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Authors: Alexander Campion

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“But you're a
commissaire
. That's a big deal.”
“And you're on your way to a Michelin star. That's an even bigger deal.”
They both laughed.
“Ah, non, non, non, non! Bordel. Merde, merde, merde! Qu'est-ce que tu me foutez là?”
Béatrice shouted through the door.
“He's done it again!” she said to Capucine as she ran into the kitchen. Capucine realized it was high time for her to leave and made for the door with a wave at Béatrice who took no notice as she elbowed the trembling cook away from the stove and took over his position.
CHAPTER 9
W
hen Capucine walked into her brigade the next morning, the uniformed receptionist stopped her.
“Commissaire,
one of those process servers from the City of Paris Administration dropped something off for you this morning. You know, those creepy guys with black uniforms with no insignia. Funny thing was that it wasn't an official document, looked more like a wedding invitation or something like that. I put it on your desk.”
The missive in question would have gladdened the heart of Capucine's dear grandmother, now departed to a world where she no doubt continued to spend the day perusing the social register—the celestial one, of course—making acid comments about the inadmissibility of most of the entries.
The envelope was a thick creamy bond with the name of a famous rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré stationer pressed into one of the folds that would normally be hidden when the flap was sealed. It was addressed with the extreme formality that had gone out of style with Choderlos de Laclos:
A Madame
Madame le Commissaire Capucine Le Tellier
E/V
As her grandmother had explained to her many times, it was necessary to state that the letter was for Madame before actually naming the madame in question. She had no idea why; that was just the way it was done. The “E/V” was to signify that the letter was being delivered
en ville
—in-town, in other words, by hand of servant and not entrusted to
La Poste
. The missive itself was on thick card stock with a beautifully hand-engraved letterhead stating only the street address.
Paris, the 10
th
June MMVI
Madame,
The presence of Madame is requested and required at 11:00 on the 10
th
inst. at the offices of Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction August-Marie Parmentier de La Martinière to assist in the interview of Mademoiselle Sybille Charbonnier. It will not be necessary for Madame to be accompanied.
Please allow the undersigned, Madame, to express the assurance of his most perfect consideration.
The signature was an illegible scribble.
Capucine giggled all the way to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and all the way back.
 
Even though Capucine arrived her usual fifteen minutes late at Martinière's office, Sybille was not there yet. Martinière was visibly tense and fretted skittishly with the bibelots on his desk. He placed Capucine on a small stool in the farthest corner of the room, presumably relegating her to the role of keeper of the peace. Capucine wondered if she had been invited only because, as a woman, it would acceptable for her to deal physically with another woman if the need arose.
After many long, fidgety moments the phone rang and Martinière snatched it up. “
Ah, enfin
—finally,” he said.
Sybille burst into the room—red eyed, makeup-smeared, her famous corkscrew curls in the matted tangle of a wet sheepdog—utterly unrecognizable from silver screen or glossy magazine page. From her vibrancy, reddened nostrils, and dilated pupils, Capucine surmised she had yet to make it to bed after a long night out in which controlled substances had played a prominent role. Still, to a woman's eye, her beauty and adolescent sensuality were striking even through her disarray.
But Martinière was as crestfallen as a ten-year-old boy who had received the wrong video game for Christmas.
“Mademoiselle,” he said through his disappointment, “it's so kind of you to come all the way to my office to see me.” In his nervousness, he extended his hand to be shaken, no doubt knowing as well as Capucine's grandmother that it was always the woman who was to initiate the gesture.
Sybille stared at the floor with humming intensity, the proffered hand unnoticed. She sniffed loudly, mopped her nose with her sleeve, and then clawed at her collar to smell an offending armpit under her raised arm. After three long, self-absorbed beats she bleated something that sounded like
“c'fay,”
apparently directed at her high-top sneakers. She drooped in the wooden armchair, splaying out like butter melting in the sun.
Martinière was momentarily at a loss but finally figured it out. “A coffee? Would you like a coffee? Is that what I can get you?”
Sybille nodded distractedly, as if still intently pursuing some private thought. Martinière rose and busied himself at his telephone on the side table.
Capucine began to enjoy herself. The scene had a strong sense of déjà vu. It was obvious that Sybille was playing a role. Capucine wondered how far she would dare go.
As they waited for the coffee, Martinière launched a line of small talk, sounding like a gawky boy from the provinces attempting to pick up a girl on his first visit to a fashionable Paris bar. Sybille did not lift her eyes from the floor.
Once Sybille had downed her coffee, Martinière launched awkwardly into his questions.
“Mademoiselle, you were sitting at the table next to the victim. It's highly possible that—even though you didn't know it—you saw the murder being committed.” Clearly he hoped for this dramatic statement to startle Sybille. She continued to stare at her sneakers, apparently obsessed with her thoughts.
