Killer Critique by Alexander Campion

belly shook with laughter.
    Capucine frowned. He was the sort of cop who milked his job for gags. She didn’t like it, but she could live with it. It was the appalling nickname she had acquired during the commissaires’ course that was over the top. One of her deepest fears was that the foul sobriquet would circulate in her own brigade. The thought of being called Commissaire Capu by her own staff behind her back gave her the shivers.
    â€œBruno, your guys have done most of the work. There’s not much left to wrap it up. It’s after midnight. Why don’t you and your team go on home?”
    â€œCapu,” he said. Capucine cringed. “That’s something you don’t have to ask me twice. I’m always happy to leave the late-night stuff to the kids.” He motioned to his brigadiers and they disappeared promptly up the stairs into the rain.
    â€œAll right, Isabelle, bring the maître d’ over and let’s hear this.”
    Isabelle went off and returned with a round-faced man with the dead eyes of a blind person. But his approach was so confident it was obvious he saw perfectly and had mastered the technique of staring blankly straight ahead while getting around on his peripheral vision.
    â€œThis is Monsieur Flétard. He’s the maître d’hôtel. His job is complicated because he has to keep everything moving smoothly in the dark. But he doesn’t miss a trick. You really need to listen to what he has to say.”
    Flétard was obviously fond of his blind look. As he spoke to Capucine, he stared unseeingly fifteen degrees off her left shoulder with a lugubrious deadpan.
    â€œTell her what you saw,” Isabelle encouraged, like an outraged grandmother prodding a grandchild to report on the peccadillo of a sibling.
    â€œCommissaire,” Flétard said, “as I’ve already told your officers, I heard one of my waiters shout out in alarm and turned on the lights. It took a few moments for our eyes to adjust, and then I saw that one of the guests had been stabbed, so I called the police.”
    â€œNot that part,” Isabelle said irritably.
    â€œWell, Commissaire , I don’t quite know how to put this, but in the midst of the confusion I noticed that one of our patrons seemed to be emerging from under the table.”
    â€œFrom under the table?”
    â€œYes, and her companion was stretching back in his chair in a gesture that just might have been ... I can’t really be sure ... but it was as if he was ... How can I phrase this ... ? Well, uh, possibly, zipping up his trousers.”
    â€œSo shall I arrest them?” Isabelle asked breathlessly. She clearly saw no need to explain whom she was speaking about.
    Capucine locked her face into the tight, stony look of those trying very hard not to laugh.
    â€œIsabelle, I need the three of you to get back to interviewing the front-of-the-house staff. I’ll deal with this little incident myself. Monsieur Flétard, stay right here. I’ll be back in a moment. I need to talk to you.”
    As Capucine came up to Sybille and Voisin, Sybille greeted her with adolescent intimacy. “ Salut! I was hoping I’d get to see you. I had a lot of fun with your boss the other day.”
    â€œHe’s not my bo—,” Capucine started to say sharply and caught herself.
    Sybille wore a very short black chiffon dress that fell away from the bustline with X-ratable Empire simplicity. As she rose, her ample breasts swung freely under the flimsy chiffon. Capucine could feel the attraction in the male component of the herded patrons behind her. Her legs were made even longer by high-heeled sandals held tight by a large floppy satin bow around her ankles. Capucine wondered how she could manage to find out where the shoes had come from while remaining professional. An elaborate tortoiseshell comb held Sybille’s hair in a large curlicued bun on top of her head, emphasizing