Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery) by Alexander Campion Page B

shooting a marble. It rose in the air, the moonlight glinting on its polished brass surface, and fell into the thick undergrowth far below.
    “It won’t ever be found down there. That’s one thing we can count on.”
    “Jacques! That was evidence.”
    “That’s precisely the point. Now we can go to bed.”

CHAPTER 14
    T he next morning, as they were all eating breakfast on the long table on the terrace, a Fiat police squad car tore up the driveway and braked sharply, spraying gravel. Capucine assumed she was being picked up for an “interrogation,” one step up from an “interview” in the hierarchy of police investigation. Capucine wondered if she would be taken away in handcuffs.
    Two police officers, elegant in red-striped trousers and tunics with polished chrome buttons, emerged from the car and, with great politeness, inquired after Commissario Le Tellier.
    As Capucine descended the steps to the driveway, both officers came to attention and saluted smartly. This was certainly not the way suspects were picked up in France. One of them apologized for the intrusion and said that the vice questore had requested her presence at the questura. “But at your entire convenience, Signora Commissario.” The officer smiled conspiratorially. “Please, finish your breakfast. We will be happy to wait.” Definitely not the way people were picked up in France.
    At the questura, she was taken to the vice questore’s office, a room imposing enough for a junior minister. The vice questore looked like anything but a police officer—aristocratic aquiline nose, silver hair brushed back from his forehead, well-tailored brown summer suit. With smiling lips and frowning eyes, he rose from behind an antique desk, circled to her side, and motioned her into a wooden armchair cushioned in red silk embroidered with gold thread. Without saying a word, he sat facing her in a matching chair. Two men eased into the room. One was Ispettore Manfredi; the other, a few years older and considerably more muscular, looked like an old-school hard-nosed cop. They took seats in opposite corners of the large room.
    So, this was to be an interrogation, after all, but there was definitely something odd going on. The tension in the room was palpable. Capucine admired the vice questore’s interviewing technique. After a good many long beats, the vice questore introduced himself. “Vice Questore Piras. And, of course, you’ve met Ispettore Manfredi. And this is Commissario Capo Deiana.”
    A senior commissaire. There was a lot of brass in the room. Too much brass for an interrogation.
    Languidly, the vice questore crossed one long leg over another, taking great care not to flatten the knife-sharp crease of his trouser leg.
    “We are faced with an exceedingly delicate situation, Commissario,” the vice questore said. “I understand the ispettore explained to you yesterday that evidence has been discovered that strongly indicates the disappearance of your employee was the result of foul play.”
    “Yes. Apparently, a sea jacket with a suspicious hole in it.”
    “Precisely. The forensics unit has completed its analysis. The hole was unquestionably made by a nine-millimeter bullet.”
    “Were there any traces of blood?”
    “No. But the forensics experts say all traces of fresh blood could have been washed off by the salt water. But there was evidence of gunpowder singeing around the edge of the hole, indicating that the shot was fired at close range.”
    He gave Capucine one of his expressionless looks, inviting her to comment. She said nothing.
    “The interesting thing, however, is that there is a name printed in indelible laundry ink on the jacket’s white manufacturer’s label. The name is not Martin, the victim’s, but Maistre. I understand you have a Signorina Inès Maistre on board. What can you tell me about that?”
    “When Mademoiselle Martin fell—went—overboard, she, Mademoiselle Maistre, and I were keeping watch on deck. There