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Authors: Alexander Campion

BOOK: Killer Critique
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“And if you're busy, will the hostess ever let them come down by themselves?”
“Of course not. They'd kill themselves on the staircase. And that rigmarole with the hand on the shoulder gives them a three-blind-mice feeling, kicking their evening off. A key part of the experience is making them feel helpless.”
“Understood. Then what?”
“I leave the group standing by the door and take them one by one to their seats. Once they're seated, I whisper the menu in their ear. There are always only three dishes. They're chosen to be as liquid and messy as possible. That's all part of the show. Then a waiter serves them just like in any other restaurant, except he makes a big deal out of feeling their backs to know where they are. The other difference is that we have to bring extra napkins.” He laughed maliciously.
Capucine pushed through the two sets of double doors separated by a five-foot hallway and went into the brightly lit kitchen. With its stainless-steel tables, greasy stoves, and grill racks, it looked like every other small-restaurant kitchen in Paris, right down to the open doorway into an alley, a haven for smoke breaks and short respites from the heat.
The kitchen staff champed with impatience. Almost without exception they were North Africans. They had been confined to the kitchen for hours, knowing nothing, hearing nothing, forbidden to leave the room.
Capucine introduced herself and started in. “To begin with, I have to tell you that a man was killed in the restaurant tonight. That means the restaurant will be closed tomorrow and probably for a day or two after. I need to talk to you for a few minutes, and then one of my officers will come in and verify your papers and let you go home.”
Several of the men looked uneasily at each other and fidgeted.
“I have nothing to do with immigration. As long as you can give some indication of where you live, that's fine with me.”
There was an almost audible sigh of relief.
“Who's in charge of the
cuisine?
”
“I am, madame,” a swarthy, squat man said.
“Well, Chef, tell me what goes on in here.”
“It's very simple, madame. We make just three dishes. They were picked by the management. We never change them, because we have almost no repeat business. Our dishes are
bœuf bourguignon, bouillabaisse
, and
blanquette de veau.
”
“The three Bs,” one of the staff said.
There was a round of loud laughter. They were delighted at the idea of two or three days off with pay.
“We make them in a special way,” the chef continued.
“The dishes are too liquid and the pieces are all in different sizes to make it difficult and messy for the customers to eat. We also add extra liquid to the desserts to make them drip on the customers' laps. They come in big bowls with oversize serving spoons. We do
île flottante
. The floating mound of fluffed egg white is impossible for them to deal with.” There was more raucous laughter in the room. “The other dessert is
nage de fruits rouges
—red berries floating in a sweet sauce. We put in some extra-long pieces of pineapple so they'll fall off the serving spoon and make a big mess and nice red stains.”
The staff laughed again, childishly malevolent, like schoolboys who had just engineered a very clever prank. It was clearly a happy kitchen.
“Does anyone ever come in through that door?” Capucine asked, indicating the open back door with her head.
“Of course. We all go out there for a smoke every now and then. And naturally girlfriends show up looking for their man, but I never let them come in the kitchen.”
“Are you sure they never sneak in?”
“Not a chance. If someone was in here not wearing white, I'd notice it immediately. I always have the whole kitchen in the corner of my eye. Nothing will screw things up faster than an angry girlfriend. Trust me on that!”
There were loud laughs of agreement.
Isabelle, David, and Momo came in and took names and addresses, checking them against immigration cards and driver's licenses, and in some cases letters or addressed advertising flyers that had come in the mail. Three cases, who had no papers at all, were handed over to Momo, who chatted with them in street patois until he finally announced to Capucine that he would know how to find them if need be. In fifteen minutes they were done and the kitchen staff was sent home. Only the forensics team remained, finishing up before they put the body in a bag and took it to the morgue.
Exhausted, Capucine leaned over the metal table in the kitchen with her weight on her elbows. The three detectives joined her, imitating her posture. From her bag Isabelle removed the bright orange octagonal seals that she would place on the locked front and back doors after they left, leaving the exterior in the care of a lone uniformed officer. They could not go before the seals were affixed. Listlessly, Capucine signed and dated them. They waited, staring at each other with slack mouths.
David drummed his fingers gently and said, “MO's a carbon copy of the last case. And it's another closed-room mystery. The good news is that this time there are only two suspects.”
Capucine glanced at him and returned her gaze to the far wall where a small cockroach proceeded serenely toward an air vent.
