Killer Critique

by Alexander Campion

  “I’m sorely tempted,” Capucine said with a smile. “I have no idea how to handle the situation. But at least I have my hands full for the next few days, even without interviewing suspects.”

  She was prevented from elaborating by the arrival of the food.

  The waiter presented the dishes with almost comic pomposity. “Poularde de Bresse truffé Brigitte Bardot,” he intoned as he tendered Capucine her roast chicken. “Tournedos François Truffaut,” he announced over Alexandre’s beef fillet.

  Alexandre made an exploratory incision with his knife. “François Truffaut mon cul,” he said with unusual vulgarity. “This is a plain old tournedos Rossini. A fillet topped with a slab of foie gras and capped with a slice of truffle. Still, it’s perfectly cooked and the sauce is excellent.”

  He speared a piece of Capucine’s chicken. “This isn’t bad, either. It was a mistake bringing you along. The radiance of your pulchritude has charmed me into an eleventh-hour reprieve for this loathsome place. Quick, distract me with your brilliant progress on the case before I change my mind about this chamber of horrors.”

  “The preliminary report from forensics came in yesterday morning. For openers there were no clues of any kind. No fingerprints, no floating particles of dandruff, no stray threads of alpaca that comes only from a specific mountaintop in the Andes. The thing that killed Gautier was a plain-vanilla one-seventy-seven caliber air-gun pellet, just under his right ear. A perfectly ordinary hollow-point pellet, except that the hollow had been packed with a compound that was largely curare paste.”

  “Largely? And the stuff that wasn’t curare?”

  Capucine sat up straight and leaned over the table. “That’s the interesting part. They were shavings of some sort of plant.”

  “And it’s these tiny particles of this unknown plant that reveal the murderer to Madame Maigret, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Don’t be so snide. It’s the first thing we have that might be a lead. As it happened, I had lunch with Cécile yesterday, who was very knowledgeable about blowguns and curare darts. You know how she can get. She said the darts were usually made from some tree called an inayuga that grows in the middle of the Amazon jungle. She learned all this at a reception last week given by the Brazilian embassy in aid of Amerindians. There was an exhibition of artifacts. Some of the guests got out of hand and started blowing curare darts at a portrait of the president—”

  Alexandre guffawed. “I hope that was practice for the real thing!”

  “Pay attention. This is tricky stuff for a dipsomaniac old codger like you. So I immediately bounced this off forensics, who called the Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle, who not only knew what an inayuga was but actually had a specimen of the tree in question growing in their greenhouse near Rambouillet. And—ta-dah!—the hot news is that it took them no time at all to determine that the vegetable powder in the pellet was from that very species of tree.”

  Alexandre finished the last bite of tournedos and made a pantomime of a dullard drawing a conclusion. “And the supposition is that the someone nicked the darts from the reception, shaved the tips, packed the dust into the tip of a dumdum air-gun pellet, and shot poor old Gautier in the neck with it. Is that the idea?”

  “Right on, Sherlock. But spare me your raised eyebrow. Where else would the killer have obtained curare? You don’t expect me to traipse around Paris, looking for some aboriginal character in tribal beads with a ring in his nose and dessert plates in his earlobes, do you?”

  Alexandre raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “So I nipped around to the Brazilian embassy this morning and met a bronzed young Greek god making a terrestrial appearance as a cultural attaché. It seems that, as expected, the curare darts in the president’s portrait had vanished. He explained all the ins and outs of blowguns and curare-tipped darts. There are as many plants used for the darts as there are different formulas for the poison, so we may be able to get a conclusive match between the poison in the air-gun pellet and the stolen darts.”

  “Your juge is going to be so proud of you.”

  “Keep it up and I’m going to kick you. The good news is that the Brazilians were very careful about who they let into their reception and kept a diligent list. I got a copy and dropped it off with Isabelle this morning so she could compare it to the names of the people at the restaurant. Voilà, we may get our list of ninety-three down to one. Or two, of course, because we already know that Cécile was at both places.”

