“It will have to, won’t it?” Martinière said bitterly and hung up.
Capucine was no more than halfway through her café au lait when her cell phone buzzed again. It was Isabelle with the tight-throated voice, that invariably indicated imminent action.
“I’ve got them. They’ve just settled in at the Alsatian restaurant at the end of the Ile Saint-Louis. You know, the one that looks out over the passerelle that goes over to the Ile de la Cité.”
“Are they having lunch or just a drink?”
“Lunch. They’re drinking champagne right now but they’re looking at menus. I’m on the rue Jean du Bellay behind a postcard stand in front of a bookstore.”
“Good. There’s a café across the street from you. Walk up the block, come down on the other side of the street and slip in. If you stand at the bar, you should see them through the window and they won’t see you. Get David on his cell phone and tell him to walk down the quai d’Or-léans and go into the restaurant at the end. He can say he’s waiting for someone. He’ll have a perfect view from there. I’ll be with you guys in twenty minutes. Don’t do anything until I get there.”
She got Momo on his cell phone.
“Where are you?”
“At my desk at the brigade, Commissaire. I’m on duty today.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Fine. I took Monsieur de Huguelet upstairs and the squad car took me to my place. I had a couple of Calvas and went to bed. I was here at eight, no problem.”
“Alexandre doesn’t have your fortitude. He’s still asleep. Anyhow, we need to get going. They’re sitting down to lunch. Get one of the squad cars and three uniforms. No automatic weapons. Go to the Ile Saint-Louis. Corner of the rue le Regrattier and the quai de Bourbon. Wait for me there. Do it fast. I need you now.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll drive the car myself.”
Fifteen minutes later Capucine pulled up behind the double-parked squad car on the rue Regrattier. The two cars blocked traffic on the street but that was no real inconvenience to the citizenry since the only cars that ever came down the street were delusionally in search of a parking space, something well known not to exist on the Ile Saint-Louis.
Capucine told the three officers they were to wait until called. They nodded, expecting nothing less: waiting was the lot of a police officer. Capucine walked down the quai de Bourbon with Momo and explained the situation. They walked past the rue Jean du Bellay and continued on to the little square at the very stern of the island. There they stopped and Capucine called to give Isabelle and David their instructions.
Capucine rounded the point of the island and walked up the quai on the other side, Momo trailing twenty feet behind.
As she emerged into the little square it was a Paris scene straight from a travel brochure. Tourists cruised boisterously from shop to shop or ogled jugglers and jazz bands on the wide pedestrian bridge. The Seine flowed its stately flow, winking reflections from the sun as huge barges passed, their engines vibrating deep, slow rhythms.
On the terrace of the Ile Saint-Louis’ venerable Alsatian restaurant, Sybille and Guy Voisin luxuriated in the sun, surveying the scene and drinking champagne. Voisin placed a proprietary hand on Sybille’s thigh as he finished a story. Both of them laughed in bubbly good spirits.
Voisin caught sight of Capucine and stood up.
“Commissaire, come have a drink,” he said, loudly enough to be heard twenty feet away. “We’re celebrating. Sybille has just signed a fabulous new movie.”
Sybille beckoned Capucine enthusiastically.
The juxtaposition of “commissaire” and “new movie” was a tonic for both the terrace and the crowd on the bridge, who peered, goggled, gossiped, identified Sybille, and edged closer while trying hard to appear uninterested.
Seeing Capucine advance toward their table, Voisin beamed. But after she took a few steps toward him, his smile evaporated and his eyes darted sharply right and left, a threatened rodent. Capucine had no idea if he’d caught sight of David or Isabelle, but he definitely knew something wasn’t right. He jumped out of his chair and ran for the bridge.
As Capucine wheeled to follow she broke a heel, twisting her ankle, nearly falling. She cursed Italian shoemakers. Voisin was already on the bridge, with Momo fifteen feet behind. From the corner of her eye she saw Isabelle and David sprinting from their hiding spots. Capucine took off her shoes and broke into a run.
