CHAPTER 7
T
he next day Capucine and Alexandre arrived in the village punctually at nine. The château’s below-stairs rumor mill had it that Jean Bouvard’s demonstration was going to begin at ten, and Alexandre did not want to miss a minute of it. They squeezed into the last available seats on the packed terrace of the only café on the village square and ordered coffee, which arrived promptly in clunky dark-green demitasses.
With one glaring exception the village square was a marvel of unsullied authenticity. A single round window—a Cyclops eye in the broad, flat face of an ancient, lichen-covered Romanesque church—benignly supervised the timeworn wooden storefronts that supplied the village its necessities: butcher, baker,
épicerie,
and, of course, the café. The scene was so familiar to Capucine that she didn’t take it in, except for one shocking addition: a garish white and red structure that had been erected directly opposite the church in an empty lot formerly used for an open-air farmers’ market. Lurid red letters nearly six feet tall proclaimed it the infamous Charolais Allô.
Even though it was a workday, a sizable throng—mainly paysans in mud-spattered blue overalls—milled in the square, as keyed up and happily boisterous as if waiting for the Bastille Day fireworks. Vans marked with the logos of France’s three national television networks were parked in front of the church, and a small troupe of reporters and camera technicians smoked and gibed loudly with each other. Capucine’s trained eye caught two dark blue gendarmerie vans, packed with uniformed officers, tucked discreetly up the street next to the church.
A waiter stood by Capucine and Alexandre’s table, angrily flicking his side towel. “Look at that
belle merde.
You should see it at night. The letters light up and flash. It’s as bad as Pigalle.”
Just then they heard the throaty roar of a heavy-duty diesel motor. The crowd cheered as if greeting a beloved movie star. A large yellow bulldozer rumbled cheerfully down a side street toward the restaurant. As it crossed the square, the driver lowered the blade and waved enthusiastically. The drooping russet walrus mustache and the paysan’s work clothes had been made famous by repeated TV news coverage. Jean Bouvard raised his hands high over his head, fists joined side by side at the thumbs, his famous victory sign, usually seen with him in handcuffs as he was led off to a short prison sentence following one of his highly mediatized protests.
“I’d give a month’s tips to see him pull this off,” the waiter said.
When the bulldozer approached the restaurant, Bouvard threw it into low gear. The tread clanked noisily and the engine growled menacingly. The news teams, who had already pushed through the crowd to take up position in front of the restaurant, went into action, three talking heads speaking animatedly and gesticulating into their cameras with the blow-by-blow of what was happening.
Less noticeable, a dozen gendarmes were disgorged by the vans and hovered, hesitating, behind the crowd, clearly unsure of what to do. Capucine frowned.
The bulldozer reached the building. The motor rose in pitch, the cap on the exhaust pipe blowing straight up. Bouvard was clearly handy with the thing. In a clean sweep he ripped off a corner of the building with the blade. With visible élan he plunged one steering lever forward and the other into reverse, and the bulldozer made an elegant pirouette to advance on the other corner, which was amputated with the same economy of motion.
The waiter tapped Alexandre’s shoulder. “I love to see a man at work who really knows what he’s doing,” he said with a broad grin.
The gendarmes seemed to finally make up their minds and attempted to push through the crowd, who resisted them vigorously, resulting in a confused mêlée. Bouvard stood on the seat of the bulldozer and shouted, “Down with the enemies of La France and her traditions!” heard clearly even above the din.
A third gendarmerie van arrived with flashing lights, emitting a loud
pan-pom, pan-pom,
and spewed a handful of men in full black riot gear complete with Plexiglas shields, shotguns, and tear gas launchers. There were yells and taunts from the crowd. Shots were heard. The police charged en masse with the riot squad at the vanguard. More shots crackled as the crowd retreated slowly in the direction of the bulldozer and the restaurant. Bouvard waved them back imperiously.
“The courage that man has,” the waiter said. “He refuses to surrender.”
“I think he’s trying to warn them that the building is about to collapse,” Capucine said.
As if on cue, there was a loud groaning and the sound of breaking glass; the façade of the building buckled slowly and the roof fell in violently with a loud crash, dragging the elevated sign down with it. The letters were strewn in front of the crowd, with one of them landing only a few feet away from Bouvard and the gendarmes. The crowd erupted in wild cheering. This was definitely far better than Bastille Day. Amid the rubble the letters now seemed to be attempting to spell out
OH, CALORIES
.