“Did you see anyone pass behind the victim just before he died? Think carefully.”
Sybille continued to goggle at her sneakers. Capucine was amazed that Martinière missed that she was acting out a part.
After an interminable wait she muttered, in Brando's Method mumble, “
C'hais pas
—I dunno.”
Martinière was at a loss. “Mademoiselle, this is a murder investigation, a very serious matter. Your active cooperation is required by law.”
Sybille glanced up at him with a withering adolescent sneer, rolled her eyes, and returned them to the floor.
Capucine had had enough. “Sybille, didn't you see the man splash into his dinner? I wish I'd been there. I would have bust a gut.”
Sybille giggled and started to reply, but Martinière cut her off with a retort to Capucine.
“Commissaire
, please do not interfere. This is a very serious interview.”
He directed his attention to Sybille.
“This is a capital case. A man has been murdered. You were quite possibly an ocular witness.”
Clearly bored, Sybille changed tack. She pulled her chair up to the edge of Martinière's desk, leaned far forward, put her elbows on the top, nestled her chin in her palms, and stared at him fixedly, unblinkingly. Martinière was completely unnerved.
“Mademoiselle, you must pay attention to what I'm saying,” he said in a voice that was beginning to become high pitched. “Let me read you what the
Code Penal
has to say about failure to cooperate with a
juge d'instruction
.”
Martinière got up and went to a bookcase in the corner and started searching for a law book that eluded him. He wasn't going to find it. Capucine had already noticed Sybille smirking at the red-bound
Code Penal
on the desk. She was a lot less scatterbrained than she sought to appear.
As Martinière rooted through the shelves in exasperation, Sybille picked up his cherished gold pen, stealthily opened the top of his blotter, and began doodling on the immaculate felt-like paper. With unexpected talent she drew a cartoon of a blustery and comically severe egret that was a perfect caricature of Martinière. Capucine was sure that she fully well knew that Martinière would be incensed by someone even touching his beloved fountain pen.
Giving up at the bookcase, Martinière turned around and caught sight of Sybille's handiwork. He shrieked, “Put that pen down. What do you think you're doing? And look at it! You've destroyed my blotter.” He grabbed his pen and examined the nib carefully to see if any damage had been done. Capucine could feel him burning with desire to try it out on a piece of paper, while knowing that the gesture would make him utterly ridiculous.
“Mademoiselle, I give up. Since you refuse to talk to me, I'm going to have no alternative but to hand you over to the police,” he said, as if this was the most dire threat imaginable. “And you'll see that they are far from being as enlightened as I am. In fact, their techniques can sometimes be quite harsh, believe me.”
Instead of being cowed, as Martinière had hoped, Sybille turned and winkled at Capucine, who smiled sweetly back.
Martinière fumed at both of them. “
Ça suffit, mademoiselle
—enough of this nonsense. This interview is at an end,” Martinière said with dramatic finality intended to foretell imminent and grave consequences.
Sybille stood up and sashayed out of the office, swiveling her hips, smirking victoriously at Capucine as she passed. Capucine fervently hoped the expression was out of Martinière's range of vision.
The door clicked shut. Capucine waited for the explosion. But Martinière just sat perplexed, looking at his desk.
“
Mais, mais,
that juvenile delinquent has stolen my Limoges penholder. It was my mother's. Or, wait, perhaps I put it in a drawer.”
He began opening the drawers of his desk one by one, rooting through them in a barely controlled panic.
Capucine slipped out of the office and caught up with Sybille in the corridor. Laughing quietly, Capucine beckoned with her index finger. Unashamed, Sybille reached into the hand-warmer muff stitched onto the front of her hoodie and handed over a blue and yellow porcelain pen holder.
“I enjoyed your performance. It's always a treat to see a great actress at work. Unfortunately, I'll have to call on you in the next few days to ask the same questions.”
“Oh, I'd like that. It'll be fun.” Sybille was completely transformed. The sullen adolescent look had been replaced by the look of a gamine with a healthy adolescent love of life.
When she returned the penholder, Martinière looked at Capucine suspiciously, as if somehow she had been the author of the theft. He turned it over carefully in his hands, making sure that it had not been chipped or damaged in any way and then put it reverently on the desk.
“You see,
Commissaire,
contrary to your unjustified suspicions, I'm the last person who would ever deny the usefulness of the police.”
CHAPTER 10
C
apucine hadn't been back to
La Crim'
, as the
Brigade Criminelle
of the
Police Judiciaire
was known, since she had worked there before passing the
commissaire's
exam, taken the
commissaire's
training course, and had been assigned her own brigade. She couldn't resist forgoing the elevator to walk up the steps to the third floor, Stairway A, the scene of countless movies and mystery novels.
