Killer Critique

by Alexander Campion

  Isabelle rose to her feet, swayed slightly in her rage. “I’m going to put a stop to it. This is completely unacceptable.”

  “Sit down, Isabelle,” Capucine said. “Think of it as a performance. Imagine they’re in there watching the morning news on TV.”

  The deep panting accelerated until it culminated in the eructation of a prolonged wavering moan. David made a silent mime of clapping his hands. Isabelle launched a stream of daggers at him with her eyes.

  After a short pause, the door opened and Guy Voisin strode out, looking very pleased with himself, knotting a terry cloth bathrobe ostentatiously embroidered with the Plaza Athénée coat of arms.

  “My goodness, monsieur, what an energetic shower you take,” Capucine said.

  Voisin smirked. “Sybille will be out in a moment. She’s going shopping, and we can have a cozy little chat. I’m ordering some champagne. Would you like some?”

  “I’m afraid it’s too early for a working girl, but you go right ahead. By the way, I’ll need to see Mademoiselle Charbonnier, as well.”

  Voisin shrugged his shoulders with Gallic fatality. “Good luck with that. Sybille usually does exactly what she wants.” He busied himself with the telephone. Halfway through the call he put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked down at Capucine. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? More coffee? How about a sandwich?” he asked, widening his gaze to include the other two detectives. His uncertainty of the previous evening had vanished completely.

  After he hung up, there was a long moment of awkward silence as they all waited for Sybille to emerge from the bedroom. Isabelle was the first to run out of patience and, growling, started to rise, obviously intending to go into the bedroom to get her. Just as she got on her feet, there was a loud knock on the door and, simultaneously, Sybille rushed out of the bedroom in a gauzelike summer sundress and a pair of high-heeled, open-toed bright red sling-backs with enormous bows barely covering her toes. Capucine was almost sure they were by Valentino.

  Sybille went up to Voisin, who was opening the door for room service, and kissed his cheek. As if she had suddenly noticed Capucine, she turned, flashed a broad smile, and said, “My favorite commissaire! I’d love to stay and chat but I’m late already. I have to buy a dress for a party tonight. I have nothing, but really nothing at all, to wear.”

  Capucine could hear Isabelle grinding her teeth.

  “Mademoiselle, I’m afraid I’m going to require you to stay. This is an official police inquiry.”

  Sybille started as if she had been slapped. Both sides of her upper lip curled in the snide adolescent sneer she had shown the juge. “If it’s about last night, you know I was in no position to see anything.”

  Voisin laughed uproariously.

  “Anyway, you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do!” she said petulantly. “I really, really need to go shopping, and you can’t make me stay. If you try and stop me, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll just call my lawyer. That’s what I’ll do!”

  She moved toward the door. Isabelle started to rise. Capucine shook her head at her.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Capucine said, as if talking to a child. “Why don’t you go shopping and come see me at my brigade after lunch? That way you can get everything you need for your party and we can still be friends. I also want to see what you buy. And we need to have a serious talk about shoes. I’m in love with the ones you were wearing yesterday. They were Valentinos, weren’t they?”

  “So are these! I like them way better. Don’t you?” she said with childish delight, showing off her foot.

  Capucine breathed an inward sigh of relief. She had no authority to detain an individual in her own home—and a hotel counted as home. The juge d’instruction was bound to go into conniptions if he received a complaint from Sybille’s lawyer. Not to mention that Voisin preening in front of her and her constant asides to him would have made both interviews less than useless. Trying to see them together had been a bad idea. Very bad.

  Capucine got up and walked to the door. “See you at three, then,” she said, handing Sybille her card with a smile.

  Voisin refilled his champagne flute and dropped into a gray silk armchair. He crossed his legs, adjusted his robe, and flapped the sole of his hotel terry cloth slipper against the heel of his foot making an irritating little slapping noise.