She stood up straight and gave the table a hard double rap.
“Got it,” she said. “There's something wrong with this picture. Momo, you stay here. You two come with me.”
She led the two
brigadiers
into the dining room.
“Ajudant Dechery. I hate to interrupt you, but I'm going to need to turn off the lights for a quick minute. David, go over to the circuit box and kill them.”
The room was plunged into utter darkness. For a few seconds brightly colored images danced on their retinas, but then those too disappeared and the blackness settled around them like a heavy mantle. The dinginess of the room was transformed into elegance.
“All right, Momo, come in here!” Capucine yelled.
Momo came out briskly. As he came through the second set of double doors, the first doors still swung very slightly on their spring hinges admitting the faintest pulsing glimmer. It lasted for only a few seconds but it was enough to shine on the tables closest to the door and shatter the mood.
“Momo, they must have some sort of subdued light in the kitchen during the food service. Can you go back in there and see if you can find it?”
He returned briskly in less than thirty seconds. This time no light at all was visible through the doors.
“Those low-hanging lamps in there turn out to have red bulbs, like in an old-style darkroom. Come see,” Momo said.
In the kitchen, cones of dim ruby light lay over the worktable and the row of stoves. Everything not under the light was cloaked in deep shadow.
“Anyone could have come in through the door. As long as he was wearing a white coat, no one would notice,” Isabelle said.
“And in this rain all you'd have to do is show up at the back door, slip off your raincoat so you'd be in your white jacket, walk through the kitchen, do your deed, nip back into the kitchen, put your raincoat back on, and walk away. Nobody'd be any the wiser,” David said.
“Of course, they'd have a hell of a time getting around the dining room,” Isabelle said.
“You can buy army surplus night-vision glasses real cheap in the Arab part of the flea market,” Momo said.
Capucine smiled. There was no doubt at all in their minds. They now were sure they knew exactly how the murder had been committed. The only thing Capucine had no doubts about was that—juge or no juge—she needed to get cracking on the case.
CHAPTER 13
C
apucine spent the night writhing and squirming, prodded without mercy by the horns of the two challenges she faced. One was the moral imperative to disobey the order of a direct superior if she was to prevent a murderer from walking away free. The other was more compelling: the desperate need to eliminate the escalating threat to Alexandre.
The phone rang. Capucine glanced at the red LED display of the clock on her night table. Seven o'clock, right on the second.
“Commissaire?
I'm calling to put your mind at rest.”
“You're up early,
monsieur le contrôleur général.”
Capucine could never understand how he read her mind so perfectly.
“I like to get here before the crowd invades the parvis. It's the only time of day I can open the window and think straight. I was happy to see that
Commissaire
Lacombe called you last night. Good man, Lacombe. Gave you the chance of seeing the crime scene while it was fresh. You're now officially in charge of this case, so you're free to interrogate anyone you want. Of course, you were going to do that, anyway.”
“What about the
juge d'instruction?”
“No juge has been appointed yet. I need to polish the case notes before I send them over to the magistrates' hall. No way I can get around to it today. My appointment book is packed solid. The way things are going, it'll take me a few days to get to them. And, of course, it will take the magistrates a few more days to see the link between this case and the last one. So you've got at least a week.”
“So you think they're linked.”
“Linked?” he snorted. “Of course they are. The second one is almost identical to the first. But let's not waste your morning chatting away. You've got work to do.” He hung up without saying good-bye.
It was five minutes after seven. Capucine went into the kitchen and bullied the Pasquini into producing a café au lait.
At eight she picked up the kitchen phone, called the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, and asked for Monsieur Voisin's room. Sybille picked up with a whispered hello.
“Mademoiselle Charbonnier, this is
Commissaire
Le Tellier.”
“Salut,”
Sybille answered, yawning. “S'up?”
“I'm going to come around at ten thirty to see you and Monsieur Voisin.”
“Ten thirty? Today? Can't we do it tomorrow? And later in the day? I have a ton of stuff to do, and Guy's not going to be up at ten thirty.” There was a pause. She had looked at her clock. “Christ! Do you know what time it is? Don't you ever go to bed?”
“Mademoiselle, I can either come to your hotel at ten thirty or send a squad car to have you both picked up. In that case you might have to spend some time in a detention cell, waiting for me to finish my business. It's up to you.”
