The Grave Gourmet (4 page)

T
he Renault headquarters building was lavishly decked out in the bland opulence so dear to the heart of French big business: affluence without ostentation. Capucine, in a cream Inès de la Fressange suit, dutifully trotted after Rivière, his tough flic outfit enhanced by a scruffy leather jacket and well-worn cowboy boots. Crossing the deep pile prairie of the reception area, she was torn between relief at finding herself back in her environment and revulsion at the world she longed to escape.

Eight almost identical blond receptionists, resembling each other so closely they could well have been clones, dressed in flight attendant–style uniforms complete with large corporate logo brooches, were at a thirty-foot-long white marble counter. Their seats were on a recess a foot and a half below floor level so that their eyes just skimmed the surface of the counter and their computer screens were hidden from view.

Rivière sprawled over the countertop and goggled down at one of the receptionists as frankly as if he were a roué in a nightclub about to order a drink from a topless bartender. He was visibly disconcerted when she stared back at him dispassionately. Abashed, he announced almost timidly that they had an appointment with Monsieur d'Arbaumont. The receptionist stroked her keyboard, murmured inaudibly into a miniscule mouthpiece attached to a headset buried in her hair, and, almost without pause, smilingly turned to Capucine and announced that they were to go to the fifteenth floor, where they would be met at the elevator. Rivière gritted his teeth.

A matronly secretary greeted them warmly. In the center of the wall opposite the elevator a large chrome sign laid claim to the floor for the “
Direction Financière
.” It was clear that, either to emphasize the interim character of his appointment or even possibly out of respect for his late boss, the acting president had opted to remain in his own office rather than move into Delage's.

As Capucine had expected, Thiebaud d'Arbaumont turned out to be an archetypal senior executive of the old school. The tiny navy blue rosette of the Order of Merit and the miniscule blood red ribbon of the Legion of Honor established his rank to the cognoscenti and his impeccably tailored Savile Row suit to all others. He welcomed the police officers with the buckram affability of a funeral director, intending to lubricate the start of the interview with the traditional well-polished patter of senior executives. Just as he began to relish the sonority of his alexandrines, Rivière interrupted him rudely.

“Look, pal, this is an investigation of a possible murder. Let's cut the cackle and just get down to it, okay?”

D'Arbaumont's affability crumbled like spun sugar. It was not clear to Capucine if it was the affront to this meter or if he was shocked at the notion of murder occurring in his world.

“Surely that can't be. Why on earth would anyone want to murder Président Delage?”

“That was exactly what I was going to ask you,” Capucine said with a soothing smile.

“I have no idea. No idea at all. Président Delage's entire life was the company. He had virtually no outside interests. When his wife passed away seven or eight years ago, just after he became president, he threw himself into his position body and soul.”

“Does he have any close friends in the company?” Capucine asked.

“Not that I know of. Naturally, he spent a good deal of time with his five direct reports, but I doubt any of us saw him socially.” D'Arbaumont paused. “Actually, now that I think about it, in the last week or so he may have spent a bit more time than usual with Florian Guyon, who's in charge of R & D. That was unusual, particularly since—”

Visibly exasperated, Rivière jumped in impatiently. “Hey, can the office gossip. We don't have all day here. Cut to the chase, my friend, and give us something useful. Did he have his hand in the till? Was one of his mistresses pissed off at him? What was going on with the guy? Get specific.”

D'Arbaumont pursed his lips. “I'm afraid I really have nothing more to add,” he said stiffly. “I wonder if you could excuse me. My schedule really is rather fraught this morning.”

Rivière turned on his heel and strode out. Capucine could almost hear him growl. He stopped short in the hallway. “Look, little sister, this is your case, remember. I'm just here to give you a hand if you need it. If you want to spend all week here gabbing about ‘direct reports' and ‘R & D' and whatever other bullshit these fat-cat faggots come up with, suit yourself. Me, I'm going back to the Quai where I have a real case on the boil.”

Heaving a deep sigh of relief, Capucine sought out Clotilde Lancrey-Javal, Delage's secretary, a comely brunette in her early forties, clearly grieved by the death of her boss. She sat in a tiny room adjacent to the ominously closed door of the president's office. She, too, was clearly eager to be helpful, but as she chatted with Capucine her eyes flicked incessantly at her computer screen.

