Gourmet Detective (13 page)

The blue-eyed sergeant answered that. “I'm seeing him later this morning. He didn't go home last night.”

“The other thing …” I was a little hesitant on this one and hoped it didn't show.

“Yes?” prompted the inspector.

“Just before the guests sat down at the table, Roger St Leger handed an envelope to IJ. He looked at it, seemed pleased by whatever was in it and put it in his pocket.”

Hemingway looked disappointed. “And what do you gather from that.”

“Well, the envelope wasn't in his pocket afterwards.”

I knew I had fluffed it as soon as it was out of my mouth. Hemingway put his arms on the desk and drummed on my file. The sergeant uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.

“Afterwards?” snapped Hemingway.

“You would have found it if there was an envelope in his pocket, wouldn't you?” I babbled.

Hemingway was speculative. “Yes, you were the one who let out that yell when IJ recovered, weren't you?”

“You were the closest to him?” asked the sergeant and I chose to answer her first.

“I suppose I was.” I would probably have implicated myself further only the sergeant said: “There was nothing like that in his pockets.”

I avoided Hemingway's eye. He drummed a few more seconds. I stole a glance at the sergeant. She still looked good enough to be the dessert at a royal banquet but she was looking at Hemingway and not at me.

“How many of the people there did you know?” the inspector asked and I was off the hook for the time being.

“I know Nelda Darvey, Sally Aldridge and Maggie McNulty.” At least that worked and the sergeant turned her gaze back to me. “I had carried out an assignment for Johnny Chang, I know Ted Wells—oh and Ellsburg Warrington and I have been on a few panels together. I have talked to Ray Burnaby on occasion at various wine tastings.”

“M'm.” The inspector's comment was as non-committal as a glass of tap water. “You're not too helpful, are you?” he asked abruptly.

It was rhetorical but I felt that some further emphasis might be in order. “Only because I can't tell you anything—the reason for that being I don't know anything. The first thing I'm going to do,” I added, “is to tell François that our deal is off. I mean, I didn't bargain for this.”

The merest glance was exchanged between the two of them but before I could attempt to analyse its meaning, Hemingway went on in a tone that was, for him, almost chatty.

“You were surprised that Scotland Yard has a Food Squad. Surely as The Gourmet Detective, you should have known that?”

“I only know food. I don't know anything about crime or Scotland Yard. Like I keep saying, I'm not a real detective.”

“The Food Squad gets calls for assistance from most of the squads at the Yard,” said Hemingway. “Fraud, Business, International, Banking—all of them interface with us from time to time.”

“That's interesting,” I said. I didn't know why he wanted to tell me all this.

“We supplied much of the evidence for a major legal battle, we contributed to the Stratford inquiry and we have investigated several of the brewery takeovers.”

I nodded at the photograph on the wall. “You were in on that too.”

“Yes. This Circle of Careme case though is a different matter entirely. Violence is rare in our field—almost unknown.”

“A violent death,” said the sergeant.

“The death of a prominent man.”

“In front of a large number of people,” completed the sergeant.

They made a good double act, I had to admit. Why, I wondered, was I the audience?

“So it's not just different, it's extraordinary—and at this stage, baffling,” Hemingway stated. “Which is why we need all the help we can get.”

I looked suspiciously from one to the other. “I don't know why you're telling me all this,” I said. “But I should have known you didn't invite me here for a cup of coffee.”

“You wouldn't like our coffee here at the Yard,” said Sergeant Fletcher sweetly. “It's a cheap Brazilian brand.”

“Well, if you're not offering coffee, I'll go—” I rose to my feet.

Hemingway didn't move a muscle. He just said quietly, “Sit down,” and I sat.

“But you accept that I know nothing that would help you.” I didn't have much protest left but I would use what I had. “And I told you I can't make any more suggestions. So why don't you let me get out of here and you can both go back to work solving the mystery.”

The sergeant's blue eyes had cooled. Hemingway's expression hadn't changed much but then it hadn't ever.

“I was puzzled by the initials P.I.E. in your file,” the inspector commented.

Another change of direction. I was getting bewildered.

“So I asked the sergeant and she explained.” I waited. “So you're a private eye fan?”

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“Yet you insist that you're not trying to act as one.”

He was back on that tack again. “I do insist,” I said stoutly. “I don't have a licence or anything. I just accepted this job and I wish I hadn't. I'm a food detective—not a private detective. Fictional private eyes are just a hobby.”

“Scotland Yard has the final decision when it comes to licensing private detectives,” Hemingway informed me. “We don't like them involved in our investigations—once a case is in our hands, we want them out of it.” He stared at me. “Do you understand?”

“Absolutely,” I said quickly. “No need to worry about me. I'll be glad to get out of this thing and stay out.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” the inspector said. The pert sergeant ventured the tiniest of smiles. I began to breathe easily again.

Hemingway picked up my folder. Good, I thought, he's going to file it and forget me. Instead, he slapped it down on his desk so hard it sounded like a gunshot and I leaped half out of my seat.

“Except I don't want you out. I want you in.”

I
GOGGLED
.

“Unfortunately, you're in a unique position,” Hemingway said. Was there just a hint of regret in his voice? “You were there at the time of death, you know many of the people present, you are at home in the environment—and perhaps most important of all, you were already involved in an assignment which may be connected.”

The sergeant's red-lipped smile was back. The inspector regarded me rather as a snake regards a rabbit.

“It's not really a unique position I'm in,” I stammered. “It's unfortunate—not just for me, well, me too but I don't see how—”

“You are going to help us,” Hemingway purred. “You are going to continue your assignment and you are going to tell us all you learn which may be connected with IJ's death. Anything, everything, however minute or seemingly irrelevant.”

