Death of a Chef

by Alexander Campion

  The tradition at the Travellers’ was to take coffee in the downstairs bar. Alexandre and Brissac-Vanté beat the rush and found a table next to the window overlooking a pocket courtyard. On the other side were the curtained windows of the so-called card room, where members played backgammon for high stakes in flagrant violation of the law.

  A waiter came and took their orders: a coffee for Alexandre and a coffee with a double cognac for Brissac-Vanté.

  The room began to fill as members came down from the dining room. Brissac-Vanté became as skittish as a young mare who had heard thunder in the distance. Impatiently he signaled the waiter and ordered another double cognac.

  A group of six men burst noisily into the bar, installed themselves on the upholstered rail in front of the enormous fireplace, and lit cigars. Brissac-Vanté ordered another double cognac. His nostrils flared.

  The group at the fireplace rapidly downed their coffees and made for a door at the back of the bar. Two of them stopped and smiled at Brissac-Vanté.

  “Are you joining us this afternoon?” one of them asked.

  Automatically, Brissac-Vanté stood up and took a step toward the back door. Remembering his manners, he turned back, gave Alexandre a half bow, and left the room in a rush.

  Alexandre went to the bar and ordered a Calvados and a second demitasse of coffee. The venerable barman was the only club servant who got away with open sarcasm about members.

  “Your friend is a fool,” the barman said to Alexandre as he brought his espress and Calvados. “You stand some chance of surviving drinking and driving, but drinking and backgammon is invariably fatal. Especially with those sharks.”

  CHAPTER 28

  At ten the next morning, as one of Capucine’s lieutenants walked through her office door for a meeting to review his open cases, Isabelle pushed through the doorway, elbowing him aside none too gently.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Isabelle said to the lieutenant, “but something urgent has just popped up that the commissaire needs to know about right away.”

  The lieutenant and Capucine exchanged sympathetic glances. They both had built up a level of tolerance for Isabelle.

  The lieutenant gone, Isabelle kicked the door shut with her heel.

  “Folon’s our man. No doubt about it at all.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It turns out that three of the other rapists have been killed in suspicious circumstances.”

  “Isabelle, you’re getting ahead of yourself. What ‘other’ rapists? What are you talking about?”

  “The ones who weren’t the Brault brothers. Remember David’s report? There were four of them. Well, three have been murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Well, it’s not in the files, but that’s obviously what happened. Get this. Galinette—whose legal given name is Hugolin, by the way—Brun died just outside of La Cadière, shot in the head with a shotgun while he was out hunting hare in the hills.”

  “There’s a gendarmerie report?”

  “For once, a thorough one. Brun was found on a deserted hillside that was covered with low scrub. He’d been shot in the back of the head at relatively close range. The report makes it clear Brun had been standing in the open when he was shot. It was obviously intentional.”

  “And the gendarmerie conclusion?”

  “Accidental death, of course. But they always say that. Then, a year later, Escartefigue Anglade apparently ‘fell’ ”—Isabelle made ironic quotes with her fingers—“off a rock into a gully while he was collecting wildflowers used to make herbal teas. It seems he supplemented his revenue as a pig farmers’ hand by going into the hills to collect things that he would sell to a Lyon company that manufactures and distributes natural products for tree huggers.”

  “Escartefigue must be a nickname.”

  “No, that’s what shows on the civil register.”

  “And he would go to Lyon to sell what he collected?”

  “No. I called the company. They have an itinerant buyer who travels up and down Provence, buying this stuff from locals. It’s all dried, anyway, so there’s no rush. The man I spoke to said that Anglade was one of their best suppliers. Very experienced. See the pattern emerging?”

  “And the third one?”

  “Jean Cadort. He died the year after. Hit by a tractor while he was riding his Solex. Of course, those ridiculous bicycles with the little motor on top of the front wheel should be outlawed, but it would still be easy enough to get one out of the way of a tractor, wouldn’t you think?”

  “What did the gendarmerie report say?”

  “Road accident. No comment.”

  “And you think it was intentional?”

  “Of course it was. All three of them were. It’s obvious. Look. Four out of the six rapists have died, and one is missing. Dead, too, for all we know. One of them was definitely murdered, and I’ll bet a month’s pay the others were murdered, too.”

  “And how do you explain that Philoxéne Cabanis was spared?”

  “Spared so far, Commissaire. Only so far. He’s got to be next on the list. Either him or Antonin Brault. That is, if Antonin isn’t already dead.”

  “And the killer would be?”

  “Lucien Folon. Who else? He has the motive, and he had the means. Of course he’s our man. No doubt about it. Now all we need to do is to dig up some supporting evidence and let the juge d’instruction wrap it up for the prosecutor. A big red bow on a sweet little package for Monsieur le Procureur de la Justice.”

  “Isabelle, remember that phrase from Sherlock Holmes I always like to quote. Let the facts dictate your theory. Don’t try to force them into your preconceived notion.”

  “Commissaire, this isn’t some mystery novel. This is the real world, where there are no coincidences. Four out of six people who were perps in a rape have died violently. We can’t walk away from that.”

