The Grave Gourmet

by Alexander Campion

  “Now, if I really were Maigret, I’d tell you that what tipped me off was that the hibiscus, the flower the insufferable Chapellier would leave on Clotilde’s desk, is the national flower of Korea. But actually, I only looked that up this morning. Also, Maigret would have told you that Dac Kim, Park’s nom de guerre, means ‘acquired knowledge’ in Vietnamese, but that’s just Korean pedantry.

  “Of course, now that I think about it, those are exactly the sorts of conceits that go along with an ego psychotically overinflated like Kim’s.” She paused in thought. “That ego is his stock in trade, essential to create deeply bonding codependences he thrives on.”

  “Jacques, does this sort of Saint-Germain cocktail party psychology go down at the DGSE as well?” Alexandre asked.

  “Oh, yes, definitely. Intelligence work is all about exploiting psychological weakness. I’m told that in the bad old days people would be delighted to have their toes put to the coals just to validate their political beliefs. But now that ideology is a thing of the past you have to look for true neurosis if you’re going to turn anyone. And you have to be neurotic yourself to be able to exploit it.” Jacques cackled loudly.

  “Just look at Park’s victims,” Capucine continued. “And that’s just what they were, victims. Clotilde Lancrey-Javal wasn’t really attracted by the money. She fell for a personality type that was the same as her husband’s: profoundly egocentric and brutally demanding. Park just filled the void of codependency left by her husband. The money was important for her self-justification. It wasn’t a motivation in itself.”

  “Absolutely archetypal,” Jacques said. “You have the insights of a true intelligence operative.”

  “And Giselle Dupaillard, with her compulsive sexual behavior, suffers from a classic narcissistic personality disorder. She is unable to feel empathy or to form mature bonds with people. Underneath a superficial glow of entitlement she feels continually empty and threatened. That’s why she seeks to be dominated by a ruthless force who takes no heed of her personality. Park filled the bill perfectly.”

  “Yes, another classic stereotype,” Jacques said.

  “What a waste. She really is delectable,” Alexandre said. “But you’re not going to argue that Nguyen Chapellier was also a narcissist, are you?”

  “No, he’s a personality type the police are far more familiar with. A deeply flawed personality that seems to have no cause to be flawed. Like most of that type he also has a strong sense of entitlement. So he jumped at a chance to get the income he felt he deserved and also lash out at the establishment in the process. It’s the psychological makeup typical of most professional thieves.”

  “Enough psychiatry. You’re way ahead of your story. How did you know Park had killed Delage?” Alexandre asked.

  “Oh, that was easy. He gave himself away. He had told a believable story about being on a plain-vanilla industrial spying mission. But at one point in the interview he let slip that the poisoning was related to oysters. That certainly wasn’t anything we had released. Also, it was clear that the murder involved some sort of insider component. Giselle’s personality type was sufficiently obvious to make her easy prey for Park. Once we understood his motive, she was by far the best choice as his entrée into the restaurant.”

  “So if it wasn’t for bad luck Delage would have survived?” Alexandre asked.

  “Not at all. I think Park would have killed Delage no matter what. He has absolutely no scruples and he needed Delage out of the way for a few days. Park felt he was only an inch away from succeeding in his mission but that he would get locked out the coming Monday. So he just had to do something. Obviously, when he found out from Giselle that Delage was having dinner at Diapason it was a gift direct from the gods. Not only did he have a convenient way of committing the murder but he also had a good chance of making it look like an accident. Later he told us his original plan was to dump the body in front of Delage’s front door. If he had done that it might well have been thought it really was food poisoning. But Delage obstinately remained conscious. Park knew Delage would eventually die but couldn’t take the chance of leaving him somewhere where he could be found and tell his tale. Nor could he take the risk of driving around all night with a near-cadaver in the car. So the walk-in was ideal. And he had Giselle’s key.”

  “What a grim act, locking a dying man in a refrigerator. Park must have no conscience at all. What’s going to happen to him?” Alexandre asked.

