Killer Critique by Alexander Campion

an inward sigh of relief. She had no authority to detain an individual in her own home—and a hotel counted as home. The juge d’instruction was bound to go into conniptions if he received a complaint from Sybille’s lawyer. Not to mention that Voisin preening in front of her and her constant asides to him would have made both interviews less than useless. Trying to see them together had been a bad idea. Very bad.
    Capucine got up and walked to the door. “See you at three, then,” she said, handing Sybille her card with a smile.
    Voisin refilled his champagne flute and dropped into a gray silk armchair. He crossed his legs, adjusted his robe, and flapped the sole of his hotel terry cloth slipper against the heel of his foot making an irritating little slapping noise.
    â€œCommissaire, I saw the juge d’instruction the other day and told him I had noticed nothing out the ordinary at Chez Béatrice until that poor man collapsed on the table. It was a very short session that lasted no more than ten minutes, and I had the impression the juge was entirely satisfied. I saw even less yesterday. It was pitch dark in that restaurant, as you know.”
    â€œMonsieur, the working hypothesis for the moment is that the two deaths are connected. The curare that caused the first death has been traced to artifacts that were stolen at a reception given by the Brazilian embassy, at which you were present. There are only two people who were present at Chez Béatrice, the embassy reception, and Dans le Noir last night. You and Mademoiselle Charbonnier. That makes you both of great interest to the police.”
    Voisin put both feet on the floor and swallowed hard, saying nothing. He downed his flute of champagne and filled it again from the bottle in the cooler. The sloshing of the ice was the only sound in the room.
    â€œMonsieur, this is just a preliminary interview but any falsehoods will be deemed to be perjury and could result in a criminal sentence. Let’s start with your background. Your full name is Guy Arnaud Voisin. You were born in Aubagne, in the département of the Bouches-du-Rhône, in nineteen forty-eight. You are sixty-two years old. You are président–directeur général of a company, Château da la Motte S.A. Is that correct?”
    â€œNot quite. My son took over as managing director five years ago. Now I’m just président, and he’s the directeur général. I no longer get my hands dirty,” he said in an attempt to appear self-satisfied, pouring himself another glass of champagne.
    â€œAnd is Château da la Motte a successful business?” Isabelle asked.
    Voisin pursed his lips and tightened his throat. “Successful, Officer? That’s a very relative term. Is this a philosophical interrogation? All your juge wanted to know was what I had seen in the restaurant, but you want to talk about economic theory instead?”
    â€œIt’s a simple enough question, monsieur,” Capucine said. “Is the company profitable, or is it not?”
    â€œLa Motte is one of the most prestigious wine producers of the Midi,” he said defensively. “In fact, I think I can say we produce the finest rosé in all of France and Navarre.” Finally comfortable, Voisin launched into the subject like a dinner party bore. Capucine let him have his head. It was the best way to get people to talk.
    â€œFrom well before the birth of our Savior and all the way into the sixteen hundreds, almost all French wine was rosé. Stupidly, in modern times the French public has lost its love for rosé. The modern generation has turned its back on our viticultural heritage.”
    â€œSo that means the company’s losing money, right?” Isabelle asked.
    â€œNo, it does not, Officer. It’s true that about fifteen years ago our volume fell off a bit. But I saved the situation. I introduced a range of second-label wines, which I branded