In the days when she worked there, Tallon—then a
commissaire principale
—had had an office overlooking the central courtyard, jammed with police cars and officers milling around like ants in organized confusion. He seemed to spend at least half of his meetings with her staring out the window. She was never sure if it was rumination or if he found the activity in the courtyard more interesting than what she had to say.
His new office was twice the size of the old one and had a sumptuous view of Notre Dame, which was directly across from the prefecture. As she walked in, both casements of the large window were wide open, framing the vista of the façade of the most visited attraction in France. The gabbling of the crowd of tourists on the parvis filled the room. Tallon read a file with great concentration. Capucine coughed gently to alert him to her presence.
He raised his head with a start. “Ah,
Commissaire,
there you are. I can't hear myself think in here. I keep asking to be moved to the back, but they won't hear of it.” With a gesture of irritation, he closed the window.
Capucine did not reply. She knew Tallon hated small talk.
“We have a serious problem with the case.”
“The
juge d'instruction?”
Capucine nodded.
“Something happened?”
“He made a fool of himself with Sybille Charbonnier.”
For a split second Tallon's face betrayed a range of emotions, first surprised pleasure, then incredulity, finally curiosity.
He smiled at Capucine. “For a second I thought you were going to tell me he'd made a pass at her. What happened ?”
“He convoked her to his office, and me as well—I suppose to act as the heavy and subdue her if necessary. Then he made a complete hash of the interview. She played a role with him. I'm not absolutely sure, but I think it was Anne Parillaud in that Luc Besson film.”
Tallon looked blank.
“You know,
La Femme Nikita,
the one where the beautiful delinquent sticks a pencil through the back of the interrogating officer's hand.”
“She stuck a pencil in his hand?”
“No, she made a funny cartoon of him on his blotter with his sacred gold pen and then stole his precious Limoges pen stand.”
Tallon exploded in laughter. “You have all the fun and then come to me to complain about it.”
Capucine joined in the laughter. When you explained it, she thought to herself, it was really pretty comical and not that serious at all.
When they both had caught their breaths, Capucine said, “He's allowing me to interview her, but she's the only one. I'm sure I won't even be invited to the rest of his sessions. You have to do something. I'll never get the case solved if you don't.”
Tallon smiled broadly. “Do you want me to go over there and stick a pencil in the back of his hand?” he said and started laughing again.
Capucine crossed her arms across her chest and frowned in a way that might almost have been mistaken for a pout. On her first case with Tallon she had been constantly teased and had suffered a great deal in the process.
“You read my report. I've already interviewed Béatrice Renaud, since she knows my husband and counts as an acquaintance more than a suspect.” Tallon's lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “And I was thinking of interviewing Guy Voisin. Apparently, my husband knows him, as well.”
“Don't.
Commissaire,
you know the law as well as I do. Your juge is doing exactly what he's empowered to do. As you well know, the function was set up in seventeen ninety, during the Revolution, for the specific purpose of protecting the citizenry from the abuse of the police.”
“So that's it? There's nothing we can do? We leave the case in his hands?”
“It's the law. Only the Cour de Cassation, our highest court, can remove a
juge d'instruction
from a case, and that's supposed to be because someone accuses him of partiality. The motion is brought forward by the accused, not a police officer. Unless you're suggesting we claim that he couldn't control himself when faced with the allure of Sybille Charbonnier. And I'm not sure how that would go down at the Cour de Cassation.”
Capucine did not respond to the joke.
“And the Cour de Cassation is the only way?”
“Commissaire
, you know all this. In theory the
Procureur de la République
—the federal prosecutor—can limit the juge's range of investigation, but those cases are extremely rare, and that's certainly not going to happen when the elimination of the function is such a hot topic.”
Capucine was about to make a comment about letting a murderer go free but said nothing.
Tallon massaged his chin and, instinctively, threw both casements of the window open and bent forward to look out, crossing his arms and leaning them on the iron safety bar. Capucine stood up to peer over his shoulder. The parvis was packed with tourists in shorts and sandals and brightly colored T-shirts. Children screamed, wives scolded husbands, people shoved and jostled to have their picture taken in front of the eternal façade showing off their toothy ric-tuses. Tallon was disgusted. Almost imperceptibly, he hiked his shoulders in a shudder. His mood changed with the suddenness of a summer squall. He turned and spoke sharply.
“Commissaire,
we are civil servants, not prima donnas. In a year your juge will be powerless. You'll catch your killer then. He'll go to ground and still be there, fresh as ever, waiting for you to snap the cuffs on him. Don't waste your time trying to buck the system. Work on other things and let this one sit.”
Possibly the most irritating sound to the human ear was the voice of reason. Irked as she was, Capucine accepted that not only was he speaking with maturity and authority, but he was also unquestionably right. What she couldn't know was that this was the one time in his life when Contrôleur Général Tallon would turn out to be dead wrong.

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