The Grave Gourmet (25 page)

“P
retty policewoman get scolded.” Park laughed drunkenly. “Punishment for shooting me. But you good. Not weak like rest of French.”

“Keep this up and I'm going to shoot you again. What the hell was that all about? Bullshit to get more drugs?”

“Yes. Pain very great. Did not like man who look like bull. I know I have to talk. But not to him. Talk now. Don't shut painkillers off. Please.”

“Let's hear it, then. Did you kill Président Delage?”

“Of course. Only solution. Should have been easy for Nguyen to get informations over weekend if he not have interference. Killing président easy way to get needed time. No risk. No problem. Proper solution.”

“Let's go through the events of the week. The first thing was that Giselle told you the président had a reservation that Friday.”

“No, no. First, Nguyen tell me his boss tell him about coming crackdown. Very clear that Président Delage in charge. No doubts. Project very important to career of président, that why he take charge himself. Important man. Go to big boss in government. Things then happen fast. Just like Korea. Need immediate action. Had to do something before weekend.”

“And you had no doubts that Delage was really on the verge of asking for the assistance of the DGSE?”

“I quite sure. Project of highest importance. I have many plans to keep Delage from meeting with government man. Hit with car or just kill on street. Not hard to do, to kill someone. But I find something much better.” He paused for breath. “Giselle, juicy girl from Best Restaurant, tell me Delage come for dinner on Friday. Perfect. Easy to do then.”

“How did you do it?”

“Easy. Very easy. We have excellent poison called TZ, made by CIA, we have plenty from days when CIA help create ANSP. Comes from algae saxitoxin like in shellfish. Excellent poison. Victim immediately passive and then die quietly. No noise. I also give same poison to Nguyen to give to girlfriend, but only very, very little, so she sick and quiet all day and he free to go to her office. So, I wait for Delage to leave restaurant, inject him under ear into carotid. Use small hypodermic that easy to fit in pocket. Delage get quiet right away. I walk him to my car and make him sit. Drive him around until he pass out. Ha ha, go to Bois de Boulogne to look at juicy girls in trees. I want his last hours to be happy hours.”

“How considerate of you. Then what?”

“Drive back to the restaurant, put Delage arm around my neck like drunk, carry through door. Giselle give me key. Many police in area, guarding important buildings, but if anyone see, we just drunk workers of restaurant who forget something. Then put sleeping président in big refrigerator and all is finished. Giselle tell me restaurant always closed over the weekend so I know no one disturb until Monday.

“Then go back to the Bois de Boulogne. One of the girls we see is real juicy and wanted her. But she gone, so I go to Giselle's apartment instead.”

“Lucky her.”

“Yes, she happy. Things work out good after removing président. Very successful plan. We not bothered for two weeks. But Nguyen not able to get into computers. Not have codes. Incompetent assistant. Then project shut down and about to be moved to military. My replacement not going to have easy time. No.” Park laughed dryly.

C
apucine rushed through the plain aluminum-framed glass doorway.
Late again. I hope he isn't fuming.
She pulled up short in a small unassuming anteroom. A self-effacing man in a dark business suit left a lectern in a corner of the room and came up to her with the hint of a knowing smile, as if they shared a secret. At the mention of her name he nodded and led her down a hallway into a large, bland dining room. Not for the first time Capucine told herself that Tirel's eminently forgettable decor was hardly what you would expect at the best known of the three-star restaurants.

Nonetheless, the room was full of memories for Capucine. Tirel had been her family's venue of choice for celebrations. All the milestones of her youth had been feted here: birthdays, passing her
bac
, graduation from Sciences Po; it was even here that Alexandre had invited her parents for that memorable dinner to ask for her hand. In flowery hyperbole that made her mother giggle and her father frown Alexandre had explained that the paragon of restaurants was the only possible venue to ask for the hand of the paragon of women. The dinner had been successful enough to allay—but not permanently extinguish—her parents' resentment that she was not making a more suitable marriage.

With its nondescript carpet and tan walls, the room exuded a sense of cozy opulence as comfortable as an old cashmere sweater. Capucine bubbled with a happy-little-girl-on-her-way-to-her-birthday-fete feeling as she walked toward Alexandre and Jacques in the far corner. Still, something nagged, scratching angrily across the surface of her contentment. Would she never free herself of that eternal fear of being sucked down into that hateful life of affluent insouciance so vital to her parents…and, for that matter, beneath all his bluster, Alexandre as well? By the time she reached the table most of the bubbles of her mood had gone flat and she hadn't had time to really understand why.

