No Honor Among Thieves

Chapter 7

7

Ben had already been seated and taken a moment, while alone, to appreciate the snowy whiteness of the tablecloth, the complex arrangement of spotlessly shiny tableware, and the promising bustle he could hear going on behind the door to the kitchen. Wanting to stay on Léo Lagasse’s good side, Ben had called in a favor and gotten a much-coveted reservation at La Grenouille, the only Michelin two-star restaurant in the area.

It was true that the end of November was not, generally, a crowded time at the restaurant—too long before Christmas for the tourists—but nevertheless, the wait for a reservation was still over a month long. Ben had only eaten there once before, many years earlier. Wishing to impress a woman he was serious about, he had surprised her with dinner at La Grenouille; she had seemed glad enough at the time, and eaten heartily…but dumped him in a matter of weeks. Remembering that night and its aftermath, he told himself that any superstitious conclusions about the restaurant’s powers were patently ridiculous.

He didn’t believe in superstition, obviously, as he was an intelligent and educated man. But nonetheless, a bit of a cloud hung over him as he waited for Léo to appear.

The plan was for Ben to stay in touch with Franck while Molly contacted Laurine. Between the two of them—if there was not a quick arrest—they hoped one or the other would want Dufort/Sutton Investigations to bring their father’s murderer to justice. It wasn’t that they were in dire need of funds, at least at that particular moment; the gîte business was doing so well, they had a bit of a cushion. But reputation was paramount, and what would people think if a local man was murdered and Dufort/Sutton Investigations had no part in uncovering the culprit?

In the meantime, Ben hoped the good food and wine would loosen Léo’s tongue on the current state of the detective’s activities.

“My friend!” boomed Léo, as the hostess showed him to Ben’s table. “How you honor me. When we spoke about lunch, I had no inkling you would aim so high! And I love you for it.”

“You did mention the restaurant by name, you old extortionist,” said Ben with a wry smile.

“Perhaps, perhaps. But you listened! And I pale to think what you must have done to get a reservation in such short order.” Léo leaned forward in a bow, though he was already wedged into his chair. “The duck confit! I said a prayer this morning that it would be on the menu. Sublime, I tell you! And if not, the meal will certainly be spectacular anyway. I cannot wait to see what the chef has in mind for us.”

Ben liked a two-star meal as much as the next Frenchman, but he was already thinking of how to get his friend talking about things that really mattered. Since he knew Léo wasn’t fooled about his intentions, he jumped right to it.

“So, mon ami…” he began.

“I know, I know, you want to know what’s happening with Petit. No, no—don’t bother to protest.” He waved a hand in the air, his eyes on the door to the kitchen. “Where is the waiter, for heaven’s sake? We could die of thirst and starvation.”

Just as the words left his mouth, a middle-aged man in black shirt and pants with a white apron came wheeling out of the kitchen with a tray. He placed a small glass in front of Lagasse and then Dufort. “The chef’s compliments,” he said, and faded back to the kitchen.

“Ahh,” said Léo, already dipping a tiny spoon into the glass and inspecting the glossy cucumber mousse speckled with tiny bits of chive.

“Maybe it makes me childish, but I do love the chef’s compliments,” said Ben.

“We all do,” said Léo generously, his eyes closed as he savored the mouthful, not even able to identify exactly what it was.

It was considered rude to talk about work at the table, even more so a glorious table such as one at La Grenouille. But it was murder, after all, not a business deal, and so once their glasses were scraped clean of every smidgen, Ben gave Léo a subtle prod. “All right, so…” he said, hoping Léo would get the message.

“Well, I’ll tell you, Benjamin—thus far I don’t know anything more than you do. Petit was a colossal jerk with no friends, or at least we at the Bergerac gendarmerie have been unable to find any. His neighbors loathed him, the shopkeepers report that he was stingy and given to returning soiled items wanting a full refund. You get the idea from people that he was going out of his way to be unpleasant, even cruel.”

“That was my experience with him. We were having lunch in Castillac one day—at the Café de la Place, do you know it? Not a fancy place, but the cassoulet is magnificent. At any rate, during lunch, Petit fired up a cigar. Indoors, and in the middle of lunch. And a particularly stinky brand of cigar it was—he intentionally blew clouds of smoke at the adjoining table, where a mother was seated with her children. They cleared right out, much to Petit’s satisfaction. I wanted to get up and walk out, but of course he was a client…”

“Fits with the profile I’m developing. A thoroughly unpleasant man, to be sure. And yet…” Léo drummed his fingertips on the table, impatient to see the menu.

A young woman appeared and gave them the large menus, printed on heavy stock in the old-fashioned manner.

“Ah yes!” said Léo, licking his chops as he began to read. Ben despaired of luring him back to the subject.

The waiter came to take their orders: Léo ordered the duck confit and Ben, steak Diane. In a flash the waiter reappeared holding a metal breadbox with a sliding door. He opened the door to show Léo, who pointed at a seeded roll and a small brioche, which the waiter gingerly used tongs to place on Léo’s bread plate. Ben chose a crusty slice that he guessed was sourdough.

“You were saying?” said Ben.

“Right. Well, only this: it would be the most obvious thing to conclude that Petit was murdered by one of the legion of people who disliked him. But that is facile, and the wrong path to pursue, at least at this early juncture. I don’t know if you’ve heard—well, you must have, being something of an ambulance-chaser, if you’ll pardon me—there’s been a series of murders in the Gironde over the last year. All people of means. The muckety-mucks are operating under the assumption that it’s the work of organized crime. Other groups with the same modus operandi have been caught in the north of France—they’re Greeks, these criminals, attacking us from every side.”

Ben thought it highly unlikely that a band of Greeks had settled on Bernard Petit as a way to enrich themselves.

“Could be,” said Ben. “Have these Greeks been seen anywhere nearby? In Périgueux, for example?”

Léo shrugged, chewing his roll.

“It does seem just…a bit unlikely, wouldn’t you say? A crime syndicate plucking Bernard Petit out of the air? Or does he leave a much bigger estate than I thought?”

“Haven’t found a will,” said Léo.

“Interesting. Have both children come to Bergerac?”

“The son, Franck. I don’t remember about the daughter, something-something, couldn’t leave work right away. Franck has not been able to put his hands on the will. Or so he says.”

“You don’t trust him?”

Léo laughed. “I’m a police detective. We don’t trust anybody, you know that,” he said, picking up his butter knife and going at the pot of butter with some degree of ferocity.