  “Actually, Jacques knows more about that part than I do.”

  Jacques beamed at being back on stage. “On the first go-around the director took the case out of the hands of the juge d’instruction. Park was a foreign intelligence officer after all, so it was technically an act of state, not a criminal matter. Our powers that be spoke to their powers that be. They denied everything, of course, except that Park was one of their agents. They claimed that he had gone berserk while on an innocent mission and so it wasn’t their responsibility. They actually encouraged us to take him to trial while halfheartedly attempting to cut a deal. You know, something like they wouldn’t make a peep if we agreed his sentence would be no more than, say, five or ten years. When we turned them down they didn’t seem to care all that much. We assumed they had just written Park off and were merely having a weak stab at minimizing the bad press. So the file went back to the juge d’instruction and Park’ll go to trial stripped of any diplomatic privileges.”

  “Right,” Capucine continued. “I don’t think there’s much doubt of a conviction and he’ll get life with no possibility of parole.”

  “And the others?” Alexandre asked.

  “Renault has brought both civil and criminal charges against Chapellier. Cases involving intellectual property are much more tricky than embezzlement because the court does not like to hazard a guess at the monetary value of the theft. It’s pretty obvious, though, that in this case the value is huge. The juge d’instruction thinks he’ll get a ten-year conviction. Maybe more. On top of that, the civil suit is for the value of the information that did get out. That’s going to be one complicated lawsuit, but it certainly looks like Monsieur Chapellier will have to give over the better part of whatever salary he’s able to make when he gets out of prison. He’s a ruined man.”

  “And the two women?” Alexandre asked.

  “Nothing will happen to Giselle. She got fired, of course, but no criminal charges will be brought against her. In her little pea brain, all she was doing was helping a restaurant spy who turned out not to be a restaurant spy after all. She’s outraged that she was fired and is taking Labrousse to workers’ court. He’s absolutely livid.”

  “Poor man. But no more Giselle! Quel dommage,” Alexandre said. “And what about Delage’s secretary?”

  “Renault was quite decent with Clotilde. Obviously, they didn’t want her around any longer, but they agreed not to press any charges if she resigned. She won’t have any difficulty getting a job as secretary to the boss of another big company.”

  “So that’s it. Case wrapped up. And brilliantly so!” Alexandre said. “We get to take a vacation. Marrakech, here we come! I haven’t spent a whole night with you without the phone ringing and you rushing out in what seems like a month.”

  “Not so fast, my dear sweet letch. There’s one loose end that still has to be tied up. Actually, that’s going to be the most satisfying one of all.”

  Chapter 51

  A sullenly taciturn maid in ancient carpet slippers and washed-out cleaning smock let Capucine in, led her to the sitting room, and left her to her own devices without a word. Capucine knew Guyon would make a point of keeping her waiting. She prowled. The kinetic sculpture was just as abrasive as it had been the last time, clicking away like a nest of irritatingly loud mechanical insects. Capucine walked around it impatiently, attentively. Once, twice, a third time around. Suddenly she stopped, extended her index finger, and lightly caressed a small, domed projection. At her gossamer touch the tiny knob retreated into the machine as
if in outrage. The device made a loud chunk and fell silent, leaving the room ominously quiet.

  Guyon burst in. “What on earth did you just do? It can’t be stopped! It’s not made to be stopped! How did you know how to do it?”

  “Nothing could be easier. I just touched this little doohickey, right down there. See!” Capucine was delighted. “The damn thing just shut right up.”

  “How did you find that?! I’ve had the sculpture for years. I never noticed that lever.”

  “The symmetry was offensive. That little knob was sticking up in the wrong place. It made no sense for it to be there. It’s the same reason I’ve come to take you to Quai des Orfèvres for questioning. You were sticking up in the middle of the case destroying its symmetry.”

  Guyon started violently. “But I understood you had arrested a Korean spy for the murder. You’re crazy! You can’t arrest me. Don’t be silly.” Guyon had backed away toward the sculpture, as if for protection. He shouted, “Leave me alone. Go away.”

