Read Online Crime Fraiche by Alexander Campion - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexander Campion
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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
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
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