.”
    “It seems to be a theme in the Castayrac family,” Benjamin said. “The baron himself profited quite handsomely from his marriage.”
    Philippe and Beatrice de Bouglon were watching this