Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery) (22 page)

C
apucine slid her little Twingo into the no-parking funds delivery area in front of a Société Générale bank on the rue des Archives. It was 5:45 in the morning. The area was completely deserted. She stopped behind a nondescript gray Peugeot, which shouted out Police Judiciaire car pool. Garbe got out of the Peugeot and opened the door of Capucine’s car with an extravagant smile. The smile was a first. He made a theatrical bow of welcome, revealing a heavy pistol in a sweat-darkened shoulder holster. He patted it affectionately.

“I’m guessing this is going to be my last arrest. One more goddamn thing I’ll never have to do again.”

They turned the corner and walked down the rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie. After seventy yards the street became so narrow that even a compact car would have a hard time squeezing through. Isabelle waited for them, leaning against the blue enameled door of a
porte cochère
recessed into a carved stone doorway. Capucine could see Momo a hundred yards down the street, leaning up against another doorway, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Garbe nodded in approval at the setup. Even though he had one leg out the door, he was still a flic at heart.

Capucine and Garbe had a desultory chat, frequently checking their watches. At exactly 5:57 a.m., they strode down the street. Momo joined them in front of a red-painted double door.

Isabelle pushed a small button nested in a chased brass frame. There was a rasping buzz, and the door popped open three inches. Momo pushed it fully open. As Garbe crossed the threshold, he reached under his suit jacket and popped the safety strap off his holster with an audible snap.

The door swung shut behind them, leaving them in a perfectly dark hallway, chilly and damp after the warm morning air outside. Two small, rectangular red lights shone out at them like the squinting eyes of a succubus. Momo pressed one of them, and the door popped open again.

“Merde,” he said and pressed the other one. There was a loud clunk, and all the lights in the hallway and stairwell went on. They faced a set of ancient-looking bars running from floor to ceiling, with a small barred door in the middle.

“I’ve got my passkeys,” Isabelle said, pulling out a large ring of keys.

Momo pursed his lips and shook his head. He went up to the door, grabbed a bar in each of his ham-size fists, and shook, testing for give. The muscles of his back bunched. He heaved. With a metallic ping, the door opened. Garbe nodded in approval again.

Without the slightest attempt at stealth, the four officers clumped up two flights of an ancient, once-elegant stairwell. Shabby as the building was, Capucine knew the apartments in that part of the Marais were very pricey.

Three floors up they arrived at a landing that had once been a delicate oak parquet but was now a jumble of badly repaired boards wobbling under their feet. The right-hand door was freshly painted and displayed a brand-new brass plaque engraved with the number ten. The paint on the left-hand door was peeling, and there was no number. Isabelle advanced to the right and stationed herself well off to one side. Capucine and Garbe fanned out and took positions a few feet to either side of the door. Garbe slipped his hand under his jacket but did not draw his pistol. Momo retreated four steps down the stairwell and flattened himself against the wall.

Garbe nodded. Isabelle stepped up and hammered loudly on the door with the heel of her fist. The sound rolled down the stairway. Nothing happened. Garbe nodded again. Isabelle hammered a second time. Capucine could hear a door opening on the floor below.

“
Police! Ouvrez!
” Garbe thundered in a deep bass. The door on the floor below clicked shut.

Nothing happened for several very long beats. Just as Isabelle was about to resume pounding, the door opened wide. Sleepy eyed, wearing a pair of jeans and a candy-pink T-shirt marked
SAINT-TROPEZ
in white, flowing letters, Serge opened the door.

Garbe’s hand fell out of his jacket, and he stepped past Isabelle into the apartment. Serge recoiled, retreating from Garbe’s advance.

“It’s against the law for you to come in here before nine,” Serge said, still retreating.

Garbe gave a bark of dry laughter. “That’s searching, my friend, not arresting. We’re not allowed to search your apartment between nine at night and six in the morning, but we can arrest you twenty-four-seven. And, anyway, it’s after six.” Garbe was clearly enjoying himself.

Capucine stepped into the apartment.

Serge’s eyes saucered when he saw her.

“Capucine! What’s going on? We’re friends. We’ve known each other for years. I went to your wedding.” The statement was so naïve, it was almost credible.