  At the sound of the outburst, Momo and Isabelle, who had been waiting in the foyer, entered the room quietly. Isabelle went up to Guyon and held him gently by the forearm. “You’ll have to come with us.”

  “Never! Get your hands off me. Get away!” Guyon shouted hysterically. He wrenched free and ran behind the sculpture. Isabelle followed slowly, making soothing noises. “Get away from me,” Guyon screamed. He ran all the way around the back and out the other side, straight into Momo, who was waiting silently. In a single fluid motion Momo translated the élan of Guyon’s rush into a rotation that crooked his arm, pinning it to his back and snapping a waiting handcuff on the wrist. Almost tenderly, Momo twisted the other arm around and squeezed the other cuff shut.

  At the Quai, when he found himself in the room below the level of the Seine, Guyon ran completely amok, tearing against the handcuffs that bound him to the metal chair, opening deep cuts in his wrists. The handcuffs were removed, the wrists bandaged—“Probably needs stitches,” the doctor tsked, “but the hell with it”—and his arms duct-taped to the chair. After a short pause Guyon renewed his efforts, jerking uncontrollably in the chair and spinning wildly on the floor when he fell over. Finally two stocky uniformed brigadiers managed to pick him up and forcibly hold him down in the chair, leaning over, bearing down on his shoulders, panting from their efforts.

  Momo was delighted. “Chauf! This guy’s the best. I’m going to go get my Polaroid. He’s going on my wall.”

  The doctor whispered in Capucine’s ear. “If you’d like, I can inject him with a cocktail of Valium and haloperidol. That’ll calm him right down. He’ll get sleepy and subdued and chatty. Of course, any statement he makes will not be receivable in court. But you know that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that part of it, Doctor. Go ahead and give him the shot.”

  The injection took some doing. Guyon screamed so loudly that two brigadiers from the next room came in with worried looks. But within five minutes Guyon’s head fell to his chest and he smiled a boyish little smile.

  “Do you want to tell me about it? You know you won’t get out of here until you do,” Capucine cooed in her most maternal voice.

  “I still don’t know how you knew I was involved. I underestimated you.”

  “You didn’t, really. It’s just that our minds work in completely different ways. It’s my failing as a detective, I suppose. When you look at a car you see all the rods and pistons and all those clanky technical things. When I look at a car I see an object, the sum of its parts. You’re a master of rational analysis, something I need to get better at. But, thank God, I do very well drawing intuitive conclusions. That’s what made that lever that stuck out just a bit too far on your sculpture so apparent. It destroyed the integrity of the whole. Do you understand?”

  “So what was the protrusion that led you to me?”

  “Oh, le président. Without you he never would have been part of the case.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Guyon said softly. He was falling into a presleep languor.

  “Tell me about your involvement first, and then I’ll tell you my side,” Capucine said with the gentleness of a mother tucking in a small child.

  “Not much to tell, really,” Guyon slurred. “Typhon was my doing. It was I who sensed that this rocket fuel fluke had the capacity to put a new face on the automobile. I, and only I, realized its potential. It was a chance to rebuild the industry. Do you understand what that means? The whole foundation of the Western economy reinvigorated. A fresh new start for everything.” He was beginning to get excited again. Capucine put her hand gently on his shoulder.

  “From the very early stages I could see that it did not really interest Président Delage. He was after a global alliance. Renault had already joined forces with the Japanese. There was also a good hope of a link with those boneheaded Americans. I think he saw himself as the architect of the first really global automobile industry. He was a statesman, not an engineer. He saw triumph in negotiation, not in industry or technology.” Guyon fell silent and seemed to lose interest.

  “So what happened?”

  “What?…Yes…He funded the project, of course. But he didn’t have his heart in it. That was obvious. My fear was that once it got close to becoming a reality Delage might begin to think it could even be dangerous to his endless negotiations. I didn’t know what he’d do. But the more I thought about it the more I became convinced he would find a way to keep Typhon in a closet forever. I was getting very worried. Very worried. Very worried.” His voice had fallen to a whisper.