Momo gained steadily on Voisin. When Voisin reached the middle of the span, he turned, his face contorted in a snarl, produced a pistol, fired once in the air.
Momo continued on without breaking stride.
Isabelle appeared at Capucine’s side. “Do I drop him?”
“No. Let it play out. There are too many people on the bridge.”
As Momo closed in on Voisin, his eyes widened. He leveled the gun at Momo, taking careful aim. Momo ran on relentlessly. Voisin appeared to lose his nerve, pocketed his pistol, vaulted over the metal railing.
Momo reached the railing a split second after Voisin’s leap and clambered over after him. Capucine, Isabelle, and David arrived in the next instant.
As they peered down, the stern of a barge was just disappearing under the bridge, its motor drumming loudly beneath the arch. They ran to the opposite railing. Two shots clanged hollowly, resonating in the steel structure of the bridge.
The bow of the barge emerged almost immediately. Voisin sat drooping in the forward end of the sand-filled cargo hold, a tired child waiting for his mother in the park’s sandbox. His right hand clutched his left shoulder. A red stain spread on his suit jacket. Twenty seconds later Momo appeared at the aft end of the hold, kneeling on his left leg in the sand. As he passed under them he struggled to rise and fell back, genuflecting like a worshiper in church bending the wrong knee.
Even though there didn’t seem to be any blood, Capucine had the impression Momo had been shot. She flipped open her cell phone and gave a rapid series of orders.
As she spoke into the phone Sybille came up and watched the barge labor its way upriver. When Capucine ended the call, Sybille said, “What an absolutely great exit. And just in time too. That relationship was getting seriously old.”
The barge was halfway to the next bridge. A large dark blue police launch sped downstream, its siren wailing the police pan-pom-pan-pom, its blue light flashing officiously. The launch slowed as it reached the raised wheelhouse at the barge’s stern. The police pilot said something over his loudspeaker that broke up in the breeze before reaching the detectives. The water boiled at the stern of the barge. The captain had thrown his engine in reverse. Undaunted by the interference of her skipper, the barge continued its stately progress upstream. Elegantly, the launch pivoted, advanced to the point where Voisin sat, made fast with boat hooks, and three uniformed officers boarded the barge.
They heard the deep unmuffled growl of large-displacement outboards.
“That’s my ride,” Capucine said, breaking into a run.
Isabelle followed. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get on the launch, arrest Voisin, and have them both taken to the Hôtel-Dieu. You two go to the Quai and I’ll meet you there.”
A large black rubber Zodiac with two enormous outboard engines and a small lectern-like wheelhouse amidships had nosed up to a stone ramp that led down to the river from the quai of the Ile Saint-Louis. In previous centuries the ramp must have had a commercial use, but now it served only for summer tanning.
Happy to be wearing no shoes, Capucine waded down the ramp into the water and hoisted herself over the fat round tube of the boat’s side. A uniformed officer made a move to help her, thought better of it, and saluted once she got on her feet.
No sooner was she upright when the skipper shouted, “On y va,” and all the officers except the one at the wheel sat down on the wooden deck, backs to the rubber gunwales. The boat jolted off the ramp violently with a roar of the outboards. The skipper reversed the engine
s and pressed the two throttles full forward, a Paris policeman showing off for the Police Judiciaire. The result was impressive. The boat exploded out of the water and was slammed down again as the skipper trimmed in the outboards. In seconds they were moving faster than the cars on the voie sur berge.
Almost instantaneously they reached the launch. Capucine was helped aboard. She gave her instruction to the skipper and went below to see Momo and Voisin.
The launch turned and headed back downstream toward the Hôtel-Dieu. When it came up to the bridge Capucine emerged on deck to signal Isabelle and David that Momo was not seriously hurt: a badly twisted ankle at worst.
The railing of the bridge was thick with people. The tourists had had an epic afternoon. Movie stars, gunshots, French police running right and left, officers on Police boats boarding barges. The works. Isabelle and David were at the rail with Sybille still at their side. Capucine gave them a double thumbs-up sign. Just as the launch reached the bridge, Capucine yelled at Isabelle, “See if you can find my shoes.”
