The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel by Martin Walker Page A

protection.
    “He killed himself with vodka,” said Yevgeny, raising his hands in a gesture that was half resignation, half blessing.
    “He died in his sleep, the evening of the Patriarch’s party,” Bruno said vaguely, not wanting to upset Clothilde further. “Did you know Gilbert well?”
    “We were very close at one time, not long after he came here,” she replied, with a hesitant and reminiscent smile. “It was not long after he came back from Moscow. He’d just retired, or rather he’d been pushed out. He was very bitter about it. I wish I’d known; I’d have liked to attend the funeral.”
    In the brief silence that then fell, Raquelle quickly changed the subject, talking of her recent trip to Chicago to help launch the new traveling exhibition of the Lascaux Cave, which she and Clothilde had helped design. It was a topic that drew Clothilde back into the conversation and lasted until the sound of stiletto heels on Raquelle’s tile floor signaled the arrival of the final guest.
    Victor’s wife, Madeleine, strode into the walled garden with an apology for her lateness and air-kisses for all except Bruno, to whom she stretched out her hand and held his for just a heartbeat too long. She was wearing tight jeans and a loose white cotton sweater that revealed one smooth, tanned shoulder and announced, “I just had to get out of those depressing funeral clothes. Didn’t I hear you talking about your work on Lascaux, Clothilde? I’m so sorry to interrupt, do go on.”
    “I’d finished,” said Clothilde, stiffly. There was evidently little love lost between the two women. But then Clothilde, as a scholar with an impressive reputation in France and abroad, was accustomed to dominating any gathering by force of her personality as well as her academic renown. Madeleine could do the same effortlessly, by her looks alone. And if Madeleine was touched by that cool arrogance that marks so many beautiful women, she was clever enough to conceal it. Raquelle, Bruno noted, was watching both women with a cocked eyebrow and slightly mocking smile, enjoying the subtle rivalry between them. Horst and Yevgeny had their eyes on Madeleine, as would any man in his senses, Bruno thought, as he shifted his eyes back to her and caught her examining him, perhaps wondering why his gaze had been elsewhere.
    “Where does the exhibition go after Chicago?” he asked Clothilde.
    “Montreal, then Tokyo, after that I’m not sure. Perhaps China.”
    “I hope not,” said Horst. “Lascaux is crowded enough without millions of Chinese coming to see it. They’ve already made the Louvre impossible and driven up the price of Bordeaux wines to the point where I can barely afford them.”
    “Drink our good Bergerac instead, it’s a lot cheaper and often better than the wine made by those hidebound snobs in the Médoc,” said Madeleine, picking up the bottle on the table and pretending to be shocked. “Shame on you, Raquelle, serving a Bergerac that hasn’t come from the family vineyard. And you a shareholder!”
    “Rest assured, Madeleine, the next bottle is one of ours,” said Raquelle, guiding them to take their places around the table, slicing a fat
pain
and telling them to help themselves to the salad. She sat at the head of the table, and Yevgeny took the foot. Bruno sat beside Clothilde, facing Horst and Madeleine.
    “Do you know you’re quoted in the paper today?” Madeleine asked Bruno. She pulled a folded copy of
Sud Ouest
from her bag and passed it to him. The paper opened to a page about Imogène and her deer, with a photo of Adèle standing by her battered car and another of an emaciated fawn. Bruno was quoted as saying that unless Imogène built the fence the court had required, the next step would be for the prefect of the
département
to seek a court order for the deer to be culled. But he hoped an agreement might be reached to establish a proper refuge.
    “It sounds like you’re on the side of this crazy