by Nan Lyons
I find this case very confusing. Based upon the facts, the subject was with her ex-husband at the time of the murder. There is no apparent motive for her to have murdered the deceased. Indeed, she has expressed her fear that she may be a potential victim. While there is no way to prove she was not at the scene of the crime (except the questionable testimony of her ex-husband, who could be an accomplice), we also cannot prove she was there. On just these facts, there is no substantial reason to consider her a prime suspect.
However, there have been two other murders where her alibis (I have read the reports forwarded by the London and Rome police) are even weaker. I realize that our jurisdiction is limited to the Moulineaux murder only, and on that alone we have no motive to assign to her, but this would appear to be a case of multiple murders for which the solution or motive may be found (as we have seen in other such cases) at the scene of one of the other crimes. If we consider our impressions as in a multiple murder case, and not merely on the killing of a chef on the rue Tronchet, then:
1. She was in the other cities at the times of the other murders;
2. She is a women’s liberationist who must clearly resent the men in her profession;
3. She knew all of the victims. There is possibly a sexual motive aside from the feminist angle: a) she was having an affair with the London chef (Kohner), who was her stepfather (Guilt); b) she was to begin an affair with the Rome chef (Fenegretti), who also had been a long-time “family friend” (Resentment at being used as an object of sex—and perhaps guilt at wanting to begin an affair so soon after Kohner’s death); c) she knew that Moulineaux was a homosexual and had no interest in her (Anger at being sexually rejected, and anger that the “false” gender of Moulineaux allowed him status in a profession in which she fought for recognition).
On the basis of these points, I would consider her a prime suspect. However, the subject’s “menu” theory that she is the next victim is not without reason. I cannot dismiss it as merely a ploy to throw us off her track. There is as much logic in the argument that she may be the next victim as there is valid suspicion that she may be the killer.
Recommended action: Maintain surveillance of subject.
RECORD OF TELEX
Mode: Top Priority
To: D. I. Carmody
New Scotland Yard/London
From: A. C. Griege
CANNOT HOLD OBRIEN FOR MOULINEAUX MURDER STOP URGE REPEAT URGE YOU PLACE HER UNDER TIGHT SECURITY WHEN SHE ARRIVES IN LONDON STOP BELIEVE SHE IS NOT REPEAT NOT KILLER OF CHEFS BUT THAT SHE IS NEXT TO BE MURDERED
Chapter 14
The Place de la Madeleine was, as always, filled with cars. On this Tuesday, double-parked in front of the entrance to the church was the black hearse that had brought the body of Jean-Claude Moulineaux. Inspector Griege arrived early and was seated inside. Contron and Suplice were across the street watching as the bereaved walked up the steps to the entrance. They saw Natasha and Max leave their taxi. Flammiste, who had been assigned to follow them, promptly pulled up in his car. Once Max saw that Flammiste had parked, he led Natasha into the vestibule.
Bertrand walked over to them. “The sun is shining, but it is a sad day. I am surprised you have come.”
“We’re safe,” Max said. “We’re being followed by the gendarmes.”
“Is Jean-Claude’s sister here?” Natasha asked.
Bertrand shrugged. “I did not know he had any family.”
“He had a sister,” she said. “I met her once. She was much older than Jean-Claude. She had wanted him to be an engineer.”
“Why an engineer?” Max asked.
“It is obvious,” Bertrand said. “Engineers live longer than chefs.”
“Bonjour.” It was Auguste.
“Good morning,” Natasha said.
“I do not speak to the crook here,” Auguste said, pointing at Max.
“The check will come, Auguste.”
“And they will discover truffles on top of Sacre Coeur?”
“Please,” Natasha said. “Not now. Not here.”
“You are right,” Auguste said. “It was a terrible accident.”
“Accident?” Max asked.
“Of course. You do not expect me to believe that the murderer meant to kill Jean-Claude. No, it was an accident. The murderer will realize his mistake and look for me. But I am prepared.” Auguste opened his jacket to show his gun and shoulder holster. Suddenly two men lunged at Auguste and knocked him down. Max grabbed hold of Natasha and pushed her away.