Sybille yelled back, “Those fabulous Zanottis you had on, Commissaire ? I’m going after them right now. Don’t worry.”
The skipper of the launch darted a sideward glance at his second in command, his thought transparent: shore-based flics were bad enough, but when it came to the PJ there was just no understanding them.
CHAPTER 42
At eight o’clock the next morning Capucine walked down the now familiar hallway toward the police infirmary at the Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu. The same nurse she had seen the last time sat at the reception desk, reading just as voraciously. At her approach he stood up and saluted, his finger marking his page with his left hand, Jean-Patrick Manchette’s La Position du Tireur Couché—The Prone Gunman. Given his penchant for dark noir mysteries, Capucine wondered if he was languishing the way she once had, champing to get into the gritty side of the force.
“Bonjour, Commissaire,” he said with a polite smile of recognition. “Your prisoner is in the room all the way at the end. The doctor’s already been in to see him this morning.”
“And?”
“He’s stable. No sign of infection. There was a good bit of damage to the muscle. At his age it will take some time to heal and he’ll probably loose strength and flexibility in that area. If he were ten years younger he could go home now. But the doctor wants him here for a day or two just to be on the safe side. Anyway, he’s on a morphine drip. He’d be in a lot of pain without it. These wounds are still very painful the day after.”
“I need to interrogate him. It would be better if he isn’t lying in bed.”
“I can have the staff meal room put off-limits for as long as you need it. Will that do, Commissaire?”
“Perfectly. And I’d like him off the morphine during the interrogation.”
The previous afternoon both Voisin and Momo had been rushed into the hospital’s emergency room. Momo had been x-rayed, been diagnosed with a severe ankle sprain, been bandaged, been issued a pair of crutches, been handed a prescription for two weeks’ recuperative leave, been given a small envelope filled with painkilling pills, and had finally been delivered to his apartment by a squad car. Voisin’s wound was deemed minor. The bullet had traversed the right deltoid muscle without hitting a bone. The wound was cleaned, a single staple had been applied to the entry side and two to the exit, an I/V had been placed in the back of his left hand through which he had received plasma, morphine, and two antibiotics. Since there was clearly no shock reaction, he was sent to the police infirmary section of the hospital where he had spent a peaceful night under guard and under sedation.
Turning the corner toward Voisin’s room, Capucine found Isabelle and David bickering in whispers on a wooden bench. After the inevitable handshake for David and air kiss for Isabelle she continued on with the two brigadiers in tow. Momo stood in front of Voisin’s door, leaning on his crutches, looming over a uniformed officer sitting on a chair, the two chatting quietly.
“Momo, what are you doing here?” Capucine asked. “You’re supposed to be on convalescent leave.”
“Commissaire, I’m here for the interrogation. Wad’ya think? After I pop my ankle jumping off a bridge to catch this fucker, I’m going to stay at home two weeks, watching cooking shows on TV?”
“You’re sure you’re up for this Momo?” Capucine asked.
“No problem. I threw away those pills they gave me and had a couple of Calvas instead. I feel fine.”
In his room, Voisin sat up in bed, to all appearances quite content, eating his breakfast, standard hospital fare of plastic containers of unflavored yogurt and reconstituted orange juice rounded off with an industrial croissant and translucently thin coffee. It looked like a normal hospital scene until one noticed that Voisin’s ankles were shackled and the stainless-steel chain ran through the metal bars at the foot of the bed.
Voisin greeted Capucine enthusiastically. “Commissaire, you’re an early riser. Good for you! That’s the secret for a long and successful life.”
“Voisin, I hope you’ve had enough breakfast. We’re going to take you to another room and have a little chat.”
Voisin smarted from the change in tone: the “Monsieur” before his name had disappeared and the vous had been replaced by the disdainful tu, well known in the movies as the standard police address for lowlifes and criminals.
