Later that night Capucine and Alexandre leaned over the iron railing of their bedroom window, finishing off the contents of the cane flask as Alexandre smoked his last cigar of the day.
“You know,” Alexandre said, “the one person who doesn’t make any sense to me in all of this is Gerlier. It seems like he was shooting hares with a howitzer. How on earth did you know he was involved? Why would anyone go through all that trouble just to look a little better with your boss or do a little less work?”
“I never would have figured it out unless Momo had told me about one other little detail he discovered.”
Just as Alexandre was going to press her for an explanation, she slid her hand under his silk dressing gown. His response was so immediate and so robust, he committed the unthinkable. He let two-thirds of a perfectly good El Ray del Mundo Choix Supreme fall into the azalea bush below.
CHAPTER 49
“You’ve done well on this case, Commissaire,” Juge d’Instruction August-Marie Parmentier de la Martinière said in a tone suggesting he was addressing a grease-stained garage mechanic and was afraid good breeding might require him to shake the worker’s hand.
He was barely out of law school and very junior in the pecking order of juges. He had been assigned a tiny office, hardly larger than Capucine’s country cloakroom lair, but had tried hard to elevate its grandeur to a level commensurate with his vision of himself by furnishing it with ostentatious antiques from his family home. The room was dominated by an ornate ormolu desk that in a larger version would have been appropriate in a minister’s office. On its surface was a venerable, scarred, leather blotter with a hinged, gold-tooled leather cover. Since her childhood, Capucine had always wondered how these blotters were supposed to be used, since there was never enough room for the top flap to be folded back on the desk so the user could actually write something.
The judge lifted up the cover and peeked inside with the suppressed grin of a chemin de fer player tipping up a corner of his cards to reassure himself that he really had an unbeatable hand. Inside there was only one file, suggesting that his work in progress was hardly enough to keep him entertained much beyond morning coffee. He extracted the thin folder and opened it without looking at the contents, eased back in his chair, and negligently crossed one leg over the other. Isabelle sat speechless, catatonic with stage fright.
“Brigadier Lemercier deserves full credit for the case. She’s been in charge of the day-to-day work,” Capucine said.
“I see you had problems with the press,” he said, tapping the file with his index finger.
“Yes, a few weeks ago both Le Figaro and the Nouvel Observateur ran pieces portraying the Belle as some sort of modern Robin Hood. We had a press conference, and, fortunately, their interest burned out very quickly.”
“I’m sure we can remedy that. Maybe another press conference will do the trick. Yes. My office will handle it. I’ll present the case, naturally, but I’d like you to be there as well to show what an important role the Police Judiciaire can have if properly directed.”
He opened the file and made a note in the margin with an antique gold Parker 51 pen. Homais would have been highly impressed.
“It’s a shame you didn’t run her in as a flagrant délit. I understand why you hesitated, but I would have come right down and made sure a magistrate pushed her straight into prison. It would have given us a marvelous opportunity to show the press how decisive and hard-hitting we juges really are. One of my main career objectives is to counter the deplorable current belief that the juge d’instruction system has become obsolete. But not to worry. It was an oversight that can be rectified with our press conference.”
“Monsieur le Juge,” Capucine said, “I hope you had the chance to read the note I sent you. There are extenuating circumstances. In fact, I—and the whole team on the case, too—feel strongly that the charges should be dropped.”
Martinière stared at Capucine with wide, disbelieving eyes. His look was simultaneously nervous and aggressive, giving him the demeanor of a rapacious weasel whose prey was making an entirely unexpected move to bolt.
“Drop the charges?”
“Yes. She and her mother are hardship cases. It’s quite possible her mother will not survive her cancer. Of course the girl is guilty of a number of thefts, but she did make every effort to minimize the damages to her victims. In fact, she succeeded so well that two of them have refused to press charges and two others never even reported the robberies.”
Jubilant, Martinière held the pen between crooked forefinger and thumb and stabbed it aggressively at Capucine like a loaded gun.