“Au secours! Au secours!” Auguste cried. Max and Bertrand tried to stop the two men but were pushed aside.
“Police, police,” Bertrand yelled.
“We are the police!” one of the men screamed. They had Auguste stand with his palms against a wall as they frisked him and took away his gun. Inspector Griege came from inside the chapel.
“And so we have closed the shirt on another case!” he announced proudly.
Bertrand explained that the police had made an error, but Auguste was arrested for carrying a gun without a permit. As they took him away, Auguste shouted at Max, “You will stop at nothing to avoid paying me!”
Natasha put her arm in Max’s. “Millie, let’s go inside.” They walked down the aisle and saw Inspector Griege fingering a small lasso in the back row. The seats were filled with chefs and waiters momentarily united by a common grief. Natasha and Max stood in front of the altar.
Atop the polished mahogany casket was Jean-Claude’s toque. It stood straight like a giant white mushroom. At the insistence of Jean-Claude’s sister there were no flowers. She had requested instead that donations be made for the purchase of new drafting equipment for the Sorbonne’s School of Civil Engineering. Arranged on easels around the casket were photographs of the dishes Jean-Claude had created, a blowup of his review in the Guide Michelin, and a gold-framed photograph of him presenting a leg of lamb to Charles de Gaulle. There was also a picture of Jean-Claude, Louis, Nutti, and Natasha with their arms linked. Natasha could not take her eyes from the photograph. Max tried to lead her to a seat, but she stood fast, staring at the picture.
“I don’t think you remember me. I am Jean-Claude’s sister.”
Natasha looked down at the old woman who stood next to her. “Jean-Claude was a very dear friend. I am so sorry. We will all miss him very much.”
“Oui. And now he will never become an engineer.”
“You should be very proud of him. He was a very good man, well respected.”
“You think he was? I always thought of him as strange. Always cooking little cakes in the kitchen. It was not natural. He never married. But, what woman would marry a man who makes little cakes in the kitchen?” She began to cry. “I told him, ‘Build la Tour Eiffel, le Pont-Neuf, even the Autoroute.’ But all he did was to bake little cakes.”
Max tried again to pull Natasha away. She held his arm tightly and refused to move. She refused to take her eyes from the picture of Louis, Nutti, Jean-Claude, and herself. Not since she was a child during the war had she felt this smothering sense of impending doom.
A choir of fifty boys dressed in white robes appeared from the sides of the altar. The choirmaster stepped forward and sat down at the organ. Max led Natasha into a pew. The choir began to sing My Heart Is But a Lamb. Natasha whispered to Max, “Do you think the killer is here?”
“I hope so. He deserves to suffer like the rest of us.”
A prayer was offered by the priest. Then the chef from the British Embassy stood in the pulpit to read a tribute by Achille.
“An artist has died before the canvas was finished. Those of us who cherished his friendship, and his food, will forever be hungry. For the rest of our lives, there will be a portion of our appetites that cannot be sated. But our memories are rich, and we shall have to sup from them.”
There was a murmur of appreciation.
“It’s Achille!” she whispered to Max.
“Where is he?”
“No. Don’t you see? Each of t
he chefs cooked part of Achille’s favorite dinner. Don’t you understand? It’s got to be Achille!”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes! It’s Achille he’s after! The killer is someone who hates Achille.”
Bertrand rose from his seat and walked to the pulpit. He put his papers down, and cleared his throat. “What is the measure of a man such as Jean-Claude? I will tell you. One cup of happiness, one cup of charm, two cups of sensitivity, a teaspoon of…”
“Millie, the killer is someone who hates Achille enough to murder Louis, Nutti, Jean-Claude, and me. He’s trying to stop Achille from ever again having his favorite dinner.” They knew that was it. They knew who the killer was. The only thing they didn’t know was his name.
“Season liberally,” Bertrand continued, “for he loved the spice of life….”