  Capucine was spared Alexandre’s sarcastic retort by the shrill note of her cell phone. Capucine flipped it open, listened, and mouthed “Isabelle” at Alexandre. The conversation proved lengthy.

  As Alexandre chose a selection of cheeses from the platter and poured the last of the bottle of Château Beychev-elle into their glasses, Capucine extracted a leather Hermès notebook from her bag and scribbled energetically with a small silver pencil.

  After a few minutes she snapped the phone shut and dropped it back in her bag.

  “It’s an embarrassment of riches. There are four names in addition to Cécile’s.”

  “Paris may be a village, but that seems like overkill.”

  “And wait till you see who they are. The most surprising was Béatrice Renaud. She’s the last person I would have expected.”

  “Not if you think about it,” Alexandre said. “Even if she’s distanced herself from her family, she’s still a very wealthy woman, and I can easily see her feeling strongly for the oppressed Amerindians. Also, the timing of the reception probably didn’t interfere with her dinner service. Most chefs are desperate to get out of their kitchens at the slightest opportunity.”

  “Then there was Sybille Charbonnier, you know, that sixteen-year-old, slutty actress, who was there with some sugar daddy called Guy Voisin.”

  Alexandre exploded in laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d call Sybille Charbonnier an actress. She never says anything in her movies. She pouts a little and then engages in sex that looks more like a cross between kung fu and professional wrestling than anything that happens in real life.” He paused for a few beats with a wistful expression. “Of course, she does have absolutely perfect breasts. She puts our first lady to shame.

  “And Guy Voisin is hardly a sugar daddy. Of course, he is in his sixties, but he also makes the best rosé in France, Château de la Motte. It’s superbly balanced, with a delightfully pronounced note of honey, a hint of passion fruit and peach, and maybe just a slight soupçon of rose—”

  “Got it. And the most amazing of all was Gaël Tanguy,” concluded Capucine.

  “You mean the Gaël Tanguy, the author who just won the Prix Goncourt for that twelve-hundred page book about the sordid dystopian end of the world in a vast mud puddle?”

  “I’m virtually sure it’s him. It didn’t register when I saw his name on the list of customers at Chez Béatrice, but if he was also at an exclusive Brazilian embassy reception, it’s bound be him.”

  Alexandre raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in mock amazement.

  “And the best part is that I can’t even think of interviewing any of them, thanks to that infernal juge.”

  “Oh, là là,” Alexandre said. “You become such a little girl scout when you get flustered. In the first place, Béatrice Renaud is someone I’ve seen any number of times. An acquaintance, if you will. Make that a close acquaintance. Hell, let’s just say she’s a good friend. And Guy Voisin, you could definitely call him a friend. I’ve even spent the night at Château de la Motte a couple of times. Broken bread with him, as it were. Of course, you were a little toddler at the time, but a friend of your husband’s is a friend of yours. There’s no law in this country that will prevent you from paying a call on your husband’s close friends, now is there?”

  “Next you’re going to tell me that you’ve spent the night at Sybille Charbonnier’s and she’s a wonderfully close friend too.”

  “Not re
ally. But I’d be more than happy to work on that if it furthers your career. Just give me the nod.”

  “I won’t go that far, but I do think I’ll use your name when I announce to Béatrice Renaud I’m dropping by to see her.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The night of the murder the rue de Varenne had been plugged tight with police vans and squad cars, blue lights throbbing. But in the kind early summer light the street was intimate and welcoming. Capucine bounced the nose of the Twingo up on the sidewalk at the corner, her preferred method of parking ever since she had received her license. She had been as indifferent to parking tickets as a university student as she was as a police officer.

  The restaurant had also been transformed by the light of day. The dark brown awning and smoked plate-glass windows promised elegance and sophistication. When Capucine pushed open the glass door, a willowy hostess who had been staring, slack-jawed, out the window came abruptly alive, as if a switch had been toggled on an automaton. “Chef’s already called twice to make sure you weren’t kept waiting,” she said with artificial brightness.