  “All right. You win. This is something that needs to be investigated. Have David interview this Philoxéne Cabanis. Also, get him to see if he can find Antonin Brault. Why don’t you put in a call to the gendarmerie headquarters of the department of the Var and see what they can dig up for him? You’ve piqued my curiosity. I’d like to know if brother Antonin is still alive and hear what he has to say about all this. And I want you to do some research on Folon and see if he could have been present during these deaths. If it turns out he was doing restaurant reviews in Tokyo, your theory goes out the window.”

  “Now you’re talking, Commissaire. Don’t you worry. I’m on it. We’ll have this one wrapped up in a few days.”

  Isabelle was so happy, she almost skipped out of Capucine’s office.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Allô, Capucine!” Chéri Lecomte said brightly over the brigade telephone. Capucine thought the use of her first name was a bit much.

  “Je te téléphone parce que . . . I’m calling you because . . .” The first name might have passed, but the tu was definitely over the top for a mere acquaintance.

  Capucine replied with a frosty “Oui.” Apparently, her tone passed unnoticed.

  “Listen, I know absolutely nothing about police procedure, and I thought you could help me out with a problem.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “It’s . . . personal . . . sort of intimate . . . Would it be all right if I came to see you? It’s not something I can really talk about on the telephone.”

  “I think I can give you an appointment next week. I’ll have the brigade receptionist call you. He handles my schedule.”

  “Next week! This is really urgent. Can’t I come by this morning? You can find a few minutes for a friend, can’t you?”

  Capucine was torn. The presumptuous tone irritated her, and she suspected that this probably had to do with a uniformed policeman banging on her door about a pile of unpaid parking tickets. On the other hand, there was a remote chance that it might have something to do with the case.

  Capucine smiled down the line. “For yo
u, I could prize open a slot tomorrow morning. Say at ten. Is that soon enough?”

  “It’ll have to do, won’t it?”

  At nine thirty the next morning the receptionist called to announce that a Madame Lecomte had arrived.

  “Let her sit. It’s going to be a while before I can get to her.”

  Capucine continued her discussion with one of her lieutenants about an arrest planned for later that morning and then listened to a report by her other lieutenant about his current case—a very tricky one—which he seemed to have satisfyingly in hand. The lieutenant left at ten twenty. Capucine picked up the duty roster and began making changes, assigning two more brigadiers to the lieutenant’s case. At ten thirty the uniformed receptionist walked through the open doorway.

  “This Madame Lecomte has been waiting for an hour. Do you want me to send her away?”

  “Good Lord, no. I completely forgot about her. Show her in.”

  Despite her belted bright-print dress from another age and the inevitable red-soled Louboutins, Chéri was far less radiant than usual.

  “It’s so kind of you,” she said, again using the offensive tu, “to see me on such short notice.” Chéri moved in for an air kiss, which Capucine parried, retreating behind her desk and calling the receptionist to ask him to get the café on the corner to send around two expresses. An abiding French myth was that the slightly bitter café coffee was invariably better than anything that could be produced in house.

  They exchanged banalities for a few minutes, until a waiter in an ankle-length white apron—still immaculate at that hour of the morning—appeared with a cork-lined tray containing two demitasses covered by their saucers to keep them hot. Once the mysterious bond that humans construct by jointly ingesting food substances was established, Capucine smiled encouragingly at Chéri.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the problem you want to discuss?”

  Chéri fidgeted. In earlier eras she would have wrung a handkerchief or gone through the elaborate ritual of lighting a cigarette. But, deprived of these props, all she could do was dart her eyes from side to side, seeking escape in the corners of the room. Eventually, she cleared her throat and launched into her story.

  “It’s very embarrassing. The sort of thing only a woman would understand. That’s why I’m turning to you.” She stopped short.

  Capucine said nothing. Silence was the most powerful goad the interviewer possessed.

  “For a good number of years I . . . well . . . I have been deeply in love with a certain monsieur.”

  Capucine groaned inwardly. This was going to take over an hour, and it would have something to do with the unrequited love of a married man and some form of monetary compensation. She snuck a look at the appointment list that had been printed out for her. Her next appointment was at eleven: a case involving a father who disciplined his six-year-old boy so severely, he was frequently in the emergency room and missed so much school, he was in danger of repeating the year.

  “The monsieur’s name is Thierry Brissac-Vanté. I’m sure you know about him since he’s one of the owners of Chez La Mère Denis.”

  Capucine looked at her levelly for several long beats, hoping the rest of it would come gushing out. Chéri said nothing but found enough self-confidence to meet Capucine’s gaze.

  Capucine broke the silence. “Why do you think the police should be involved?”

  “I think harm has come to Thierry.”

  “Why?”

  “Thierry and I would call each other at least once a day. Even if he couldn’t get away from his wife, he always called me.” There was a long pause. “But he hasn’t called in a week. And every time I try his cell phone, it rings six times before it goes to voice mail. That means it’s on. I just can’t believe he’s looking at my name popping up on his screen and refusing to take the call. Something’s happened to him.” There was another long pause.