Jacques and Alexandre percolated at the edge of hilarity, obviously fueled by a bottle of Dom Perignon that, given its drunken list in the cooler, was already well over three-quarters depleted. They both half rose from their chairs and saluted with their flutes in a toast.

“Here's to your triumphal coup,” Alexandre said.

“Oh, so this is a celebration, is it?” Capucine said, with barely masked irritation. “I had hoped it was just Jacques dipping into the bottomless well of his expense account so he could show off his new tie. I'm not really sure there's anything to celebrate.” She gave Alexandre a withering look that would have been rude had he not been her husband.

With more verve than the situation really required Jacques asked brightly, “Oh, do you like it? How nice.” He energetically flapped an Hermès tie dotted with blue and yellow butterflies cavorting on a salmon background, his pick of their fall crop.

“Cousin, it's precious. I just hope it's not something you intend to wear when you're stealing around incognito.”

Jacques compressed his lips in a dramatic pout. “Cousine, you delude yourself if you think that these august surroundings will prevent me from pelting you in the kisser with the bread roll you so richly deserve.” He picked up a roll and brandished it menacingly. Capucine wondered if there was any champagne left in the bottle at all. “Also,” he added in a hurt tone, “it just so happens that I can be utterly invisible when I so choose.”

“Now, now, children, behave. This is a serious occasion. We are here to commemorate a truly Homeric achievement,” Alexandre interjected.

Capucine shot Alexandre a look that was frankly rude even if he was her husband.

“The paragon of restaurants for the paragon of detectives,” Alexandre said dramatically. “No other place would be suitable for such an occasion.”

“I seem to have heard that line before,” Capucine said.

Jacques clenched his teeth with a grimace of courageous despair that made Capucine think of a Foreign Legionnaire at Tuyen Quang trying to forget that he and his six hundred colleagues were surrounded by twenty thousand Chinese. “But, chère cousine, it's not going on my expense account at all. Anyway, the director would never spring for Tirel. This is Alexandre's treat. I understand he's even going to pay out of his own pocket. I'm sure he asked me along merely for comic relief.”

Capucine ignored him and crackled in irritation with Alexandre. “Good Lord, you sound as fatuous as an Arsène Lupin character. Only the top hat and waxed moustache are missing,” Capucine said.

“My dear. I was being perfectly sincere. You really have succeeded a major triumph and I honestly think this is the only place that does it justice.”

In spite of herself Capucine softened and her irritation evaporated. Alexandre always had that effect on her. In a mini-epiphany she understood that her annoyance didn't have anything to do with her parents' lifestyle. The problem was that in her heart she didn't see the case as a success. The whole thing was so obvious it had just resolved itself.

“It's ridiculous to think of putting me in the same league as a Tirel, but I have to admit even that grouchy bear Tallon seemed pleased with the way the case worked out.”

“Pleased? He must have been impressed as hell. You're a veritable Commissaire Maigret,” Jacques said.

Feeling that their dinner had returned to an even keel Jacques waved a remonstrative finger at Alexandre and poured the last of the champagne, sparking the sommelier to rush up, distraught at not having been left to pour the wine himself. “
Mon vieux
, you're becoming a cartoon-strip husband. You project yourself into your wife. Who could be farther removed from that Belgian beer swiller with his huge appetite, vast belly, and pipe glued to his mouth than Capucine?” Jacques asked.

Alexandre laughed happily. “That's hardly it. I merely blush with pride when I recognize in her the virtues Georges Simenon bestowed on his character: the ability to plumb the unfathomable depths of people while having the courage to rely on his instincts.”

“How noble of you. But wasn't the corpulent commissaire's motto, ‘I don't know anything'? Our dear Capucine has been dropping hints that she knew who the killer was almost from the very beginning. It was a bit like the dance of the seven veils except less titillating,” Jacques said.

“Well, I did have some ideas,” Capucine said, beginning to enjoy herself.

“Do you mean you really suspected it was the Koreans even before you arrested that awful man?” Alexandre asked.

“Not from the beginning, obviously, but the picture became clear the minute we discovered the involvement of Clotilde Lancrey-Javal, Delage's secretary.” The sommelier returned and released the cork of another bottle of champagne, producing a sigh even more discreet than Alexandre could manage.

“Once the Trag saga was put to rest it was obvious that there had to be another spy network in place. During his interview that Trag operative made it quite clear that he was convinced there were no other Americans involved. And it couldn't have been the Japanese, given Renault's involvement with Nissan; you know how disciplined they are. And it also seemed unlikely that it was the Germans or the Italians. I don't know why, but it just wasn't their style somehow. So who was left? The Koreans, voilà!

“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.”