  Béatrice Renaud hurried out to collect Capucine. She, too, was changed from the distraught, disoriented woman in the grips of catastrophe and the machinery of the police.

  Now she was what must be her usual self, lusty, confident, big boned, plump, and hearty. Her round, innocent face, framed by severely brushed mid-length chestnut hair, could have belonged to a farm girl. But the lattice work of scars and burns on her muscular hands and forearms gave testimony to long, ruthless years in professional kitchens.

  Béatrice briskly showed off her still-empty dining room, modish in soothing beige fabric wall coverings, tan deep-pile carpeting, crisp lighting from tiny ceiling spotlights.

  The kitchen was clearly her sanctum. Hanging domed heat lamps bathed long rows of deeply gouged wooden tables in dramatic chiaroscuro. A dozen or so chefs, all male, all young, in loose-fitting white T-shirts and black aprons, fussed with their mises en places, keyed up for the lunch rush.

  Walking through the kitchen, Béatrice scrutinized her cooks’ set-ups with a critical eye that didn’t ignore one or two pairs of her chefs’ fesses. The lasciviousness of the glances were blatant enough to make Capucine wonder if it wasn’t some form of psychological compensation.

  The interview took place in Béatrice’s miniscule office, barely large enough for a chair at either side of the wooden desk, piled high with loose papers and ring-bound notebooks. The office was glass-walled from waist height up, providing an uninterrupted view of the entire kitchen.

  “Lunch is a lot tougher than dinner,” Béatrice said.

  “They arrive all at once, between twelve thirty and a quarter to one, dead sober, set on having a perfect meal in an hour and fifteen minutes. One mistake in the kitchen and it all falls apart. Dinner is a different story. They’re mellow from a few apéros and arrive anytime from seven thirty to nine. It’s their evening entertainment, so if a dish is a little slow in coming, so much the better. Dinner is definitely the meal to cook.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been better if I had come between services ?”

  “No, this is fine. I’ve gone over everything with the chefs de partie and double-checked their mises. They’re all set. Now all I have to do is sit here until someone screws up. That won’t happen for at least fifteen minutes. Let me get you something to drink.”

  She waved over a runner who had been lounging in a corner and told him to bring Capucine a Kir Royal.

  “I know Kirs have become totally démodé, but this one is special. We make it with rosé champagne, a lightly fermented raspberry syrup that comes from a small farm in the Midi, and a half a tot of alcool de framboise to give it just a bit of punch.

  “Of course, getting you here for the luncheon service wasn’t entirely disinterested. I hadn’t realized until your call that you were married to Alexandre de Huguelet. I’m counting on you to put in a good word for me. I need all the help I can get.”

  The Kir arrived. It really was in a class apart, bubbly and almost tart, with a slight alcoholic unctuousness.

  “So what can I tell you that I didn’t already tell your charming policewoman that horrible night?”

  It was the first time Capucine had ever heard Isabelle described as charming. Capucine checked closely for cynicism, but apparently there was none.

  “I just wanted to go over the events of the evening a little more carefully and make sure we didn’t miss anything. I understand you were in the kitchen the whole time and came out only once, about half an hour before the murder.”

  “Good Lord, no. I’m very much focused on the front of the house. I come out as often as a can, and when I can’t, my eye is constantly at the judas in the service door. A chef feels her house like an actress senses the mood of her audience. I need that to cook. Do you understand?”

  Capucine nodded.

  “Well, that night was a nightmare. The kitchen was hopeless. They kept getting into mess after mess. They were in a tizzy over Fesnay. It was his third and last dinner before he wrote his review. I had to be in the kitchen, but you can bet I was glued to that little window to see how he reacted to his meal. I didn’t miss a forkful.”