At the close of the service, Jean-Claude’s sister walked up the aisle behind the casket. Then, without speaking a word, each chef nodded at the others, walked down the steps, and went in a different direction. Natasha and Max stopped at the corner, waiting for Flammiste to start his car. Inspector Griege offered them a police escort back to the hotel but they declined. Instead, they walked a few blocks, each trying to think of who hated Achille enough to kill the chefs.
“It’s like trying to find a piece of hay in a haystack,” Max said. He looked behind him for a moment as they walked. “It’s okay. The flic is on our tail.”
“Thank God, they think I’m the killer. Millie, I want to call Achille and warn him.”
“Warn him of what?”
“That someone hates him. That he’s in danger.”
“From what? Why would the killer knock off Achille? If you’re right, Achille is the last person to be killed. The purpose of the murders is to make Achille’s life miserable. Someone hates him too much to kill him.”
“But shouldn’t he know? Maybe he could help us find out who it is.”
“Nat, do you know how many people hate Achille?”
“I know. I’m scared, Millie.”
“You’re perfectly safe. Nicholas and Alexandra should have had such protection. There’s nothing to be worried about. We have Flammiste and his flying Citroën, Sheriff Griege and his posse, and, most of all, you have me and my magic penis.”
“No offense, but I’m still not renewing my subscription to TV Guide.”
He stopped to face her. They heard the screech of brakes as Flammiste’s car came to an abrupt halt. “Listen, babe. You’d be crazy not to be scared. But there’s a pattern to the murders. Unless you’re alone in a kitchen somewhere, you’re safe.”
They continued walking. “The killer must know I’m aware of that He’s got to be planning something different for me.”
“All right All right, I confess.” Max stopped and spread his arms out. Flammiste’s brakes could be heard. “I intend to love you to death.”
She smiled. “Am I supposed to say ‘what a way to go’?”
“Marry me, Nat.”
“I did marry you.”
“You never married me in Paris. Let’s become each other’s beneficiaries again.”
“What a rotten way to make a buck.”
He laughed. “I love you.”
“Everybody loves an endangered species.”
He smiled and put his arms around her as they turned the corner into the rue Cambon. He stopped before going into the back entrance of the Ritz to be sure Flammiste had seen them. They went into the art deco bar, and sat on the corner banquette. Two very old women, with almost as many jewels as jowls, sat smoking cigarettes and drinking their Martinis straight up. Across the room sat a tall, white-haired man with a slender blond boy who spoke animatedly with his hands. They also drank Martinis straight up. Max ordered two Margaritas and began to eat the peanuts. In the mirror behind the bar, he saw Flammiste’s reflection. Max turned around. “Hey, you want a drink?” he called. But the moment he spoke, Flammiste disappeared into the corridor. “Just trying to be friendly,” he muttered.
The waiter brought the drinks. Natasha and Max picked up their glasses and clinked them. “To Jean-Claude,” she said softly. “Adieu.” They emptied their glasses in one gulp. They looked at one another while they were still holding the empty glasses, and nodded. Simultaneously they smashed their glasses on the edge of the table. Everyone in the bar froze. Flammiste ran into the room. Max acknowledged each look with a smile, and when the waiter came over, handed him fifty francs. He ordered another round and assured the waiter there would be no toasting. They sat silently while the waiter cleaned the table and brushed the glass from the floor. “Millie, there’s something I think you should know.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to die just because someone hates Achille. It’s pretty ego deflating. I want to be murdered on my own merits.”
The waiter brought another round. “S’il vous plaît, monsieur,” he implored as he put them on the table.
“Poor Achille,” she said. Then she began to laugh. “My God, if murder weren’t permanent, it would all be so funny. Who would kill Louis, Nutti, Jean-Claude … and me because he hates Achille?”
“I can’t imagine. Who could hate Attila the Honey?”
“Millie?”
“Yes?”
“If someone baked Louis because Achille’s favorite dish that Louis made was a baked pâté …”
“Nat!”
“And someone split Nutti like a lobster, and someone put dear Jean-Claude in a duck press …”
“Then you want to know …”
“Tell me, darling, do you think I’ll be beaten or frozen?”