Two of the helmeted gendarmes leapt up on the bulldozer’s tread and handcuffed Bouvard, who raised his hands, thumbs hooked together, in his customary victory gesture. It was a marvelous photo op: the valiant artisan in shabby work clothes defending his country’s traditional heritage as he is manhandled by vicious police thugs in menacingly futuristic outfits. The crowd chanted, “Set him free! Freedom for Bouvard!” But as soon as Bouvard was driven off, they began to wander slowly back to their fields and orchards in groups of two or three.
Alexandre laughed heartily. After a few seconds of shaking her head at the inefficiency of the local gendarmerie, Capucine reluctantly joined him. “That alone was worth the trip,” Alexandre said. “I know it wasn’t the police’s finest hour, but I do think it would still be in order to celebrate with a small Calva.”
“It’ll be on the house and I think I’ll join you,” said the waiter.
As they drank and discussed the merits of Jean Bouvard, Capucine noticed that a group of people seemed to be collecting at the edge of the square, in front of the demolished restaurant, peering down intently at something. There were no gendarmes near. She jumped up, pushed through the crowd, and she closed in on the epicenter. Two gendarmes appeared and blocked her way. She produced her police ID wallet from her handbag. The gendarmes fell back at attention, saluting. The villagers in the vicinity looked at her with suspicion.
A young man lay on his back on the paving stones of the square—unquestionably dead—his sweater soaked in blood, a large black hole in the exact middle of his chest. Capucine turned his head to feel for a pulse in his neck and was horrified to recognize Clément Devere, his expression of youthful enthusiasm—even though now tempered with a hint of surprise—unchanged even in death.
CHAPTER 8
“S
o this insufferable policeman,” Vienneau said as he continued his story relentlessly while Gauvin waited patiently to serve him, bracing his back like a mule against the weight of the heavy silver platter of pheasants. “
Oh, pardon,
Capucine, I always forget you’re with the Police Judiciaire, but that’s hardly the same thing as the gendarmerie, is it?”
“A flic is just a flic, but I understand this particular one may be in a class apart,” Capucine said.
“Anyhow,” Vienneau continued, finally serving himself, “this Capitaine Dallemagne had the temerity to come to the élevage and insist on seeing me without an appointment. All he wanted was a few administrative details of that poor intern, but he saw no reason not to barge in on the Président-Directeur Général of the company to get it.”
“Did the capitaine have any ideas about how the man died?” Oncle Aymerie asked.
“Oh yes, he had no doubts about that at all,” Vienneau said. “The police surgeon dug out a Brenneke shotgun slug that had hit the poor boy right in the heart, killing him instantly.”
“Solid bullets that can be used in a shotgun instead of pellets if you want to shoot big game,” Capucine said parenthetically for Alexandre’s benefit.
“So,” continued Vienneau, “this excellent police capitaine concluded that since most of the paysans use them, that was proof positive that a villager had fired off a shot in the excitement of Bouvard’s demonstration and hit Devere accidentally. Case closed as far as he was concerned.”
“That’s all he said?” Capucine asked.
“
Pas du tout,
” Vienneau said. “He went on at length to explain that this was the sort of thing that was bound to happen with this country’s lax gun controls and that the police really had their hands tied and the backwardness in the countryside was not going to change unless the legislative climate improved and so on and on until I really had to ask him to leave. Is this the way you work in Paris, Capucine ?”
Capucine was saved from agreeing with Vienneau’s dim view of the provincial gendarmerie by Gauvin, who bent over to whisper excitedly in her ear, “Telephone, Madame la Comtesse. Pardon me for interrupting, but it’s the police!”
As Capucine made her way to the study, Gauvin, who had followed her out of the dining room, again whispered, “Madame la Comtesse might be more at her ease on the cloakroom telephone. It is much more private.” He led her through a large walk-in closet next to the front door where coats and boots and the accoutrements of country life were kept. At the very end was an alcove with a table used by the servants to clean boots and oil guns. An ancient rotary telephone had sat on a corner of the table for as long as Capucine could remember. Conspiratorially, the majordome handed her the receiver. “Madame la Comtesse is not to worry,” he said. “I shall go to the study and ensure no one picks up that extension.”
