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policemen are of no use to me. They already know all the ins and outs of the case and have prepared their answers. It is imperative I see them first. Have I made that perfectly clear?”
    â€œAnd what do you expect the police to do, monsieur le juge?”
    â€œDo what the police are intended to do, I suppose. Look into people’s bank accounts. Gossip with concierges. That sort of thing.” He paused, clearly at a loss for what else the police might be useful for. His face brightened. He’d had a brain wave. “Oh yes, of course, fingerprints. Definitely fingerprints. And don’t forget the DNA. We must be up to date. Scrape everything for DNA. It can be very useful evidence. There you are. Create dossiers. Be meticulous. Courts require thick dossiers filled with accurate information. It facilitates the conviction. Is that clear?”
    It was the second time that afternoon that Capucine was completely at a loss for words.

CHAPTER 6
    T he next morning Capucine woke in a bad mood. Over coffee she traced her mood to the fact that, despite herself, she was kowtowing to the juge’s strictures. Visiting the Brazilian embassy was infuriatingly within the dictates he had laid down.
    Fortunately, as she slid the diminutive Twingo into the middle of a diplomats-only no parking zone in front of the embassy, the imposing, solemn façade of the former mansion of the Schneider family of steel magnates restored her natural equanimity.
    The arrival of Wilson de Mello, the embassy’s cultural attaché, lit up the gloomy mahogany paneling of the reception room like a Carioca sunrise. As he caught sight of Capucine, he was clearly held in the grips of two conflicting emotions. One she was used to, the exaggerated attention her physiognomy seemed to provoke almost invariably in members of the opposite sex. The other took her a moment to identify. It was fear, and it won out hands down over the first.
    Mello was such a perfect caricature of a rich Ipanema Beach playboy that it was obvious he had secured his plum posting by virtue of his family’s position. It was easy to imagine him wearing bathing trunks under his well-tailored summer suit, ready for the surf and a chope with the garo-tas from the beach afterward. Capucine hoped that the vista of the gray Seine flowing sluggishly on the other side of the cours Albert Premier didn’t make him too homesick.
    With obvious trepidation, he led Capucine into a reception room filled with Brazilian Baroque antique furniture in lustrous jacaranda and with courtly grace invited her to sit across from him at a very elegant octagonal table. Capucine had to admit that even by French standards his manners were perfect.
    â€œSenhor de Mello,” Capucine said, “I’ve come to talk to you about curare and blowgun darts.”
    â€œI was afraid that was what it was about, Madame le Commissaire. The incident was as inexcusable as it was deplorable, and the embassy extends its most profound and humble apologies. We profoundly hope the French government understands no affront was intended. Quite the contrary.”
    â€œYou must be talking about those kids blowing darts into the portrait of the president. I heard about that, but that’s not what I’ve come to talk about. As long as the darts weren’t going into the president himself, it’s hardly a matter for the police. In fact,” Capucine said with a smile, “quite a few people would have been a lot happier if the darts had wound up in the president’s head.”
    Mello was transformed. He beamed almost from ear to ear. “What a relief. In my country the incident would have been considered treasonous or possibly even some form of lèse-majesté. The ambassador would probably have been recalled. My career would have been over.” He leaned over the table and took Capucine’s hand with sensual delicacy. “So how can I help you, dear madame? When my secretary