Crime Fraiche by Alexander Campion Read Free Book Online Page B

into channels cut into the perimeter. They all smiled at Martel and the guests with an air of forced enthusiasm.
    “Sorry, but there’s nothing to see in here right now. The abattoir starts early in the morning and shuts down around noon, and then they clean up until two or three,” Martel said. “Anyway, the interesting part is through here.” He led them through a curtain made of long strips of loose-hanging plastic.
    “The butchery atelier,” he announced. An army of beef carcasses hung in neat rows from four ceiling tracks. The room was just above freezing. Workers, made rotund by thermal vests under their bloodstained white coats, split the carcasses in two with rasping electric knives, buzzing like angry bees. “These guys produce what we call ‘sides.’ That’s what we sell to butchers, our bread-and-butter product,” he said, leading them through another plastic curtain.
    “Next, the sides are parked in this room here for a couple of weeks.” The temperature had dropped to close to freezing. “I’ll get you guys out of here in a sec,” Martel laughed. “The temperature can’t go above thirty-three degrees. See, one of the reasons the Elevage Vienneau is so famous is that we age our beef twenty-four days, a whole week longer than our competitors. It costs money and the meat loses a lot of weight, but it’s worth it in tenderness and flavor, believe you me!”
    Alexandre nodded his agreement with an encouraging grunt and hugged Capucine, who was beginning to tremble.
    “Of course, not all our meat is sold to butchers,” Martel went on. “Some of it goes to fancy restaurants, in what they call ‘retail cuts.’ To make those, the sides go back to the butcher and are cut up into sections the size restaurants will buy. The sections come back in here and sit for still another two weeks before they can go out the door.” Endless rows of nearly black slabs of beef were stored on stainless-steel racks behind a long glass wall.
    “ M’sieu’dame, right here you’re looking at our family jewels. This is the best beef in the world. But let’s get the hell out’a here before we turn into steaks ourselves,” he said with a ritual laugh.
    They emerged in a parking lot filled with dozens of meticulously aligned white refrigerated trucks marked with the Vienneau logo of a stylized Charolais bull. They climbed into the last vehicle in the lot, a white Renault Espace van decked out with the same logo, Alexandre in back with Devere and Capucine, while Bellanger, as if he were in charge, commandeered the front seat next to Martel.
    Martel drove slowly down a well-tended dirt road lined with more white wood fencing and commented on the contents of each field: brood cows, steers, isolated bulls. The estate seemed endless.
    In an effort to be polite Capucine asked Devere if he was finding his internship useful.
    “Oh, yes, madame,” he replied. “The Elevage Vienneau is at the state of the art. Why, we have growth rates equaled only in the United States, where they use hormones that are not allowed by the European Community. I’m learning all sorts of things.”
    Capucine smiled sweetly at Clément. “Have you figured out the secrets to the legendary quality of the Elevage Vienneau yet?”
    “Madame, I really don’t think there are any secrets. It’s all about attention to detail and, of course, love of the animals. For example, I learned that the growth rate has fallen off a bit since the passing of Monsieur Gerlier, you know, the general manager who died in a shooting accident about a week ago. It seems he was so attentive to the cattle that they are mourning him. Isn’t that amazing!”
    Martel barked a cynical laugh and shot Clément a look. “Clément is like a pig in choucroute here. That guy Jean Bouvard is coming to town tomorrow for another one of his damn demonstrations. He always manages to pull off a real show. You know, lots of police, a big crowd, TV cameras all over the place. It’s