Witness from the Café

Inspector Hervé Mathieu spoke patiently. He’d never had a murder with so many witnesses on the spot. This was also a group of intelligent witnesses. He should be able to get some good leads from them. He just needed Jean-Michel to get here from his meeting in La Défense. Jean-Michel knew all these people and would be a better interrogator. Especially of Madame Amy Page, who seemed to be a witness in every important case that happened on the usually quiet Ile Saint-Louis. Funny, he still thought of her as Madame Page. Amy set aside her notes for an article on cafés and tried to think about what she had seen. Not much. General Sébastien Reboursier had simply dropped dead. He had keeled over. Right onto his half-eaten croissant. Félix Dubois and Marcel de Montvalont had jumped up. Marcel said he remembered his army training and Félix said he knew CPR because one of his duties at the lycée had been to teach first-aid. They immediately said that the general was dead and it was probably poison. Both priests had then knelt by the body and said they agreed. The general was dead. Corinne had immediately telephoned the Préfecture and announced calmly that someone had been murdered in her café. Because it was the Ile, Mathieu was promptly notified. He arrived with several others within a few minutes, and they were soon followed by an ambulance from the hospital on the Ile de la Cité. Mathieu wanted to know first off why Corinne had called the police. Why did she think it was a murder and not a death from natural causes, such as a heart attack? Corinne Avouche had answered Mathieu in a commanding voice. “Two reasons. First, Félix Dubois and Marcel de Montvalont shouted that the general’s skin was bright pink, a sure sign of cyanide poison, and Pierre Richard and Father Moreau agreed. Second, there’s his medical history. Ever since his wife died last year, the general has come here for breakfast every morning. He always orders a large orange juice, café au lait, two croissants, and marmalade. Always. He arrives promptly at 9:00 a.m. with a copy of Le Monde and he sits at table number 3. Always. And each morning I ask him how he is. Last week he told me that he had just seen his internist and that he was in excellent shape for his age, although he should try to lose fifteen pounds. He hoped I had a sugar substitute for his morning coffee and said he would also omit marmalade on his croissant. He planned to extend his walking path to include not just the two islands but the quays on the other side of the river. Combine that with the odd skin color, Inspector! I’m just sure he didn’t die of natural causes, so someone must have killed him, but I don’t know who. And why here in my café?”