“The mother. Yes. Of course. There is a mother. I’d completely forgotten. Thank you for reminding me.” He flipped through the file to the appropriate section and read it carefully, making tick marks in the margin.
“There are clear grounds for deportation here. As you explain so eloquently in your note, the woman has a lingering and potentially fatal disease. That would cost the nation a great deal of money if, somehow, she managed to obtain social coverage. But since the girl is bound to get at least fifteen years, of which she’ll have to serve a minimum of seven and probably more, I could ask for immediate deportation of the mother back to, ah”—he flipped a few pages—“ah, Syria. Yes, Syria.” He smiled contentedly. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I’ll want to announce has already happened when we have our press conference. It will go down extremely well. It will show how decisive we are. I’ll call the immigration people before lunch.”
He looked at his wafer-thin gold watch, impatient they leave. He had much to do. His morning had suddenly become very full.
CHAPTER 50
“Some husbands are only good for being cuckolded, and even for that their wives have to help them out.”
There was a refined ripple of laughter. Alexandre leaned over and whispered in Capucine’s ear, “Speaking of which, whatever happened to the delectable Marie-Christine?”
“Shush. I’ll tell you after the play.”
Capucine’s sibilant was taken up by the people around them. There were two “Chuts!” from behind and a “Voyons !” from the row in front. Alexandre groaned and sunk down in his seat. He hated Feydeau. He leaned toward Capucine again. “All this fin de siècle posturing. Wilde I love. Guitry is genuinely funny. But Feydeau is just flatulence. I’m going to the lobby to smoke a cigar. I’ll meet you there.”
“If you do, you won’t get a crumb of gossip from me,” Capucine whispered sweetly.
The elderly woman in front turned in her seat. “Voilà. Madame has spoken. Sit quietly and not one more word.” She put her index finger to her lips, widening her eyes for emphasis in an exaggerated gesture. She turned to her consort, “Ah, les hommes!” He nodded automatically, rapt with the play. In contrast, Alexandre slumped down in his seat and pouted with his arms crossed like a vexed child of eight.
At the restaurant Alexandre revived like a bear rising from a winter’s hibernation. It was the latest creation of the chef who had almost single-handedly led French gastronomy out of the aridity of nouvelle-cuisine minimalism back to the lushness of its cuisine bourgeoise foundations. After years of inactivity he had suddenly returned to the scene with a restaurant built around a long L-shaped bar overlooking the kitchen, which famously “erased” the barrier between patron and chef. Alexandre had thought it would be perfect for an after-theater meal.
As it happened, the chef was on the premises that night. He had been waiting for Alexandre, who always reserved in his own name, and greeted him extravagantly with hugs, kisses on both cheeks, and loud, joyous whooping. Naturally, everyone in the restaurant stared. This was Alexandre’s heaven. The play faded to a dim, distasteful memory.
As the couple sat side by side at the counter, chatting and admiring the precisely choreographed energy of the kitchen, Alexandre rose through the circles of his paradise. He had already downed a dish of crayfish ravioles on a bed of green cabbage and was keenly anticipating a
duo of duck magret and foie gras served with a cherry and almond sauce. And on top of that he was delighted that Capucine, who so often only pecked at her food, had ordered all of four dishes from the tasting menu. She had already dealt with a creamed soft-boiled egg topped with a gobbet of caviar and was just beginning her dissection of a wild quail stuffed with foie gras.
“You’re wrong to be so disdainful of Feydeau,” Capucine said. “I grant you he’s become a bit dusty, but he’s a true father of surrealism.”
“I seem to recall you promising to earn your supper with some jaw-dropping gossip.” Alexandre caught sight of the chef in the bowels of the kitchen and raised both hands, fingers pinched together, shaking them in the direction of the heavens to indicate his beatific rapture with his meal. The chef beamed in appreciation.