  “Commissaire, I saw the juge d’instruction the other day and told him I had noticed nothing out the ordinary at Chez Béatrice until that poor man collapsed on the table. It was a very short session that lasted no more than ten minutes, and I had the impression the juge was entirely satisfied. I saw even less yesterday. It was pitch dark in that restaurant, as you know.”

  “Monsieur, the working hypothesis for the moment is that the two deaths are connected. The curare that caused the first death has been traced to artifacts that were stolen at a reception given by the Brazilian embassy, at which you were present. There are only two people who were present at Chez Béatrice, the embassy reception, and Dans le Noir last night. You and Mademoiselle Charbonnier. That makes you both of great interest to the police.”

  Voisin put both feet on the floor and swallowed hard, saying nothing. He downed his flute of champagne and filled it again from the bottle in the cooler. The sloshing of the ice was the only sound in the room.

  “Monsieur, this is just a preliminary interview but any falsehoods will be deemed to be perjury and could result in a criminal sentence. Let’s start with your background. Your full name is Guy Arnaud Voisin. You were born in Aubagne, in the département of the Bouches-du-Rhône, in nineteen forty-eight. You are sixty-two years old. You are président–directeur général of a company, Château da la Motte S.A. Is that correct?”

  “Not quite. My son took over as managing director five years ago. Now I’m just président, and he’s the directeur général. I no longer get my hands dirty,” he said in an attempt to appear self-satisfied, pouring himself another glass of champagne.

  “And is Château da la Motte a successful business?” Isabelle asked.

  Voisin pursed his lips and tightened his throat. “Successful, Officer? That’s a very relative term. Is this a philosophical interrogation? All your juge wanted to know was what I had seen in the restaurant, but you want to talk about economic theory instead?”

  “It’s a simple enough question, monsieur,” Capucine said. “Is the company profitable, or is it not?”

  “La Motte is one of the most prestigious wine producers of the Midi,” he said defensively. “In fact, I think I can say we produce the finest rosé in all of France and Navarre.” Finally comfortable, Voisin launched into the subject like a dinner party bore. Capucine let him have his head. It was the best way to get people to talk.

  “From well before the birth of our Savior and all the way into the sixteen hundreds, almost all French wine was rosé. Stupidly, in modern times the French public has lost its love for rosé. The modern generation has turned its back on our viticultural heritage.”

  “So that means the company’s losing money, right?” Isabelle asked.

  “No, it does not, Officer. It’s true that about fifteen years ago our volume fell off a bit. But I saved the situation. I introduced a range of second-label wines, which I branded Le Chevalier de la Motte. All the Bordeaux châteaux have second growths, so why not us? They were sold at a very reasonable price and enhanced our profitability considerably.”

  “I understood,” Capucine said, “that you were accused at the time of abusing a venerable name to sell a very inferior wine at inflated prices.”

  Voisin jumped up. “Madame, that’s a villainous lie! The Chevalier line has always been excellent. In fact, it received a gold medal for rosés only last year.”

  “Did the Chevalier label win any awards when you were managing the business?”

  “The wine industry is very conservative. It takes them years to overcome their resistance to something new. But in the end they reward quality when they see it.” He
poured the last of the champagne into his glass.

  “How is it, monsieur, you are lucky enough to be able to spend so much time in Paris?” David asked sweetly, as if to defuse the tension.

  Voisin smiled at David and moved to the phone to order more champagne. “Once my son had learned the business well enough to take over operational management, I was only too happy to concentrate on defining the corporate strategy and acting as ... well ... ambassador to the industry. As it happens, I’m here to see my tailor and, of course, for a little bit of innocent amusement.” He waved his arm vaguely in the direction of the bedroom and gave David a broad wink.

  Isabelle grunted in anger.

  In a few minutes room service returned. Voisin seemed oddly relieved. He was plainly exasperated at the ostentatious care the waiter took in opening the bottle and encouraged him with nervous gestures. When the cork popped he breathed an audible sigh. Once his glass was in hand, Capucine picked up the thread of the interview.

