Killer Critique by Alexander Campion Page B

short respites from the heat.
    The kitchen staff champed with impatience. Almost without exception they were North Africans. They had been confined to the kitchen for hours, knowing nothing, hearing nothing, forbidden to leave the room.
    Capucine introduced herself and started in. “To begin with, I have to tell you that a man was killed in the restaurant tonight. That means the restaurant will be closed tomorrow and probably for a day or two after. I need to talk to you for a few minutes, and then one of my officers will come in and verify your papers and let you go home.”
    Several of the men looked uneasily at each other and fidgeted.
    â€œI have nothing to do with immigration. As long as you can give some indication of where you live, that’s fine with me.”
    There was an almost audible sigh of relief.
    â€œWho’s in charge of the cuisine? ”
    â€œI am, madame,” a swarthy, squat man said.
    â€œWell, Chef, tell me what goes on in here.”
    â€œIt’s very simple, madame. We make just three dishes. They were picked by the management. We never change them, because we have almost no repeat business. Our dishes are bœuf bourguignon, bouillabaisse , and blanquette de veau. ”
    â€œThe three Bs,” one of the staff said.
    There was a round of loud laughter. They were delighted at the idea of two or three days off with pay.
    â€œWe make them in a special way,” the chef continued.
    â€œThe dishes are too liquid and the pieces are all in different sizes to make it difficult and messy for the customers to eat. We also add extra liquid to the desserts to make them drip on the customers’ laps. They come in big bowls with oversize serving spoons. We do île flottante . The floating mound of fluffed egg white is impossible for them to deal with.” There was more raucous laughter in the room. “The other dessert is nage de fruits rouges —red berries floating in a sweet sauce. We put in some extra-long pieces of pineapple so they’ll fall off the serving spoon and make a big mess and nice red stains.”
    The staff laughed again, childishly malevolent, like schoolboys who had just engineered a very clever prank. It was clearly a happy kitchen.
    â€œDoes anyone ever come in through that door?” Capucine asked, indicating the open back door with her head.
    â€œOf course. We all go out there for a smoke every now and then. And naturally girlfriends show up looking for their man, but I never let them come in the kitchen.”
    â€œAre you sure they never sneak in?”
    â€œNot a chance. If someone was in here not wearing white, I’d notice it immediately. I always have the whole kitchen in the corner of my eye. Nothing will screw things up faster than an angry girlfriend. Trust me on that!”
    There were loud laughs of agreement.
    Isabelle, David, and Momo came in and took names and addresses, checking them against immigration cards and driver’s licenses, and in some cases letters or addressed advertising flyers that had come in the mail. Three cases, who had no papers at all, were handed over to Momo, who chatted with them in street patois until he finally announced to Capucine that he would know how to find them if need be. In fifteen minutes they were done and the kitchen staff was sent home. Only the forensics team remained, finishing up before they put the body in a bag and took it to the morgue.
    Exhausted, Capucine leaned over the metal table in the kitchen with her weight on her elbows. The three detectives joined her, imitating her posture. From her bag Isabelle removed the bright orange octagonal seals that she would place on the locked front and back doors after they left, leaving the exterior in the care of a lone uniformed officer. They could not go before the seals were affixed. Listlessly, Capucine signed and dated them. They waited, staring at each other with slack mouths.
    David drummed his fingers gently and