Killer Critique by Alexander Campion Page A

beautifully hand-engraved letterhead stating only the street address.

    Paris, the 10 th June MMVI
    Madame,
    The presence of Madame is requested and required at 11:00 on the 10 th inst. at the offices of Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction August-Marie Parmentier de La Martinière to assist in the interview of Mademoiselle Sybille Charbonnier. It will not be necessary for Madame to be accompanied.
    Please allow the undersigned, Madame, to express the assurance of his most perfect consideration.

    The signature was an illegible scribble.
    Capucine giggled all the way to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and all the way back.
    Â 
    Even though Capucine arrived her usual fifteen minutes late at Martinière’s office, Sybille was not there yet. Martinière was visibly tense and fretted skittishly with the bibelots on his desk. He placed Capucine on a small stool in the farthest corner of the room, presumably relegating her to the role of keeper of the peace. Capucine wondered if she had been invited only because, as a woman, it would acceptable for her to deal physically with another woman if the need arose.
    After many long, fidgety moments the phone rang and Martinière snatched it up. “ Ah, enfin —finally,” he said.
    Sybille burst into the room—red eyed, makeup-smeared, her famous corkscrew curls in the matted tangle of a wet sheepdog—utterly unrecognizable from silver screen or glossy magazine page. From her vibrancy, reddened nostrils, and dilated pupils, Capucine surmised she had yet to make it to bed after a long night out in which controlled substances had played a prominent role. Still, to a woman’s eye, her beauty and adolescent sensuality were striking even through her disarray.
    But Martinière was as crestfallen as a ten-year-old boy who had received the wrong video game for Christmas.
    â€œMademoiselle,” he said through his disappointment, “it’s so kind of you to come all the way to my office to see me.” In his nervousness, he extended his hand to be shaken, no doubt knowing as well as Capucine’s grandmother that it was always the woman who was to initiate the gesture.
    Sybille stared at the floor with humming intensity, the proffered hand unnoticed. She sniffed loudly, mopped her nose with her sleeve, and then clawed at her collar to smell an offending armpit under her raised arm. After three long, self-absorbed beats she bleated something that sounded like “c’fay,” apparently directed at her high-top sneakers. She drooped in the wooden armchair, splaying out like butter melting in the sun.
    Martinière was momentarily at a loss but finally figured it out. “A coffee? Would you like a coffee? Is that what I can get you?”
    Sybille nodded distractedly, as if still intently pursuing some private thought. Martinière rose and busied himself at his telephone on the side table.
    Capucine began to enjoy herself. The scene had a strong sense of déjà vu. It was obvious that Sybille was playing a role. Capucine wondered how far she would dare go.
    As they waited for the coffee, Martinière launched a line of small talk, sounding like a gawky boy from the provinces attempting to pick up a girl on his first visit to a fashionable Paris bar. Sybille did not lift her eyes from the floor.
    Once Sybille had downed her coffee, Martinière launched awkwardly into his questions.
    â€œMademoiselle, you were sitting at the table next to the victim. It’s highly possible that—even though you didn’t know it—you saw the murder being committed.” Clearly he hoped for this dramatic statement to startle Sybille. She continued to stare at her sneakers, apparently obsessed with her thoughts.
    â€œDid you see anyone pass behind the victim just before he died? Think carefully.”
    Sybille continued to goggle at her sneakers. Capucine was amazed that Martinière missed that she was acting out a part.
    After