Authors: Alexander Campion
Crime Fraiche (27 page)
CHAPTER 49
“Y
ou’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.
ou’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.
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.”
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.”
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.”
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
“S
ome husbands are only good for being cuckolded, and even for that their wives have to help them out.”
ome 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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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
T
he 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.
he 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.
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.
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.
“I suppose the food’s edible, if you still have a stomach for game, which I—unfortunately—no longer do. I’ll grant you that. It’s the service that’s insufferable. They’re trying to con the local rubes into thinking that arrogant, stuck-up personnel and astronomic prices make for gastronomy—not the food. The tragedy is that their cooking, even though it’s far from Odile’s standard, is honest enough and the staff are probably charming farm children who would be delightful if someone freed them from the muzzle of pretentiousness.”
Of course, he was right. He always was about restaurants. The staff had the look and feel of cheerful paysans, but they minced around with their faces locked into the stiff rictuses of croupiers or undertakers. Capucine was tempted to pinch one to see if she could elicit a human reaction.
After dessert, fabulously overpriced after-dinner drinks arrived and the sycophantism shifted into high gear with speeches dripping with praise for the chairman’s inexorable and courageous quest for a better world, making no reference at all to the acquisition of the Elevage Vienneau, which, after all—even though it was the object of the dinner—was merely a relatively small financial operation when compared to Opportunité’s global aspirations. Alexandre busied himself with the double-barreled delights of spelunking in the telephone-book-thick drinks list for the most expensive Armagnac the restaurant possessed—which he intended to consume copiously at Opportunité’s expense—and charming a black-clad waitress, who looked to be nineteen at the most, to see if she could be made to giggle without cracking her makeup. Capucine decided she was extraneous to both pursuits and set off in search of the lady’s loo.
It turned out that the restaurant also served as one of the amenities of a hotel three doors down the road, to which it was linked by a long, serpentine corridor that wound its way through the intervening buildings. The road to the indoor plumbing seemed endless, filled with wrong turns and dead ends, an eternal detour in a surrealist movie that was supposed to signify something profound. Eventually, Capucine blundered into a cul-de-sac ending with a frosted-glass-paneled door that opened into a small, gloomy, mahogany-paneled bar. Vienneau sat slumped on a bar stool, moodily sipping amber liquid from an oversized on-the-rocks glass.
He greeted Capucine as if he had known she would arrive. He held up his glass. “It’s Yamazaki, a Japanese single-malt whiskey. I’m having a rebellion against things French,” he said. “Have one. I owe you at least a drink.”
“Loïc, you shot Philippe Gerlier, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. I never met a man who deserved more to die.”
“But he was your henchman.”
“That he was. But he was also fucking my wife.” Vienneau downed his whiskey and tapped his finger on the bar to attract the attention of the barman, who shot him a surly I’ll-get-to-you-when-I-get-to-you look that was refreshing after the android responses of the rest of the staff. Eventually, two glasses of Japanese whiskey were produced and Vienneau picked up the thread of his tale.
“You’re goddamn right I killed him. It took me a while to find the opportunity. I had to wait until the shooting season started, and then I nudged your uncle into inviting him and then prodded him into posting Gerlier near the center of the line. I knew I’d be placed not too far away. The first drive turned out to be ideal. I waited until the partridge rose at the crest of the hill and then let him have both barrels right in the chest when everyone was looking up. It did me a world of good.” He slammed his glass down.
The bartender, who was no longer making the slightest pretense of not listening, came over with the bottle of Yamazaki and added an inch to both glasses.
“You did this because he was having an affair with Marie-Christine.”
“No, no. Not at all. Marie-Christine always needed to be having an affair with someone. It was part of her psyche and I don’t blame her for it, the way you can’t really blame a dog for stealing scraps off the dinner table.” He downed half of his drink.
