Free Grand Cru Heist by Jean-Pierre Alaux, noel, Jean-Pierre, Balen

away. She suggested that they celebrate the event at noon at the restaurant Noailles.
    “That is, unless you invite me to the Saint James in Bouliac.”
    “Done deal,” Cooker said, rubbing his cigar box before pulling out a D Number 4 from Partagas.
    The wall clock hanging above the mantel had just announced ten o’clock when Virgile barged into Cooker’s office. His coat was too big for him, and he looked pale. He wore a colorful turtleneck, and dark bags under his eyes indicated that his night had been too short. He plopped into an armchair in front of the desk and registered his boss’s good humor.
    With gray cigar smoke encircling his head, Cooker was busy putting checkmarks on some of the letters encumbering his desk. He removed his reading glasses, which gave him a certain professorial look, and told Virgile about the fine surprise that had been waiting for him. The winemaker had to cut his story short, though, when an unexpected visitor stuck his head in the door.
    “Hubert! What brings you to Bordeaux?”
    The owner of the Château Angélus did not look his best.
    “Come in. You know Virgile, my assistant, don’t you?”
    Hubert de Boüard shook the young man’s hand. His friendship with Cooker was longstanding, and there had never been any snags. Angélus got fantastic notations in the Cooker Guide , especially after the premier grand cru heir took on the services of the renowned winemaker Michel Rolland while also following the less official advice of his friend Cooker. The two men had a very cordial friendship and shared a passion for Cuban cigars.
    “What are you smoking at this hour of the day, old devil?” Hubert asked.
    “A D4, as you can see. It’s a bit strong, but the day has gotten off to a good start. My tasting notes that were stolen in Paris came back to me in the mail. I don’t know if it was the thief or a Good Samaritan who found it somewhere. I suspect it’s the latter. It’s comforting to know that someone, somewhere took the time to wrap it, stick postage on it, and drop it in a mailbox. And to do so without asking for a dime, but just because it was the right thing to do. You see, Hubert, acts like that make me believe in people.”
    “I’m really very happy for you, Benjamin.”
    “I can assure you right away. Angélus got a good rating in the new guide,” the winemaker said. “You, of course, know how highly I regard your 2000 vintage. Perhaps you would like to know the final score I gave it, unless you’ve come to tell me you got another mysterious message.”
    “That’s exactly it,” Hubert de Boüard said, holding the white envelope out to his friend.
    Virgile leaned in as Cooker examined the address. Biting his lip, he said, “This friend of yours might be a neighbor. The card was sent from Saint-Émilion yesterday.”
    “That is what worries me,” Hubert said.
    The tick-tock of the clock was the only sound in the room. With just enough affectation, Cooker set his cigar down in a white porcelain ashtray. He removed the card from the envelope and read the terse message: “Cave de l’Angélus. Does that ring a bell?” Then, in all capital letters, “AND THREE FOR ME.”
    Cooker quickly closed the card, as it was clearly disturbing his friend, one of Saint-Émilion’s most emblematic winemakers.
    “Now, Hubert, I’m afraid you have no choice. You have to tell the cops. When did you get it?”
    “In the morning mail.”
    “Virgile, were there any break-ins on the news last night or today?”
    “Not that I know of, sir.”
    “Did you listen to the radio this morning?”
    “Yes, well, no, I mean, not exactly.”
    “So actually, you aren’t really awake. Go home and take a good shower, and this afternoon I want a detailed list of all the wine auctions planned for the next month.”
    “Throughout France?”
    “France and beyond, including London, New York, and Geneva. Is that clear?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Oh, and I almost forgot. Tell your lady of the