“But that didn’t stop you from committing murder less than fifty feet away from me.”

Serge’s eyes opened even wider, but he said nothing. Both the commissaires expected more of a reaction. They both relaxed. Serge continued to inch backward, as if cowering. Then, in a lightning move, he feinted, slipped around the three officers, and darted out the door. No one gave chase.

They heard a shout and then a thud from the stairwell. Momo had caught him by the arm and had swung him against the wall. In a few seconds Serge appeared doubled over, walking on duck legs, his handcuffed hands lifted high above his back, the three links of chain connecting the cuffs enveloped in Momo’s massive fist.

“Since you know the law so well, I won’t have to tell you that resisting arrest is also a crime. If I wasn’t in such a good mood, I’d be charging you with that, as well. But keep it up and I’ll change my mind,” Garbe said.

They took him to the Quai des Orfèvres and marched him up the stairs to La Crim’, on the third floor of Escalier A. Isabelle and Momo held his arms, and Garbe followed behind. Capucine took the elevator. She wanted to let Garbe savor his moment unshared.

Isabelle and Momo had both worked at La Crim’ for years before they left to follow Capucine to her commissariat, so they knew the procedures inside and out. They took Serge to a holding cell, removed his handcuffs, shoved him in, and found a desk to fill out the paperwork. Garbe and Capucine went off to breakfast at a corner café. It was not yet seven in the morning.

When they returned forty-five minutes later, they found that Serge had been transferred to one of the Quai’s many interrogation rooms. In her days at La Crim’, Capucine had always found the rooms medieval. Located in a subbasement of the fort-like building, they were adjacent to the Seine and well below water level. They found the room. Garbe rapped on the damp steel door with his knuckles. A six-inch square judas creaked open and immediately shut again. A heavy bolt protested as it was pulled, and door opened with a rasp. Serge sat at a wooden table, in a cone of light from a shaded bulb hanging from the ceiling. Beyond the cone, the light progressively diminished to near obscurity at the peeling walls.

A uniformed officer stood behind Serge. Another lurked in a corner. Garbe gestured with his head that they were to leave.

“
Menottes?
Cuffs?” the officer asked.

Garbe shook his head.

The officer removed the cuffs and let them dangle from his finger. Both officers left the room, slamming the door shut with a clanging ring of finality. Much as Capucine detested the notion of so-called enhanced interrogations, she had to admit the mise-en-scène was as perfect as if created by a film director.

Serge massaged his wrists, easing the pain of the handcuffs. Two livid red rings were visible. The cuffs had been applied too tightly. They always were by the Police Judiciaire.

“Serge,” Capucine said, “you’ve been arrested for the premeditated murder of Nathalie Martin.”

Serge looked back at her with a self-assured smile. He was a long way away from being worried. They would ask him a few questions. His lawyer would arrive and have him released. He would have dinner in one of his bars that night. Over the coming months his lawyer would make it all go away. He put his hands in his pockets and crossed his legs under the table.

“Serge, let’s talk about the events leading up to the crime. While you were waiting for us all to arrive at Port Grimaud, you had a little fling with Nathalie and shacked up in one of the two cabins with big beds. Isn’t that right?”

“You got it. She was hot, over sixteen, far more than willing, and I’m not married. We used the cabin I gave you and Alexandre, but don’t worry. I had Nathalie wash the sheets at a Laundromat before you slept on them.” Serge was pleased with his cynical humor. “Was it your flic’s second sense that told you that?”

“No. When we got there, your and Nathalie’s body language spoke volumes. Also, when you gave us the tour of the boat and we peeked into her tiny cabin in the bow, there was none of her musky smell. It was obvious she had never slept there.”

“Musky smell. Good way to put it. That was her, all right. She was continually in heat.

“Things went well until we got to Bonifacio. Then Nathalie had a little dinnertime tryst with Dominique, and you found out about it.”

Serge sat bolt upright on his stool. His face transformed into a Kabuki mask of rage. He clenched his fists hard enough to make the knuckles white.

“You’re crazy. She’d never waste her time with a limp-wristed faggot like him.”

