“Merde. Throw this out and start again!” she hissed at the trembling chef.
She stalked back to the office, stiff with indignation.
“They get dans le jus—you know, into the weeds—over the sauce and forget about the poor little pigeon drying out and losing its soul in the oven. These small birds have to be done just right. A few seconds too early and they’re raw, a few seconds too late and they taste like papier-mâché. That one has talent, though,” she said, carefully folding her side towel and draping it over her left shoulder. “But he gets flustered too easily for haute cuisine. In his case he doesn’t just slide into the weeds. He plunges right into la merde. What were we talking about?”
“Supreme irony.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it was. Fesnay’s death was a tragedy in more ways than one. I’m sure you know that my name is not really Mesnagier and everything about my family and all that.”
“Of course.”
“Well, getting into the restaurant business has been an uphill battle. My father has always been dead set against it. As far as he’s concerned, the entire purpose of my life is to take over his business one day. You can’t imagine the scene when I announced I wasn’t going to business school but was off to the école hôtelière to learn to cook. He only let me go because he was sure I’d lose interest. Then he was disappointed when I was accepted for an internship at Troisgros, but he let me do it because he was sure the brutality of the professional kitchen would be too much for me and would teach me some useful lessons. When I decided to open a restaurant in Paris, he was against that, too, but was convinced it would fail and that the experience would be valuable when I finally took up my position in his company.”
“I’ve been through a bit of that myself,” Capucine said.
Béatrice looked at Capucine in surprise. It was not clear whether it was because her élan had been checked or because of the unexpectedness of the comment. After a beat she picked up her narrative.
“Well, I made goddamn sure my place was a howling success. I invited everyone in my address book, got the gossip columns to write about me, and made my food uncomplicated and easy to eat. Naturally, the restaurant became the watering hole for the young gratin of Paris, which was not at all what I wanted it to be, but it nailed my father’s mouth shut. Now I’m inching upward. More and more of my dishes are truly haute cuisine. I’m hoping to get my first Michelin star before too long and was convinced Fesnay’s review would be the turning point.”
“Surely your success has palliated your father?”
“It’s a double-edged sword. He left me alone as long as he was convinced I was going to fail. Now that I’m a success, he may be so driven to get me back, he’ll poke his big stick in the wheel of my little bicycle—which is easy enough for him to do with all his money and power.” She paused and looked sharply at Capucine. “Do you know about that part of it, too?”
“Totally. My family was horrified at the idea of my going into the police. I spent years in fear that they would pull some strings and have me thrown out. In fact, it’s still something I lose sleep over.”
“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
When 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 10th June MMVI
Madame,
The presence of Madame is requested and required at 11:00 on the 10th 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 stro
ng 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
Capucine 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 thro
ugh 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.”
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