“All right. All right.
Merde,”
Sybille mumbled. There were sounds of her sinking back into the pillows. She hung up. It was just not a morning for good telephone manners.
 
Punctual for once, Capucine walked through the marble and gilt rococo extravagance of the Plaza Athénée exactly at ten thirty with Isabelle and David in her wake.
David knocked politely on the door. There was no reply. He waited a moment and banged loudly.
A distant male voice shouted irritably, “I'm in the shower. Come in. The door's unlocked. I'll be out in a second.”
The suite's cavernous sitting room was over full with brand-new Louis XVI–style furniture, shiny with thick varnish and polished marble tops. A large silver tray with three cups, a basket overflowing with croissants and
petits pains au chocolat,
and ornate pots of coffee and milk sat on a black-onyx-topped coffee table, presumably for the two inhabitants of the suite and Capucine. The three detectives milled around the room, waiting for Voisin to emerge.
Isabelle heard it first. She froze, her cheek muscles swelling as she clenched her jaws.
Then Capucine heard it. A barely audible, rhythmic, rasping breathing that gradually became louder and faster. David smirked. Capucine shook her head slightly and plumped down in an armchair next to the coffee table.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and indicated to her
brigadiers
to follow suit. David served himself, but Isabelle sat rigid, round eyed, staring, jaw clamped.
Capucine examined one of the tiny jars of jam from the tray. “Confiture Christine Ferber, Niedermorschwihr, Alsace,” she read. “I've heard this is absolutely fabulous stuff.
Tomates vertes à l'orange aux épices de pain d'épices
—green tomato with orange and gingerbread spices. I've got to try that.”
David rooted through the selection and opted for violet-scented raspberries.
“Try the
prune de Damas
—damson plums. You'll love it,” David said to Isabelle as he slathered a piece of croissant with luminous red jam.
Isabelle glared at him. “Shut the fuck up!” she hissed.
The noise level from the bedroom increased as the breathing escalated into hoarse panting, punctuated by long, tortured “ahhhs” and “
ouis
.”
Isabelle rose to her feet, swayed slightly in her rage. “I'm going to put a stop to it. This is completely unacceptable.”
“Sit down, Isabelle,” Capucine said. “Think of it as a performance. Imagine they're in there watching the morning news on TV.”
The deep panting accelerated until it culminated in the eructation of a prolonged wavering moan. David made a silent mime of clapping his hands. Isabelle launched a stream of daggers at him with her eyes.
After a short pause, the door opened and Guy Voisin strode out, looking very pleased with himself, knotting a terry cloth bathrobe ostentatiously embroidered with the Plaza Athénée coat of arms.
“My goodness, monsieur, what an energetic shower you take,” Capucine said.
Voisin smirked. “Sybille will be out in a moment. She's going shopping, and we can have a cozy little chat. I'm ordering some champagne. Would you like some?”
“I'm afraid it's too early for a working girl, but you go right ahead. By the way, I'll need to see Mademoiselle Charbonnier, as well.”
Voisin shrugged his shoulders with Gallic fatality. “Good luck with that. Sybille usually does exactly what she wants.” He busied himself with the telephone. Halfway through the call he put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked down at Capucine. “Are you sure I can't get you anything? More coffee? How about a sandwich?” he asked, widening his gaze to include the other two detectives. His uncertainty of the previous evening had vanished completely.
After he hung up, there was a long moment of awkward silence as they all waited for Sybille to emerge from the bedroom. Isabelle was the first to run out of patience and, growling, started to rise, obviously intending to go into the bedroom to get her. Just as she got on her feet, there was a loud knock on the door and, simultaneously, Sybille rushed out of the bedroom in a gauzelike summer sundress and a pair of high-heeled, open-toed bright red sling-backs with enormous bows barely covering her toes. Capucine was almost sure they were by Valentino.
Sybille went up to Voisin, who was opening the door for room service, and kissed his cheek. As if she had suddenly noticed Capucine, she turned, flashed a broad smile, and said, “My favorite
commissaire!
I'd love to stay and chat but I'm late already. I have to buy a dress for a party tonight. I have nothing, but really nothing at all, to wear.”
Capucine could hear Isabelle grinding her teeth.
“Mademoiselle, I'm afraid I'm going to require you to stay. This is an official police inquiry.”