She smiled in apology. “I'm sorry. You can't imagine what it's been like since the président's death. I'm inundated. Monsieur d'Arbaumont has made it very clear to everyone that his role is only titular and he wants everything directed to the office of the president to be handled here.”

“You must be swamped. I won't be long. I promise. Just a few questions about Président Delage. How well did you know him?”

“Not at all, really. I've only been here for six months and he was very stiff and formal and not at all chatty. Of course, I handled his agenda and made his reservations and calls and all that, so I know what he did, but he never gossiped about his life in the least.”

“Did you make the reservation for his dinner at Diapason?”

“Of course. It had been set up for a week. He ate with Maître Fleuret, his lawyer, who was also a personal friend. They met over dinner about once a month or so. But you must know that already.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in the weeks before he died?”

“No, nothing really. Of course the Paris Automobile Salon is a month away and he was focused on getting speeches written and organizing dinners and meetings. Oh, yes. Maybe there's one thing, but I'm not sure if it's important. The Wednesday before he died he asked me to call Olivier Ménard. You know, the chef de cabinet for the président. The président of the Republic, that is,” she said grandly.

“They were friends since they were students at university. Every now and then Président Delage would be invited to Monsieur Ménard's for dinner. But this didn't seem social, somehow. It was almost as if there was some urgent reason for the meeting. Président Delage seemed upset when the call wasn't returned within an hour and he asked me to call again the same day, which was unusual. You know, pushy. Thank God Ménard's secretary called very early Thursday morning and we scheduled a phone conversation for that afternoon. Président Delage seemed very relieved. After they spoke Président Delage told me he was going to have lunch at Monsieur Ménard's house on Saturday. I'm sure it can't have anything to do with his death, obviously, but it did strike me as unusual at the time.”

They chatted on for a few more minutes, Clotilde's eyes jolting to her screen with increasing intensity. When Capucine asked her if she could make an appointment with Monsieur Guyon she beamed in obvious relief that the interview was over. She was genuinely apologetic that Monsieur Guyon would not be available until the end of the week when he returned from a trip to Lyon.

Back at the Quai Capucine looked up the number for the Elysée Palace in the interministerial telephone directory and found herself speaking to a crusty switchboard operator.

“Monsieur Ménard,
s'il vous plait
.”

After an interminable wait a supercilious male voice came on the line and asked the nature of the caller's business with Monsieur Ménard.

“This is the Police Judiciare. We require an official interview with Monsieur Ménard.”

“In that case, madame, someone from the Ministry of the Interior must contact the Elysée directly. Such an appointment cannot be made at your level.”

The tone was such a burlesque of disdain that Capucine was unable to get mad. Laughing, she thanked the man and rang off. The best part, she reminded herself, was that Ménard would undoubtedly fall over himself getting to the phone if Alexandre, or any other well-known journalist for that matter, wanted to see him.

Happily, Capucine could count on dear, doting Oncle Norbert, who would do anything for her, particularly after the wet firecracker of his attempt to lubricate Capucine's transfer. Two hours after her call to him, an entirely different man—this one politely brisk and purposeful—rang from the Elysée. “Madame de Huguelet?” Capucine recalled that Oncle Norbert disapproved of her not using her married name at the police. “Can I ask you to please hold for the chef de cabinet?”

Ménard's love of blather and bon mots did not entirely mask his hawklike senior civil servant acuteness. His two-beat pauses as he deliberately measured his words unnerved Capucine.

“Ah, Président Delage,
quelle tragédie
, but as the scriptures tell us, we know neither the day nor the hour.

“I understand you had invited him to lunch for the Saturday after he died.”

“…Yes…I had…You are correct.”

“Was it a social occasion or was the luncheon prompted by anything specific?”

“…Social, of course. He was going to come to my home to eat en famille, as it were…. Although I have to say the lunch was his…initiative.

“How do you mean?”

“He called me during the week wanting to ask my advice about something. He sounded a bit…agitated…It was apparently a matter of some…urgency.”

“Did he give you any indication of what it was about?”

“No. He said he had a problem that might require the intervention of the DGSE or one of the other government security agencies and he wanted my advice on how to proceed. But since he never came to lunch, I have no idea what it was all about. Now we'll never know.”