  “I see in your file that just before you stepped down as directeur général, criminal and civil charges were brought against you by a young woman.”

  “Statutory rape,” Isabelle said, filling in. “You like them young, don’t you?”

  Voisin filled his glass and downed it in one go. All of a sudden the wine seemed to affect him. His eyes became red, and he made a clear effort at focusing. Capucine suspected he was seeing double.

  “Those charges were dropped,” he said, just barely slurring his words.

  “The business bought her out. Is that how it was done?” Isabelle asked.

  Voisin shook his head slightly. “There was a pecuniary consideration. But only a very small one.”

  “And because of that you were asked to step down?”

  Voisin had had enough of the back and forth. He was tired of them. “No. But it was the last straw. It was really about the wine. It had nothing to do with the girl and her absurd claims. It happened like this. The Chevalier line was doing well, very well. But it was being sold in supermarkets and the wine snobs can’t have that, now can they? My son graduated from business school at HEC and started working in the business. He had all these highfalutin conceptual views he had learned there.

  “To use his language, he felt that the difference in quality between our two wines created a ‘vacuum’ that damaged both brands. He insisted on improving the Chevalier de la Motte label and bringing it closer to the excellence of Château de la Motte. I thought this was a huge mistake. I was afraid of cannibalizing the first growth with the second. I wanted Château de la Motte to stand alone, uncontested, without any competition, least of all from its own house. Do you understand?”

  All three detectives nodded.

  “But an improved second label would result in more revenue and better margins, I imagine,” Capucine said.

  “That was exactly Damien’s view. He went on a lobbying campaign with the family. They own most of the stock. He made me appear a doddering old fool. He, of course, was a young genius who had just graduated from the best business school in France and had all the answers. I was polluting the historical image of the château to make vulgar money. But he was going to preserve the nobility of the vignoble’s tradition and the glory of the family while making even more money. For the family it was a highly attractive proposition. But in spite of that they still stuck by me.” Voisin paused.

  “And then that stupid girl had to get into the act with her idiotic suit. I could have talked her out of it, but Damien jumped in and paid her off behind my back. It was all the ammunition he needed. He got his way with the family.”

  There were a couple of long beats of silence.

  “You know, I’ve always thought that Damien put her up to it. He engineered the whole thing. It’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do.”

  This time the pause was longer.

  “Young man,” Voisin continued, “you wanted to know why I spend so much time in Paris. I’ll tell you why. When I go to my own vignoble, I can’t get past anyone’s secretary. No one will give me the time of day. Damien runs the business like a tyrant and keeps me locked out. But, of course, every time the new Chevalier de la Motte—his Chevalier de la Motte—wins an award, Damien insists I go to receive it. He can’t find enough salt to rub in my wounds.”

  He sighed a deep sigh of the long-suffering, so profound that bats could be heard flapping their wings in his lungs.

  “So I amuse myself as I best I can under the circumstances,” he said with world weariness to David, as if only a man could understand the true depths of suffering.

  There was another long pause, which Capucine finally broke.

  “Let’s get back to last night at the restaurant,” she said. “It seems an odd place for you to want to go.”

  “Exactly. Like way too down-market a place to take a movie star,” David said.

  Capucine was amazed that he actually seemed to have formed an affection for Voisin.

  “Ah, my friend, you underestimate my little Sybille. She recognized the restaurant’s potential,” he answered with the hint of a wink. “It was her idea.”

  “And you really didn’t see anything?” David asked.

  “You know, it’s funny you should ask,” he said, as if it was the first time the question had been aired. “As my so-called meal was progressing, I had the impression that there was a very faint green spectral aura floating through the room. At the time I was sure it was my guardian angel. Then I shut my eyes. I’m sure you can imagine why. And when I opened them, the aura was gone. That girl really has a spectacular talent.”