“Commissaire, I sure hope you’ll be back here tomorrow. All hell’s breaking loose.” Despite the tinniness of the ancient receiver, Isabelle’s sharp voice was like a bracing icy draft of winter air when a window was opened in an overheated room. Capucine felt a burst of longing as compelling as sexual desire to be back in her office at the commissariat.
“What’s up, Isabelle? Why are you calling on a Sunday ?” Capucine asked.
“La Belle’s been at it again. This time she was rescued by two male ballet dancers from the Opéra de Paris, a couple, of course. She walked off with a small bronze statue of a deer. They claim it’s worth a bundle.”
“Some of those things can be valuable. Call the two dancers and find out when we can see them tomorrow. You can tell me all the rest over coffee first thing in the morning. I’ll bring the croissants.”
Capucine returned to the table, part of her happier than she had been in a week, another part a bit crestfallen.
Back at the table Oncle Aymerie was fighting a rearguard skirmish. “Alexandre, it’s not that hard to understand. Five years ago there was a brief and very unpleasant interlude when the village elected an outsider as mayor. This man proved to be unscrupulous in his administration. The villagers came to their senses very quickly and voted him out, but he had succeeded in taking a great number of liberties without anyone noticing. One of those was the lease he signed with the company that owns this Charolais Allô for the marketplace lot opposite the church. They paid the rent quietly for years, and everyone at the
mairie
forgot about the lease until six months ago, when they announced their plan to build that infernal restaurant. There was nothing anyone could do to stop them.”
“So what happens now?” Alexandre asked.
“Oh, we won’t be seeing any fast-food restaurants in this village again,” Oncle Aymerie said with a smug smirk. “The current mayor has ordered the damaged building to be completely demolished because it’s unsafe. He also thinks that an early version of the town’s zoning regulations prohibit any commercial structures on that specific site, which has been an open-air marketplace since time immemorial. He’s forming an ad hoc committee to study the question, and, of course, there can be no question of rebuilding the restaurant while the committee deliberates. I happen to have had a small Calva with the mayor this morning after breakfast, and he asked me to sit on that committee.
Cela va sans dire
that we will not come to any conclusions until well after the Charolais Allô lease has expired.”
“Another bloody nose well delivered in exactly the right place,” exclaimed Alexandre. “I’ll drink a toast to that!”
“But what I don’t know is what happened to Jean Bouvard ? Does anyone have any idea?” Oncle Aymerie asked.
“The most worthy capitaine was very forthcoming about that,” Vienneau said. “Since he was apprehended in
flagrant délit,
as the lawyers like to say—red-handed—he fell under the special provision for instant justice. They hustled him off to a court in Rouen, where he was sentenced to three months on the spot and taken directly to jail. The capitaine was there as the arresting officer. He said there was a big contingent of press and Bouvard did his famous victory salute, you know, with his fists raised in handcuffs as he was led off to prison. The capitaine was quite put out that it was Bouvard and not him at the center of the press’s attention.”
Just then Gauvin returned with a magnum of champagne, which he opened with a theatrical pop that made Alexandre wince. But when he saw it was a Krug 1988, his wrinkled forehead relaxed and he broke into one of his beatific smiles.
“I hope this is not to celebrate our departure,” Capucine said.
“Au contraire,” said Oncle Aymerie. “It’s to thank you and Alexandre for your visit. You both have made an old man extremely happy.”
The rest of the evening was perfection. Capucine felt the deep warm glow of the prodigal child reincorporated into the bosom of her family. Of course, she told herself, serving her community as a police officer for a pittance hardly constituted prodigality. Even Alexandre’s enthusiasm seemed sincere when he promised their speedy return.
Later, hand in hand with Alexandre on their way up the stairs to their last night in the canopied bed, Capucine could not help but wonder why the capitaine had been so insistent that the Brenneke slug proved death by an accidental shot from a paysan’s shotgun. Not only did it seem hard to believe that a shot fired in the air could wind up in someone’s chest, but also every riot squad in the country carried at least one short-barreled shotgun and a good supply of Brennekes in case things got really out of hand.