“Merde. If I had gone around shooting all the people she’d slept with, Saint-Nicolas would be a ghost town.” He laughed and finished his drink. The bartender, who was now leaning across from them, elbows on the bar, as if he were officially included in the conversation, poured another two inches in Vienneau’s glass.
“I killed that fucker because he wasn’t even really interested in screwing her. He didn’t love her. He didn’t have the hots for her. He didn’t even like her. He was doing it because she was there for the taking and he just couldn’t pass up a freebie.” Vienneau pushed a bowl of peanuts toward Capucine to illustrate his point, drunkenly spilling half of them on the bar.
He collected himself. “Look, how do you think I knew he’d be such a willing flunky with the hormones when I interviewed him? It was obvious he didn’t have a shred of integrity. I hired that guy when he had been thrown out of some small élevage in the Limousin for petty embezzlement. I needed someone to take over day-to-day operations, and that included dosing the cattle on the sly. Gerlier didn’t give a shit. He was happy to do anything. He had no scruples at all. He did exactly the job I wanted him to do. But I wasn’t going to let him get away with treating my wife like some scullery maid you fuck because there’s nothing on TV, now was I?”
“Why did you need an assistant all of a sudden?”
“So you know I’d been using hormones since the day I took over the élevage, do you? Well, I was. You’re right. I took over a dying business and moved it to the top. And when I’d done it, I just didn’t want to get my hands dirty anymore. I wanted to do statesmanlike stuff, like running the breeders’ association and things like that. I wanted to act like the company chairman I was. And Gerlier was my man. He was perfect. In a way it was Marie-Christine who screwed everything up, but it wasn’t even really her fault.”
Capucine looked at him as he swallowed the last gulp of his whiskey.
“And you really had to use the hormones?”
“Of course I did. How else are you going to get beef of that quality and still put a few euros in your wallet? Shit, why do you think I sold out to those clowns?” He laughed cynically. “No hormones and they’ll be producing supermarket quality at best. But they know that. All they want is the brand.” He shook his head, overwhelmed by the strength of his logic.
There was a long pause as Vienneau chewed an ice cube and spat the bits back in the glass. The vulgarity of the gesture so irritated the bartender, he snatched it up and returned with a fresh one, devoid of ice, filled nearly to the brim with whiskey.
“So tell me,” Vienneau asked, “how did you know?”
“How did I know that you killed Gerlier? I suspected from the beginning it wasn’t accidental. The shot pattern was too tight and the angle was wrong for it to have been someone from down the hill. It had to have been someone right next to him, and that meant the person had shot him on purpose. But when my officer discovered you had been signing the expense chits for Gerlier’s trips to America while you let the accountant sign all his other vouchers, then I knew for sure.”
Vienneau, now the drunken sage, nodded wisely.
“What’s still not clear to me is if you were involved with Devere’s and Bellec’s deaths,” Capucine said.
“Nope, I had nothing at all to do with either of them. Martel was entirely my good friend Gerlier’s creation. You see, one of Gerlier’s roles was to be a
cordon sanitaire,
my security buffer, if anything went sour. He was the fall guy. I didn’t want to know what he was up to. To tell you the truth, I had no idea Martel was working for Gerlier. Of course, when Devere and Bellec were shot, I had a hunch Martel might be behind it, the same way you did, but, hey, it wasn’t my problem, was it? All I can say is that I’m glad that’s all over and I can get on to something else,” he said in a tone of someone who has just finished an irksome task like washing his car or doing his taxes.
cordon sanitaire,
my security buffer, if anything went sour. He was the fall guy. I didn’t want to know what he was up to. To tell you the truth, I had no idea Martel was working for Gerlier. Of course, when Devere and Bellec were shot, I had a hunch Martel might be behind it, the same way you did, but, hey, it wasn’t my problem, was it? All I can say is that I’m glad that’s all over and I can get on to something else,” he said in a tone of someone who has just finished an irksome task like washing his car or doing his taxes.
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