“If I’d wanted proto-surrealism, I’d have gone to a Marx Brothers movie,” Alexandre said, pouring her a glass of wine. “Let’s get back to Saint-Nicholas. Unbelievable as it seems, I half think I miss the place.”
“Actually, I had lunch with Jacques today and he was a cornucopia of gossip.” She rubbed Alexandre’s leg until his teeth unclenched. There was much to be said for this side-by-side seating.
“He tells me that Oncle Aymerie has been single-minded in tracking down the source of Odile’s new recipes. It seems they became the bane of his existence. He finally found a book she’d hidden in her room, something written by a gentleman called Kailash Jaswinder, who turns out to be a chef in Mumbai who pioneered French-Indian fusion. Oncle Aymerie confiscated the book, so he’ll be at peace until Christmas, when Jacques is planning a suitable replacement.”
“Odile’s partridges were actually excellent, though I had been looking forward to my têtes de n��gre. What about the delectable Marie-Christine? I’m sure Jacques has been keeping his beady little eyes on her.”
“His eyes aren’t beady at all. And it wasn’t Jacques who told me. She called me herself. She’s finally decided to divorce Loïc. It was a huge step for her and she agonized over it, but she got him to sign a separation agreement.”
“How did they handle the ownership of the élevage?”
“They haven’t yet. The law requires that couples be separated for three months before the judge will weigh the merits of a divorce. I suppose that’s to keep them from attempting something rash in the heat of the moment. Anyway, for the time being, Loïc will continue to own all of the shares of the company, and Marie-Christine has another three months to figure out how to handle the situation.”
“The élevage seems to have survived the scandal unscathed,” Alexandre commented after he had swallowed a mouthful of duck.
“I gather that in his devotion he’s gone back to spending twelve-hour days on the job and that was what drove Marie-Christine’s decision. She felt the only thing that really interests him in life is his élevage,” Capucine said.
“He’s certainly embraced the hyperbole of the marketing world with open arms. He’s taken to bombarding journalists with press release after press release claiming he’s completely reorganized the business to make it even more traditional and an even stauncher pillar of French gastronomy. He claims his beef is now identical to the stuff Escoffier used in his famous recipes. It’s complete blather, but a number of papers have done pieces on him and I’m sure his sales have improved considerably,” Alexandre said.
“Oh, but that’s not all,” Capucine said, relishing the frisson of gossip. “It seems that the village is so moved at his resolve that the notables have succeeded in getting him awarded the Mérite Agricole.”
“I hate to trump you, but I’ve heard, and this is only a rumor, mind you,” Alexandre said quite facetiously, “that he may even be awarded the Légion d’Honneur for his contribution to the French patrimony. I got this from the president of the French Association of Restaurateurs over lunch while you were pinching and giggling with your cousin.”
Capucine knew he would not have let the reference to Jacques slide by without comment and had her parry at the ready. But just as she raised her épée to flex it for maximum effect before delivering the coup de grâce, another dish arrived for her, this one a tiny portion of sweetbreads decorated with little nails of rolled-up shards of bay leaves, making them look like baby hedgehogs. She abandoned her retort.
“And I suppose,” Alexandre said, “you’ll insist we go down to Saint-Nicolas to see him awarded the damn things.”
“Absolutely. I have some unfinished business there.”
CHAPTER 51
The ceremony took place in Saint Nicolas’ mairie—its town hall—the ruins of a fifteenth-century château-fort that had been converted into a public building. The village was unanimous in its opinion that the conversion had been anything but a success. The architect, obviously highly impressed by Mies van der Rohe and his cronies, had preserved the three standing walls of the original keep and constructed the rest of the building in glass and steel, clearly aiming for dramatic effect at minimal cost. Unfortunately, the walls of the château had lost all their original character and the steel and glass structure was awkwardly proportioned. The sole saving grace of the building was its large, well-lit reception area, suitable for the weddings of those who refused to set foot in the local church and the presentation of trophies for soccer tournaments, bicycle races, and, naturally, civic honors, should such an occasion ever present itself.