  Capucine shook him. He jerked up with a start. “You don’t understand at all, mademoiselle, do you? At Poly-technique a professor told us the fable of the pig and chicken who are behind our breakfast of ham and eggs. The chicken is merely involved; she only lays the eggs. But the pig is truly committed because he sacrifices his life. For our professor both those roles were viable. But it is the rooster who can have no place on the team. He merely struts around arrogantly, crowing and adding no value at all. Delage was that rooster. Don’t you see?”

  “I’ll refrain from drawing the obvious conclusion. What happened next?”

  “I approached them, of course.”

  “Who?”

  “The KAMA, the Korean Association of Automobile Manufacturers, at the Detroit automobile show, of all places. Can you imagine! Their chairman was there. It was awful. They thought it was clever to serve sausages from stands at the meetings. They would wheel the stands right into the showrooms. Le hot dog! It’s a sort of choucroute garnie on a long pastry roll. Must be some sort of Germanic influence. Impossible to eat because everything falls out of the bun onto the floor. Made me utterly sick, too.” He came to a dead stop. It was painfully obvious that the doctor had been a little exuberant with his cocktail.

  “Koreans?” she prodded.

  “Yes…they were the most likely choice. They were desperate for something to leap-frog the competition. Their chairman went crazy with enthusiasm when I hinted about Typhon. He flew me to Seoul in his private jet. Wanted me to quit Renault and move to Korea immediately. I held out. I wanted to become the head of my own production company. With an important share of the equity. We had a long negotiation. They agreed, ‘in principle.’ But only ‘in principle.’ Only ‘in principle.’”

  “So then what happened?”

  Guyon’s features slowly reassembled themselves into a sharp, crafty look. “I began to suspect it was Typhon they wanted and not me.” He shot Capucine a conspiratorial glance. “But I wasn’t going to be their fool. I wasn’t going to give them even a hint of the technology until I had a deal drawn up on paper. Things just went on and on. They promised and promised, but would sign nothing. Nothing. Nothing at…all.”

  “Guyon!” Capucine snapped sharply.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, lifting his head with a jerk. “Well, it became obvious they were just playing me. So I told the chairman of the KAMA that I wanted no part of it anymore.�
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  Guyon paused. The crafty look vanished. His face relaxed. He looked younger. He became a small, injured boy. “And also, I realized that I had been greedy. I had wanted too much. It was all too dangerous. I wanted to be recognized as the hero I know I am, but if things didn’t work out in Korea—and I had learned how dangerous the Koreans are—I would be seen as a traitor to my country. So,” he beamed suddenly. “That’s why I just told them the discussions were over. Voilà! Guyon fini.” He burst into peals of laughter.

  “That was when the troubles began. They said it was no longer my choice. They were going to assign an NIS agent to produce where I had failed them. You can’t imagine their tone. Me, a failure! And they did! Some Korean began calling me at the office to tell me that he was an intelligence agent and had installed an apparatus—yes, that was his word—an apparatus to extract all my secret data right inside my own company. He would laugh. He would call again and again. He would tell me how well it was going and that he nearly had all the data he needed. Soon he would be going and I would be left alone. ‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said.”

  There was a long pause. Guyon stared at the floor, un-blinking.

  “So I had to do something. I knew what they were going to do. They were going to implement Typhon and blame me for the theft, so they would be protected from lawsuits. It was obvious.

  “I got smart.” Guyon looked pleased with himself. “Yes, I handled the beginning badly, but I extracted myself brilliantly.

  “When the Seoul R & D conference came up, I simply circulated the rumor that the catalyst had been perfected. But cleverly. I told a couple of blabbermouth press agents. In a matter of hours the rumor was all over the place. Brilliant. It was perfect. Once the rumor was launched I would be free to sic the authorities on those damned Koreans and, the best part, I would be free of any possible accusations.” He looked up at Capucine for approval. “Isn’t that brilliant?”