Sybille started as if she had been slapped. Both sides of her upper lip curled in the snide adolescent sneer she had shown the juge. “If it's about last night, you know I was in no position to see anything.”
Voisin laughed uproariously.
“Anyway, you can't make me do anything I don't want to do!” she said petulantly. “I really, really need to go shopping, and you can't make me stay. If you try and stop me, I'll—I'll—I'll just call my lawyer. That's what I'll do!”
She moved toward the door. Isabelle started to rise. Capucine shook her head at her.
“I'll tell you what,” Capucine said, as if talking to a child. “Why don't you go shopping and come see me at my brigade after lunch? That way you can get everything you need for your party and we can still be friends. I also want to see what you buy. And we need to have a serious talk about shoes. I'm in love with the ones you were wearing yesterday. They were Valentinos, weren't they?”
“So are these! I like them way better. Don't you?” she said with childish delight, showing off her foot.
Capucine breathed an inward sigh of relief. She had no authority to detain an individual in her own home—and a hotel counted as home. The
juge d'instruction
was bound to go into conniptions if he received a complaint from Sybille's lawyer. Not to mention that Voisin preening in front of her and her constant asides to him would have made both interviews less than useless. Trying to see them together had been a bad idea. Very bad.
Capucine got up and walked to the door. “See you at three, then,” she said, handing Sybille her card with a smile.
Voisin refilled his champagne flute and dropped into a gray silk armchair. He crossed his legs, adjusted his robe, and flapped the sole of his hotel terry cloth slipper against the heel of his foot making an irritating little slapping noise.
“Commissaire,
I saw the
juge d'instruction
the other day and told him I had noticed nothing out the ordinary at Chez Béatrice until that poor man collapsed on the table. It was a very short session that lasted no more than ten minutes, and I had the impression the juge was entirely satisfied. I saw even less yesterday. It was pitch dark in that restaurant, as you know.”
“Monsieur, the working hypothesis for the moment is that the two deaths are connected. The curare that caused the first death has been traced to artifacts that were stolen at a reception given by the Brazilian embassy, at which you were present. There are only two people who were present at Chez Béatrice, the embassy reception, and Dans le Noir last night. You and Mademoiselle Charbonnier. That makes you both of great interest to the police.”
Voisin put both feet on the floor and swallowed hard, saying nothing. He downed his flute of champagne and filled it again from the bottle in the cooler. The sloshing of the ice was the only sound in the room.
“Monsieur, this is just a preliminary interview but any falsehoods will be deemed to be perjury and could result in a criminal sentence. Let's start with your background. Your full name is Guy Arnaud Voisin. You were born in Aubagne, in the
département
of the Bouches-du-Rhône, in nineteen forty-eight. You are sixty-two years old. You are
président–directeur général
of a company, Château da la Motte S.A. Is that correct?”
“Not quite. My son took over as managing director five years ago. Now I'm just
président,
and he's the
directeur général.
I no longer get my hands dirty,” he said in an attempt to appear self-satisfied, pouring himself another glass of champagne.
“And is Château da la Motte a successful business?” Isabelle asked.
Voisin pursed his lips and tightened his throat. “Successful, Officer? That's a very relative term. Is this a philosophical interrogation? All your juge wanted to know was what I had seen in the restaurant, but you want to talk about economic theory instead?”
“It's a simple enough question, monsieur,” Capucine said. “Is the company profitable, or is it not?”
“La Motte is one of the most prestigious wine producers of the Midi,” he said defensively. “In fact, I think I can say we produce the finest rosé in all of France and Navarre.” Finally comfortable, Voisin launched into the subject like a dinner party bore. Capucine let him have his head. It was the best way to get people to talk.
“From well before the birth of our Savior and all the way into the sixteen hundreds, almost all French wine was rosé. Stupidly, in modern times the French public has lost its love for rosé. The modern generation has turned its back on our viticultural heritage.”
“So that means the company's losing money, right?” Isabelle asked.
“No, it does not, Officer. It's true that about fifteen years ago our volume fell off a bit. But I saved the situation. I introduced a range of second-label wines, which I branded Le Chevalier de la Motte. All the Bordeaux châteaux have second growths, so why not us? They were sold at a very reasonable price and enhanced our profitability considerably.”
“I understood,” Capucine said, “that you were accused at the time of abusing a venerable name to sell a very inferior wine at inflated prices.”

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