  “So I called his house on the landline. Something he told me never to do. I pretended I was a charitable organization he had pledged some money to. The person that answered, some sort of servant would be my guess, said that he was away for the day and that she would take a message. Of course, he never called back. I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes filled with liquid.

  In the normal course of events this was the sort of incident that would not even be recorded on the police blotter. Since time immemorial men were notorious for jettisoning their rejected women over a wall of silence. But, of course, Brissac-Vanté was a central figure in Capucine’s cases. Exactly when was the last time she had heard a real-time report about him? Come to think of it, it did seem a long while back.

  “Was there any incident? A dispute? A misunderstanding?”

  “No, nothing. That’s just it. I spoke to him just last week. We made plans to have dinner.” Chéri licked her lips. “He wanted to take me to a new restaurant that serves food from Réunion Island. He says they have a dish of very spicy baby goat that is just fabulous. He read about the place in Elle magazine and had a reservation for the next day—”

  Capucine cut her off. “And he never called back to confirm your date? Is that it?”

  Chéri nodded, almost gratefully. “I keep on calling and calling, and he never picks up.”

  Capucine stood up. “I’ll look into it. Informally. There’s not enough here to open a dossier, but I’ll call you in a day or two and tell you what I come up with. Will that do?”

  Chéri smiled weakly. She had expected something more. Capucine had no idea what. The only thing she was sure of was that a good part of the story had been a fib.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Bonjour, Monsieur le Maire. I stopped by because I need your help.”

  David had half expected the old man not to remember him. But the minute the mayor caught sight of David walking through the door, he peered intently at the side pockets of David’s jacket. The mayor beamed when he saw the lumpy bulges.

  “Le Cannois! I figured you’d be back.”

  Apparently, the tide of village gossip had floated David’s local nickname as far away as a nursing home in the outskirts of Cassis.

  “Just in time for the apéro before lunch.” It was ten thirty in the morning.

  David collected the glass and carafe from the night table, set them down on the stand next to the mayor’s reclining armchair. The mayor pulled a lever, and the chair shot upright. David twisted open a mignonette of Pastis Ricard and poured it into the glass. The mayor added water and fell silent, transfixed at the transformation of liquid gold into mother’s milk.

  “You have good taste in pastaga, mon ami. But you’re not going to make me drink alone, a man of my age. There’s another glass in the drawer of my night table. I filched it from my dinner tray last night.”

  David smiled at the thought of Isabelle’s reaction to him drinking on duty in the middle of the morning. This was definitely better than Paris. Maybe there might even be something in the idea of local politics. The mayor picked up the trace of David’s grin.

  “Nothing better than a little apéro.” He clinked his glass against David’s and glanced at the door like a guilty schoolboy. In an effort to regain his gravitas, he tucked in his chin and looked sternly at David.

  “You said you needed my help, Le Cannois.”

  “I’d like to interview Antonin Brault and get his input on Jean-Louis’s childhood. You know, the point of view of the elder sibling. The gendarmes say they have no idea where he went.”

  The mayor looked at David shrewdly. “I’m amazed they made any comment at all. You authors must have quite some pull.” He tapped David’s pocket for another mignonette, which he emptied into his glass and topped up with water. He took a long appreciative sip. “But you’re in luck. I know where he is.”

  “You do?” This bit of good news vastly exceeded David’s expectations.

  “Of course I do. Keep very close tabs on your constituency. That’s the secret to success in politics. Keep that in mind when your time comes.”


  It would appear that Antonin was working as a temp mechanic for a Peugeot garage in a village a half an hour away. By a stroke of luck David’s rental car happened to be a Peugeot. David planned on a trip to the garage first thing the next morning.

  It took him a good two hours to extract himself from the mayor, who went on at length reaffirming his opinion that David was a natural for village politics. It was not clear to David if this was a ploy to keep the Ricard tap open or if the view was sincere. David was unable to pry himself loose until well after the Angelus would have sounded in La Cadière. He left with more insights into the subtleties of village mayoral politics than he had ever imagined existed.

  By the time he drove the twenty minutes back to La Cadière, he was starving. Casimir, the owner of Le Marius, was back from his lunch, energetically polishing glasses behind the bar. The café was completely deserted, save for a lanky man in his middle thirties who David recognized by sight as Felix Olivier.

  “I heated this up for you,” Casimir said, serving David an enormous slice of fougasse packed with black olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and dark air-cured ham. He set a quarter-liter carafe of rosé next to it. Under the cover of the clank of dish, glass, and carafe, Casimir jutted his chin microscopically in the direction of Olivier and muttered, “He’s been looking for you, Le Cannois. He’s asked after you three times already.”

  David shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of the ways of the world.

  When Casimir went back to his obsessive-compulsive glass polishing, Olivier came up to the bar, glass of chalky white liquid in hand. He was careful to station himself a good two feet beyond David’s territorial perimeter. There was a long awkward moment.

  “You’re the writer,” Olivier said, posing the question as a statement of fact, with no upward inflection on the last word.

  “Guilty as charged,” David said as he cut off another piece of fougasse.

  “Let me introduce myself. I’m Felix Olivier.” He turned toward David but did not presume to extend his hand.