“I’d opt for frozen. Saves wear and tear on your clothes.”
“I could even be whipped.”
“A little SM mit Schlag. Whipped cream and chains. Not bad.”
“Oh, Millie.”
“I know.” He put his arm around her.
“Millie,” she began thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to feel that dying isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Besides, I know how he’s going to do it.”
“How?”
“Simple.” And then she whispered, “He’s scaring me to death.”
Flammiste was sitting in a chair, reading a newspaper, when they came out of the bar. Max walked over and pulled the paper from in front of his face. Flammiste stood up automatically. “Hi,” Max said. “We’re leaving now and going back to the Plaza. How about giving us a lift?”
Flammiste was flustered. He nodded his head yes. They followed him to his car. He opened the back door and they got in. “I mean there’s no need not to be civilized about it,” Max explained as Flammiste began to drive. “Besides, I’ve wanted to congratulate you on the fine job you’ve been doing.” Flammiste looked at him in the rearview mirror and smiled awkwardly.
“However,” Natasha began, “as they say, all good things must come to an end. Watch the car in front of you, he’s making a left! We’re leaving Paris this afternoon for London.” Flammiste turned quickly to look at them in his mirror. “I know, darling. I hate good-byes, too.”
“Not that it hasn’t been fun,” Max said. “But we thought we’d tell you now so that you could contact X-12 without having to rush. Careful, that bus is pulling out in front of you!”
“Say, why don’t we all go to the airport together?” Natasha asked.
“Sure,” Max said. “It’s got to be a schlepp for you to keep following our taxi—watch out for that Mercedes!—so why don’t we make it easy on everyone’s nerves.”
Flammiste looked back again. “Make a left at the next corner, darling. Think about it,” Natasha said as they drove up to the Plaza. Flammiste opened the back door and helped them out. He followed them into the lobby.
Max and Natasha walked to the elevator, waved good-bye to Flammiste, and went up to their suite. Once inside, Natasha locked the door and began taking off her clothes. By the time she reached the bed, she was naked. She lay down and held her arms out to Max, who was struggling out o
f his shorts, having flung his clothes all over the floor.
“Last tango in Paris?” she asked.
Ever since leaving Paris, they had felt completely vulnerable. Natasha and Max sat close, walked close, and averted their eyes from all but each other. Once through British immigration and customs, they were met by Achille’s chauffeur. Behind him was a young man with the thick neck, enormous shoulders, and barrel chest of a comic-strip character. He wore sunglasses with metallic-coated lenses. His eyes were not visible.
Max nodded at him, and he nodded back. Natasha whispered to Max, “He has no eyes.”
“He doesn’t need eyes. He’s got teeth.”
“I’m scared.”
“Of him?”
“Of the thought of him. Of needing him.”
“You weren’t scared of Flammiste.”
“He was like a friend.”
“So make a friend.”
Natasha turned toward him and extended her hand. “I’m sure you know who I am. How nice to meet you. What’s your name?”
“Lucino,” he said thickly, without offering his hand.
“Hi, Lucino,” Max said brightly. “We’re the good guys.”
“I guard only her.”
“Right,” Max said. “Good Lucino,” he muttered as they walked out of the terminal and over to Achille’s black Phantom. Rudolph opened the door. Achille was smiling.
“At last! The return of Pineapple Poll!”
Natasha sat next to him and took hold of his arm with both her hands. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“Of course you are. After the company you’ve been keeping, an attack by red ants would be soothing.” He patted her hand. “You look absolutely dreadful. It must be all that freeze-dried sex,” he said, watching Max pull down a jump seat and face him.
Max smiled. “Hi, sweetie!”
“Achille, I’ve been so frightened.”
“Do remember this is the land of the stiff upper lip.”
“Still Mister Softee,” Max said.
“Millie, please let’s not bicker. I’m so very tired, Achille. You’re one of the few people I can trust.”
Rudolph and Lucino seated themselves up front. The car began its journey to London. Max nodded his head toward Lucino and asked quietly, “Where did you get him?”