“I don't think I want to—”

“I'm not asking what you want.” This inspector could be terrifying.

“It's best you co-operate,” said the sergeant gently. “The inspector is not a man to cross.”

What could I say? Not very much but I had to salvage an ounce of pride.

“If I'm to pass along all I learn and if we're co-operating then it means you'll tell me what you learn.”

“That's not the inspector's proposal.” Sugar wouldn't have melted in the delightful sergeant's mouth but whose side was she on anyway? Don't answer that, I told myself.

“But that's not fair!” I objected.

“I didn't say a word about being fair,” said Hemingway. He was rapidly becoming one of my least favourite people.

“We don't expect you to work in the dark,” he went on. “We'll see you get any information that seems relevant. If we hold any items back, it will be because you have no need to know.”

“I'll think it over, of course…” I said generously.

“You don't have to do that,” retorted Hemingway. “This isn't a take it or leave it proposition.”

“It's more of a like it or not proposition,” the sergeant explained. She wasn't making any points with me either. She was trying to make up for it though—she gave me her full red lipped smile. “You're in, Mr Gourmet Detective!”

I felt like a very small fly in a very strong web. More struggling would not get me out, it might enmesh me more tightly. Besides, the inspector was speaking again.

“In mystery fiction, the private eye and the official detective are always at loggerheads. The private eye goes merrily on his way, breaking the law, bending the rules, intimidating witnesses, motivated only by sex and money and solving the crime only by luck and blundering.” He paused then asked quizzically, “Am I right?”

“One hundred per cent,” I agreed. “The official detective, on the other hand, is pompous, pedantic, stifled by red tape and a lack of imagination. Oh—” I added, “—and solving the crime only by luck and blundering.” I waited a second. “Am I right?”

To his credit, Hemingway nodded amiably. “Sounds as though the criminal is unfortunate to be caught in either event, doesn't it?” He wagged a finger at me. “The point is—it's not going to be that way with us. You are going to help us and you are going to co-operate. Don't step on our toes—just continue your investigation as if IJ's death hadn't happened.”

“But—” added the sergeant briskly, “don't lose sight of the fact that it did.”

“How exactly are you treating this investigation?” I wanted to know.

“It's simply an investigation at this point. When we get the forensic results later, we may know more where we're going. Until we have evidence to the contrary however, we are going to handle it as we would a murder investigation.”

I had wanted to be out, no question about it. Now that I was in though, I couldn't help feeling a glow of excitement. Me—investigating a murder! Just like Philo Vance … well, maybe more like Archie Goodwin—but I was investigating. I sublimated my glee, may as well keep up a reluctant front.

The inspector was saying, “—And so in order to maintain close communications, I am going to assign Sergeant Fletcher to be your contact. Keep in close touch with her and keep her informed of your whereabouts at all times.”

Maybe today was my lucky day after all. Being a private eye—I mean a real one, might have been a hidden fantasy but now it had come true. Keeping in touch—he had said close touch—with the sergeant could be another fantasy. I hadn't really wanted to be trapped in this business but we all have to make sacrifices.

“Yes, Inspector,” I said meekly, trying to sound reluctant.

He nodded again. He was more human now that he had established his position of control. “One more thing …”

“Yes, Inspector?” I invited.

He pushed something across the desk. It was the menu for the banquet at the Circle of Careme. “Lamprey and pork?”

“And then a man dies,” commented the sergeant.

“Is it a menu you'd recommend?” asked Hemingway.

“Possibly not,” I said. “But a chef of the stature of François has to strive constantly for originality.”

“You wouldn't say there's an element of hazard in serving lamprey and pork?”

“It can't have any significance,” I said. “How could it?”

“I'm always suspicious of coincidence,” Hemingway said.

“What about the other guests? Any of them report any symptoms?”

“Five,” said the sergeant. “They've all been checked at St Cyril's.”

“They're still in hospital?”

“No, they've all been released.”

“What was wrong with them?”

“We'll have that report too, along with the other on IJ and all the foodstuffs and drink in the banquet room and the kitchen.”

The inspector pulled back the menu. It seemed the interview—or the recruitment—was over. His purposeful face, the small clipped moustache and the determined expression in those piercing eyes made him seem all the more like the stern commandant of the Foreign Legion fort… only now he took on a resemblance to the same commandant who is sending an unwilling “volunteer” on a suicidal mission across the empty desert—well, empty except for thousands of bloodthirsty Arabs. It was a false analogy, I told myself…

“It's interesting that you're such a fan of PIs,” he went on and his tone was a little lighter. “I enjoy reading novels about the official detectives.”

He was getting more and more human all the time. Of course, he could afford to now.

“Perhaps it's because the official detective usually gets a raw deal in fiction. Too often, as you said, he is portrayed in an unfavourable manner. Where the private eye is intuitive, the official detective is incompetent—where the one can take short cuts, the other has to abide by bureaucratic procedures.

“But fiction seldom gives credit to the official detective—not even those who operate without tripping over private eyes.”

“Novels which contain both detectives have necessarily to show the official as a bungler,” I agreed. “So that the PI can look good by comparison.”

“Exactly.”

“So it's reasonable that when the official detective is on his own as the crime-solver, he needs to be more competent, more efficient, more—”

“More realistic,” Hemingway supplied.

“Touché,” I admitted. “You're right though. Who are your favourites?”

“Morse and Wexford among the current crop.”

“Cuff?”

“I have the greatest respect for him but perhaps more for Steve Carella. The 87th Precinct is a hot-bed of crime.”

“That brings in the other dimension—the surroundings of a family life,” I said. “An image which suits the official detective but is all wrong for the private eye.”

“That's why I like Carella,” said the inspector. “He's more real and that deaf and dumb wife is different enough to be memorable.”