Despite the boilerplate of a highly skilled player, Capucine had the distinct feeling he was holding something back.

C
apucine hesitated, her finger poised on the elevator button in the lobby of the “swimming pool,” the DGSE's drab headquarters in the even more drab Twentieth Arrondissement. This was folly. If Tallon ever found out he'd sling her off the case and blot her file with a reprimand nasty enough to cripple her career forever. Of course, Jacques was like a brother. She had grown up with him. Even so, for Tallon it would still be the high treason of parading police secrets in another ministry. But you can't make an omelet without breaking at least some eggs and this particular omelet just had to be made.

“Cousin, I've come to you for help,” Capucine said to a young man of about her age who was far too well dressed to be employed anywhere, much less as a functionary in a government agency. “I'm working on a case that may involve the DGSE. I need your advice.”

“Advice? How sweet of you. After all the big-sistering you've done for me over the years I'm touched.” Jacques made a moue and brought his eyebrows together in exaggerated humility. “But don't forget that even though I'm on the director's staff, I'm just a junior underling around here. I have no stripes on my uniform at all. In fact, I don't even have a uniform.”

“That's not what I hear. I understand you've become quite the evil Machiavellian potentate. You have everyone's ear and are a master manipulator of ministerial politics.”

Jacques grinned a childish grin and carefully adjusted the silk square in his breast pocket. “Cousine, flattery will get you everywhere.
Alors
, Catullus said to Claudia, ‘Take the panties off your thoughts and we'll give them a good spanking.'”

Capucine launched into a summary of the case. When she reached Rivière's interrogation of the two vigies Jacques guffawed loudly.

“Ah ha! I saw that expression. Looks like you have the hots for this delectable flic. I told you that geriatric foodie of yours was too stodgy to keep you interested for long!” He whooped with laughter.

“Jacques, will you shut up. This case is very important to me. And I'm still every bit as much in love with Alexandre as I ever was. And…well, you know…just as interested, and all that. More so, even.”

Jacques whooped again and poked his cousin in the ribs. “Gotcha!”

“Jacques, please! Let me get to the end of the story. It seems that Delage had made a date to have lunch at the house of Olivier Ménard for the Saturday after he died. Oncle Norbert bullied Ménard into speaking to me and it turns out that Delage wanted to consult him about alerting the DGSE—or maybe another government security agency—about an undisclosed matter. Ménard told me that was the end of the story, but I had a strong feeling he was hiding something.”

“Slow talking Oli…vi…er Mé…nard? He just always sounds like he's…what is the right word?…ah, yes…
concealing
something. He's the most secretive man in the government. He won't eat in a restaurant because he can't bring himself to reveal to the waiter what he wants. Probably thinks it's a…state…secret.” Jacques erupted in a shriek of laughter.

“You're in luck, though. The silly old fool actually did call my boss, the director, who was quite irritated. He dictated the file note to me. Ménard had a vague story. He wanted us to send an agent to see a man called Guyon who is in charge of R & D at Renault. Apparently some development project or other at Renault had been leaked. Hardly the sort of thing we'd be interested in. The director sent him packing. Told him to take it to the DST. After all, they do domestic spooking and we do the foreign stuff. That's presumably what Ménard would have told Delage if he had seen him.”

“Sounds rather underwhelming,” Capucine said, crestfallen.

“Cheer up, cousine chérie, you can still stick white-hot needles under the toenails of this man Guyon. Maybe it'll turn out to be a sinister plot.” Jacques shrieked his high-pitched laugh. “I'll call the liaison guy at the DST for you. Maybe they got a call. They're supposed to keep us informed about all their actions, but with them you never know. And if we hear anything here I'll call you instanter.”

“You won't forget?”

“Forget my favorite cousin? The one who taught me to…” He paused and then put a finger to his lips, rolled his eyes, and said theatrically, “Shush, these offices are all bugged.”

“Jacques, you're impossible!”

As he showed her out, he put his arm around her waist and fondled her rib cage. “Who'd have ever thought that my hottest cousin would wind up getting her rocks off with a big Pooh Bear?” Capucine slapped his cheek hard and walked down the hall. Two secretaries gave her very quizzical looks as she waited for the elevator.

In the elevator she felt the same vague unease as after the call with Ménard. Had Jacques been just a little too glib with his facts or was that just part of his international spy persona?