  Capucine was so delighted with this piece of news that she was completely oblivious to Isabelle’s low growl.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was nearly one in the afternoon by the time Capucine battered the Twingo into an impossibly tight space on the rue de Ménilmontant, a few doors down from her brigade. She realized she was ravenous.

  “Do you think we can still squeeze into Benoît’s? I’m starving,” Capucine asked Isabelle, sitting next to her in the front seat.

  “A little casse-croûte would be wonderful. All that vintage hot air has given me an appetite, too.”

  David opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.

  All three of them knew that a casse-croûte—a quick snack—was out of the question at Benoît’s, the local restaurant of choice for the brigade personnel. It was a full meal, eaten and savored at leisure, or nothing. Benoît’s was one of the last handful of genuine working-class bistros, which now existed only in the outlying arrondissements, like the Twentieth. The fare was only simple classics, but they were prepared with love and pride.

  Inside, the detectives extracted their napkins, changed once a week, from a long rack of pigeonholes labeled with the names of regular patrons. The restaurant’s sole waitress, Angélique, a matron of prodigious proportions, shepherded them to a table in the corner, eulogizing the day’s selection.

  “Since it’s Friday we have two fish dishes, quenelles de brochet and raie au beurre noir. And for the men, since they’re rarely religious,” Angélique said, looking severely at David, “we have a paupiette de veau that you’ll tell your mother about.” Behind her, a slate blackboard proclaimed a list of six or seven dishes. They all existed, but Angélique was adamant about choosing for her patrons. Few dared argue with her.

  Angélique produced her order pad. “So, Commissaire, the pike for you. The sauce is very delicate, perfect for someone of your sensitivity. And mademoiselle brigadier-chef, you’ll enjoy the skate—”

  “You know what?” Isabelle interrupted. “I’m going to have the veal paupiettes instead. My mother forced skate cooked like that down my throat when I was a child. All those bones and that nasty dark butter sauce with that vinegar.” She gave a histrionic shudder, shaking her head. “The veal, please. Definitely.”

  “Pas question!” Angélique said. “Your mother was absolutely right. Skate is excellent for the complexion and that beauti
ful hair you have.”

  She stroked Isabelle’s butch-cropped dark blond hair. Isabelle jerked away.

  “Oh, là laaaà,” Angélique said in mock alarm. “You should let it grow. You could be very pretty if you took a little better care of yourself.” The skate was clearly not up for debate.

  “And monsieur le brigadier will have the paupiettes, bien sûr,” she said, not even looking at him for approval. “I’m going to give you a nice rosé. It’s a Domaine Tempier, from Bandol, perfect for both the fish and the veal.”

  At the word rosé, the three detectives shot glances at each other.

  “What now?” Angélique asked in a pantomime of irritation. “All of a sudden we don’t like rosé?”

  “Of course we do,” Isabelle said. “Do you have any Château de la Motte?”

  “Mademoiselle, where do you think you are? This is a restaurant for honest working people. We don’t serve Bordeaux. We don’t serve any fancy, rich-people wine.” Angélique stalked off in a huff.

  The detectives made small talk, gossiping themselves into a sense of contentment with acronyms and police jargon. When the food came, Isabelle waited until Angélique turned her back, and switched plates decisively with David.

  “Voilà pour toi, monsieur le brigadier male chauvinist pig,” she said.

  “A vos ordres, Brigadier-Chef,” David replied with a grin and a smart salute. Capucine knew he hated sausage in any form. The paupiettes were a thin wrapping of pounded veal cutlet covering a big lump of sausage meat, held together tightly with string. It was the last thing he would have ordered for himself.

  The exchange flooded Capucine with a wave of contentment. It was for moments like this that she had incurred the wrath of her parents to join the police. She smiled as she imagined her mother at their table. The pigeonholed napkins would have been bad, David’s fey locks would have been worse, Isabelle’s multiple ear piercings and butch haircut would have been an affront, and the very notion of eating proletarian paupiettes would have sent her running out the door.