The morning press augured ill for Loïc Vienneau’s awards. Les Echos, one of France’s two main business newspapers, announced the acquisition of the Elevage Vienneau by Opportunité S.A., the holding company that owned the chain of Charolais Allô restaurants, as well as a large number of autoroute service centers and a good-sized in-plant factory canteen business. Even though the local café-tabac stocked only two copies of Les Echos, the news spread like rabbits running through a field of alfalfa and it was speculated that the decorations would be canceled.
The concerns were put to rest when the minister of agriculture himself arrived with a huge din in a helicopter that landed heroically on the postage stamp lawn of the mairie. It was immediately obvious that there had been an administrative mishap. The minister clearly thought he was to present the Legion of Honor to some sort of scientist who had achieved a significant breakthrough in genetic engineering. He was also astounded to find one of his cabinet advisers already on the scene, apparently with the intention of awarding the same individual the Mérite Agricole. He confiscated the box that contained the lesser medal and shooed away the adviser, who had the virtue of actually knowing who Vienneau was. The adviser, who seemed well acquainted with this type of confusion, retreated unconcernedly to the bar that had been set up for the reception and contented himself with the champagne, a Veuve Clicquot chosen by the mayor himself.
Consulting his text, the minister spoke at length about the prowess of a certain Dr. Vienne and the victory that might eventually—but not quite yet, of course—free all corn crops from the terrible bane of Diplodia ear rot. Mercifully, the minister mumbled and the public address system had the unfortunate habit of cutting in and out, so the audience applauded at each electronic pause and was none the wiser. After the required fifteen minutes the minister made a vague papal exhortation of approach with the fingers of both hands, placed the red ribbon of the Légion d’Houneur over Vienneau’s neck, kissed him on both cheeks, and bolted for his helicopter, leaving the medal of the Mérite Agricole on the table in its box.
The cabinet adviser, unperturbed, downed the remains of a fourth flute of champagne, calmly approached the podium with the rolling gait of a seaman, pushed the microphone aside, made a well-turned and rousing speech in a loud, clear voice about the glories of French beef in the troubled times of the threat of mad cow disease from perfidious Albion across the Channel, placed the second medal around Vienneau’s neck to vigorous applause, and beat a retreat to his car.
The bar was instantly transformed into a rugby scrum. For the fifty or so guests, most with hands so work hardened
that they were difficult to close into fists, real champagne was a treat so rare it would be experienced only a few times in their lives. They were not going to miss out on this occasion. Vienneau stood awkwardly at one end of the bar, red and green ribbons draped around his neck, looking foolishly at the crush of people, at a complete loss for what to do.
Alexandre had had no difficulty slipping through the crowd and securing three of the plastic flutes of champagne. He and Capucine went up to Vienneau and offered him one.
“Thank God you’re here,” Vienneau said, downing half of his glass. “I had no idea this would be so awkward.”
Capucine and Alexandre offered the standard bromides of congratulations.
“Listen,” Vienneau said earnestly. “Opportunité is hosting a dinner at the Rallye Normand tonight,” he said, naming an expensive but un-starred restaurant a few miles from the village. “I’d love it if you two could come. It’s a bit last minute and all, but I hope you can make it. It would mean a lot to me.”
At the dinner Capucine and Alexandre found themselves seated ingloriously in the oubliettes at the end of a very long table, largely ignored by the executives of Opportunité. The order of the day seemed to be the adulation of their chairman, who sat enthroned at the center, smiling tolerantly at the repeated toasts made in homage to the magnificence of his administration. Vienneau was nowhere to be seen. Alexandre occupied himself with detesting his dinner, while Capucine reflected on how she was going to manage to do what she had come to do.
“This is like taking a fresh country maiden, destroying her hair with peroxide, gumming up her pores with makeup, crippling her grace with three-inch heels, and labeling it as sophistication,” Alexandre said.
“Oh, it’s not all that bad,” Capucine said, taking a bite of her pheasant.
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