  “And did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, nothing at all. The service was perfect. I’m blessed with my maître d’. Fesnay seemed to like his first course, a truffled duck foie gras from the Landes I serve with a celery root fondant and a kumquat confit. Then the sommelier served him his second wine, a Château La Moutonne, and with perfect timing the chef de rang presented the ravioles. He took his first bite, and I saw that look in his eyes that makes you feel better than sex. Then I smelled something just beginning to scorch in the kitchen, had the cook replate, and went right back to my window. But Fesnay already had his face in his dish. A waiter was rushing up to help him, and I ran out of the kitchen.”

  “And did you see anything unusual then? Say, someone coming back from the men’s room or something like that?”

  “Did I see anything unusual?” Béatrice snorted. “Are you kidding? A man had just collapsed at his table. The waiters danced around with no idea what to do. A number of guests got up to look. In a few minutes the SAMU arrived. Then the police arrived. Then the Police Judiciaire. It was pandemonium.”

  “What I meant was, did you see anyone coming back to his table? You know, someone who might have gone to the toilet or gone outside for a quick smoke?”

  “Half the dining room was standing up, edging in for a closer look. There was so much confusion, any number of guests could have walked in or out. The place was such a mess, I didn’t even bother presenting the checks. How could I?”

  As she spoke, the maître d’ began arriving more and more frequently with little white dupe sheets taken from the waiters’ order books and stuck them in a circular rack over the service counter. In a few minutes the rack had turned into a Christmas tree of fluttering slips. Béatrice went to the door and peered intently through the little round window. Back in her chair she no longer looked at Capucine but swung her head, relentlessly scanning the kitchen. Her breathing was faster and her cheeks became flushed. She reminded Capucine of a cavalry major surveying his troopers as the enemy appeared on the crest of the hill opposite.

  “Shall I tell you the supreme irony?” Béatrice said.

  Capucine nodded.

  “I’m sure Fesnay would have given me an excellent review. He was much more human than most critics. The first time he came, he had the ravioles and very politely suggested as he left that the sauce was excellent, but it was a bit too ‘tight.’ It would be much better if I ‘loosened’ it. You know, made it more liquid. He was trying it a second time to see if I’d taken his hint. If I’d left it the way it was, he might not have drowned in the damned stuff.”

  “Did you take it off the menu?”

  “Of course not. It’s all they order now. They love to look at the table and eat the dish he drowned in. Thank God it’s
such an easy one to prep. It’s a Breton blue lobster tucked into oversized ravioles served in a sauce made from lobster fumet, to which I add tandoori spice, carrot, preserved lemon mousseline, wild sorrel, and a spring-onion reduction made with fresh coriander. We make the ravioles an hour or two before the service and freeze them. Then, for each order, we drop the frozen ravioles in boiling water, and they’re ready in four minutes. The sauce is kept warm under the lamps and just before it goes on the ravioles each portion is monté with a beurre noisette so it’s nice and rich and creamy. Fesnay’s idea was to use less butter and add a spoonful or two of pasta water. He was perfectly right. The dish is perfect now. What pisses me off is that they’re eating it for entirely the wrong reason.”

  At the row of stoves a chef was bent almost in half over a copper pot in a pantomime of intense concentration. His T-shirt, which had been immaculate a few minutes before, was transparent with perspiration and stuck tightly to his skin. His face was bathed in sweat, and large drops fell into the pot.

  “What’s he making?”

  “That is going to be my signature dish. It’s a pigeon I get from the Midi that I pan roast in coffee butter and serve on a bed made with quinoa, Medjool dates, and Sicilian pistachios that have been spiced up with arabica coffee. It’s served with a sauce that’s a little tricky. That’s what he’s worried ab—”

  Béatrice shot out the door of the office, yelling, “Bordel de merde. Qu’est-ce que c’est que ce souk?”

  Capucine was sure the sin had been the sweat dripping into the sauce. Béatrice shouldered the cook aside roughly, jerked open the stainless-steel door of the oven, yanked the side towel off her shoulder, pulled out a baking tray, revealing an apparently perfectly cooked squab, and banged it noisily on the top of the stove.