The Grave Gourmet Read Free Page B

followed by her shambling brigadiers only one or two of the uniformed police gave them even a cursory glance. Taken aback at the lack of reaction, Capucine was at a momentary loss at how to proceed. Irritated at the hesitation, Isabelle snorted and went up to one of the policemen. “ Salut, mon pote , what’s happening?” she said.
    â€œWhat the hell does it look like? We get to stand around for hours doing fuckall until the P.J. turn up. Then we go back to the commissariat. It’s highly motivating. Are you guys here to relieve us?”
    â€œWe sure are. Where’s your officer?”
    The policeman disdainfully nodded at a large eight-top in a back corner where five men sat. “The fat guy,” the policeman said. “He’s probably hoping they’re going to serve him lunch.”
    A florid man with a protuberant potbelly ballooning out of a cheap suit had already started to walk over. He came up to Isabelle and stuck out his hand. “Lieutenant Duchamps. Madame, are you in charge?”
    â€œNot even close. Try that one,” she replied, jerking her thumb at Capucine.
    Suspecting some sort of joke was being played on him, Duchamps walked over to Capucine and stuck out his hand again, “Lieutenant Duchamps of the Seventh Arrondissement West Commissariat. And you are?”
    â€œLieutenant Le Tellier, Police Judiciare.”
    â€œAh, finally. We’ve been waiting for you all morning. “I’ll give you the grand tour and leave you to it. I have no idea why you people were called in. Looks like a perfectly straightforward case of food poisoning to me. Some restaurant employee panicked and stuffed the stiff in the fridge,” Duchamps said peevishly. “If I could get these guys down to the commissariat”—he nodded at the large round table where he had been sitting—“I’d have the answer out of them in no time, but I guess I don’t have to teach the P.J. anything about that.” He guffawed unpleasantly and glanced disdainfully at Capucine to see if she would share in the joke. She looked at him levelly.
    â€œAnyway, those guys are the head chef, who apparently owns the place, the number two chef, the sommelier, and the maître d’.” Capucine recognized them all. Three wore the lugubrious look de rigueur at wakes, but Labrousse was genuinely stricken, staring down at the table, slack mouthed, like a drunk waiting to be taken home after the party is over. Her heart went out to him.
    â€œThe head chef says he discovered the body when he came in this morning. The other three showed up right after we got here. There are thirty-two other employees who turned up later. We interviewed them briefly, finger-printed them, and sent them home. This is a list of their names and the phones where they can be reached for the rest of the day,” he said, handing her a sheet of paper.
    â€œThe story is the bigwig, Delage, ate here on Friday evening with a pal and then left. No one admits to knowing anything more.”
    Capucine nodded.
    â€œAnyway, I kept those four here for you guys to have something to bite into,” Duchamps said, jabbing the air behind his back with his thumb.
    â€œThat’s perfect,” said Capucine.
    â€œBody’s in the kitchen back here,” Duchamps said, starting for the back. They pushed through a pair of swinging doors with small glass ports—superfluous precautions intended to prevent waiters from banging into each other—and into a room as sterile as an operating theater in white tile and brushed stainless steel.
    â€œThere you go,” Duchamps said, pointing at an open metal door in the back wall. “The chef said the door was shut tight when he arrived.” The body was just inside the sill, lying on its side, hideously contorted from the pains of death. The victim’s expensive flannel suit was twisted around the limbs, and the toes of his shoes were deeply