“So you knew she’d had a fling, but you didn’t know with whom.”

“You’re just guessing.”

“When we went up to the old town to go shopping, you stayed behind and told us you’d meet us later. You went on the boat and heard Nathalie having sex.”

“Nonsense. I was at a café on the port, having an apéro with the port captain. He’s a longtime pal. He’ll confirm that.”

“We interviewed him. You two did have a drink. Then you wanted him to come examine your mooring. You told him you thought Florence had moored the boat too close to the dock, and you wanted the port captain to order you to move it away a foot or two.”

Serge said nothing.

“The port captain refused and went home to his dinner. You went down the quai and checked out the boat. When you finished with the stern lines, you went to the bow to examine that mooring line. That was when you heard Nathalie in the forepeak.”

Serge said nothing but worked hard at keeping his face expressionless.

“That’s why you killed her. Your jealousy took over. You couldn’t stand the fact that she was sleeping with someone else. You stalked her. You lay in wait for her on the foredeck, and at the first opportunity, you put her over the side and let her drown.”

He snorted a bravado laugh. “Conjecture. Not even conjecture. Guesswork. Hell, it’s not even guesswork. It’s just a wild stab in the dark.”

Slowly, almost sadly, Capucine shook her head. “We have proof.” Capucine paused to heighten the drama of the announcement. She paused a few beats too long.

“What proof?” Serge asked belligerently.

“Your jade amulet was found on the foredeck. The thong had been broken, and Nathalie’s clear fingerprints were superimposed on your hazy ones. It’s conclusive that Nathalie wrenched the amulet off your neck.”

For a brief split second Serge recoiled, his eyes dancing around the dim room, looking for a means of escape. Then he relaxed and assumed a sly look.

“She did rip it off my neck. Before you all arrived, we made love once or twice on the foredeck. Great stuff. You should try it sometime. Nathalie was a screamer. The second time we did it, she had a particularly intense orgasm.” He smirked proudly. “She grabbed ahold of my amulet, and the thong broke. Voilà. That’s how it got there.”

Capucine gave him a mocking smile. “Of course. You made love in the crowded marina of Port Grimaud, in full view of all the people on boats only a few feet away. If there were any truth to that, you really would have had a few directives from a port captain. And the jade pendant just sat there, forgotten for two days even though the decks were thoroughly hosed down twice? No judges or juries are ever going to believe that one.”

Serge deflated.

“And there’s more. A long steel strand had come unraveled on the forestay. There was blood on the strand with DNA that matched Nathalie’s. The blood was far enough up on the strand to indicate a deep cut. When Nathalie’s body was recovered, there was a cut on the palm of her left hand consistent with the wire strand. The nature of the cut strongly suggests violence.”

Serge’s worry level skyrocketed. Despite the chill of the room, his brow was moist and his eyes quested for an escape route.

“Serge, listen to me. You have two choices here. Either you can cooperate with us and tell us your version of what happened or we will have no alternative but to have you remanded for premeditated murder. With the evidence there is no question you’d be convicted for the maximum penalty, life with no possibility of parole or remission for good behavior.”

Serge panicked. He had never come close to thinking the consequences could be this severe. His breathing rate increased. His face became damp and pasty.

Garbe materialized from the shadows and eased gently in front of Capucine. He was reassuringly avuncular. His jacket was thrown over his left shoulder, hooked on an index finger. His stomach ballooned. He was a kindly, mature man anxious to help. He invited confidences.

Capucine retreated soundlessly into a dark corner of the room, realizing her role of bad cop had been shelved for the moment.

Garbe smiled protectively at Serge.

“Women are incapable of understanding men, don’t you think?”

Serge didn’t know what to say.

“I reckon it’s because we have completely different equipment in our pants. Me, I completely understand why you had it in for that little bitch. I’d have had it in for her, too, if she’d cheated on me like that.”

“But I didn’t have it in for her. It was she who had it in for me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Capucine is right. I did go on board that afternoon in Bonifacio. It’s a thing I have. I like to stand on the dock and see how the boat is riding when it’s moored. I like to check if the mooring lines are chafing. Good skippers do that, right?”