“In that case, I’ll need my lawyer present,” he said with only partial success at bravado.
Isabelle and David arrived with two uniformed officers and the nurse. Momo stood in the doorway glowering menacingly, imposing on his crutches. The nurse removed Voisin’s I/V. One of the uniformed officers pushed a wheelchair up to the bed. The other unlocked one of the shackles, freed the chain from the foot of the bed and reattached it to Voisin’s ankle.
As Voisin was helped into the wheelchair, Capucine said, “No lawyer. You were arrested in flagrant délit for refus d’obtempérer—resisting arrest—and the attempted assassination of a Police Judiciaire officer with a firearm. We have up to twenty-four hours to take you to a magistrate, who would convict you on the spot. You would start your sentence immediately. I’m sure you know how people who try to kill police officers are treated in prison. You go to the movies like everyone else.”
Voisin paled, either from the thought of prison or from the effort of standing up to get to the wheelchair, possibly both.
“But,” Capucine said, “we’re not going to worry about those little bagatelles, are we? We’re going to talk about other things. I’d like to try to understand your point of view and see if I can help you out. Over the course of the investigation I found you to be very sympathetic. Really very sympathetic. I want to give you every chance I can.”
Capucine favored him with her most brilliant smile but persisted with the tu. As she expected, he was utterly confused.
The uniformed officer wheeled him down the hallway into the lunchroom. Capucine issued instructions to have the furniture rearranged into a modern interrogation room layout. The central table was pushed to one side and David and Isabelle were seated behind it, symbolically distancing them from the upcoming dialogue. Momo was given a chair in the far corner behind Voisin, whose wheelchair was placed in the exact center of the room. Capucine moved a hard-backed chair to a forty-five-degree angle next to Voisin’s and sat facing him, their knees less than two feet apart. The mise-en-scène was perfect. The only thing that was missing was the dummy two-way mirror, but you never could have everything you wanted.
Without preamble, Capucine said, “I want to talk to you about Gautier du Fesnay.”
“Gautier du Fesnay. Gautier du Fesnay. Rings a little bell. Hang on. Wait. Got it. That poor guy who was killed in that restaurant. Chez Béatrice. Right? What about him?”
“Voisin. If you didn’t have this little flesh wound you’d be in one of the interrogation rooms at the Quai, which I don’t think you’d find so congenial. After a comment like that, your head would be on the table and blood wou
ld be trickling out of your ears because someone would have just hit you very hard on the head with a phone book. Being a smart-ass just doesn’t go down in these sessions. Tu understand that, I’m sure. Keep this up and I’ll have you taken across the parvis, wound or no wound.”
Voisin became even paler.
“Now, about Gautier du Fesnay ...”
“Well, as a matter of fact, he’s from Aubagne, the town I was born in, in the Midi. We were at the école primaire and the lycée together. That was the last I saw of him. We went our separate ways when we enrolled in our universities. Of course, I read his stuff in the papers. I even used to look at those little film clips of his on the Internet. Who didn’t?”
Capucine said nothing. She felt as if she had been doused with a bucketful of ice-cold water. Her initial reports had listed all the birthplaces of the principal players. Fesnay hadn’t actually been born in Aubagne but in the same département. She hadn’t checked more closely because at that point Voisin had seemed no more than an inoffensively comic geriatric sugar daddy who wouldn’t harm a fly. This was going to be a lesson to her. A lesson she would never forget. As she brooded, she continued to say nothing.
The pause was no longer than thirty seconds but it seemed infinite. Voisin began to breathe through his mouth and a shine of perspiration appeared on his brow. The morphine was wearing off. His eyes had lost the edge of their focus. The pain had returned.
Capucine edged her chair closer to Voisin, her knee only inches away from his. She reached out and tapped his thigh with her fingertips. His eyes rotated to hers.
“Voisin, I’d like to get you back to your bed and hooked up to your I/V as quickly as I can. I really would. But you’re not helping me. You just told me a fib, didn’t you?” She spoke as if to a child.
Killer Critique Page 28
