Gourmet Detective (25 page)

The next letter stated:

“We are opening a restaurant to be called The Duck Press. We plan to feature Caneton à la Presse as a special. Where can we obtain a genuine duck press?”

That was an intriguing one. The traditional recipe called for roasting the duckling and sending it directly to the table. There, the legs were removed and discarded and the rest of the bird was carved. The carcass was chopped and put into the duck press with some red wine and a little brandy.

Duck presses must be rare today for they are made of pure silver so as not to affect the taste. A few restaurants by that name might remain—I recalled an outstanding one some years ago in Los Angeles, on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. More work for Michael.

I wrote it all out for Mrs Shearer, dropped the package off with one of her girls and headed for Chelsea.

The bookshop near Sloane Square was packed with more people than you could squeeze into Stamford Bridge football stadium. Sally had certainly had some great publicity but in fairness, her previous books had all been best-sellers so it was not surprising that there was a huge turnout here.

The babble of voices wasn't quite as deafening as the cheer going up at Stamford Bridge when Chelsea scored the winning goal two minutes from time but it was deafening. I fought my way through the doorway where the crowd was already spilling out on to the pavement. Most had glasses in their hands and the others were battling their way inside.

A tray of hors d'oeuvres came sailing through the air held high by a skinny uniformed wrist with no visible means of support. The tray was emptied within seconds and another appeared behind it. The clatter of conversation was pierced by barks of laughter and shrill cries of recognition as old friends, enemies, rivals and competitors greeted each other. An occasional argument erupted and reminiscences filled the air like locusts.

Several faces looked familiar but in the pressure of the noisy crowd, a nod, a wave or a verbal greeting that was swept away into oblivion were all that could be accomplished. I found myself shoulder to shoulder with an attractive woman with orange hair, a very low-cut lacy kind of dress and an uninhibited expression.

“Aren't you with the
Spectator?”
she asked.

“Funny,” I said. “I thought you were.”

“God, no. I just come to these things for the drinks—and the men,” she added with an appraising stare. I could see her mind making ticks in “for” and “against” columns.

“Ever get hold of any?”

“Men?” she asked eagerly.

“No, drinks—ah, there they are, excuse me—” I forced my way through the throng and whisked a glass of sparkling liquid from a passing tray.

“Neatly done,” said an elderly man with grizzled grey hair and a weatherbeaten face. “Survival of the fittest here, isn't it?”

“No matter how many waiters they have, seems like you still have to forage for your own.”

“I didn't mean that,” the man said. “I was referring to your escape from Ursula. You did that very smoothly.”

“She a writer?”

“Works in the Hanson empire somewhere.”

“Is he in publishing too?”

The man laughed. “Might be. He's in everything else—but then so is Ursula.”

I examined the man's face again. “You look familiar,” I said. “Excuse my lack of originality. With women, I try to do better than that.”

The man looked rueful. “I took off across the South Atlantic in my thirty-footer when I found that too many people were recognising me. Now I may have to go again.”

“Not on my account,” I grinned. “You're Rollo Sterling, the single-handed yachtsman. I've read a couple of your books. Great stuff—I could feel the spray.”

“Thanks. Rather sail than write but unfortunately it's necessary to do one in order to do the other.”

“You know Sally?” I asked him.

“Sally?” A surge of the crowd pulled him away but he came back.

“Sally Aldridge—the Queen for the Day.”

“Oh, her up there signing? Seems to love it—used to hate it myself. No, I don't know her, we have the same publisher that's all and he twists my arm to show up at these functions.”

“Sally does lap it up,” I agreed.

“Know her well, do you?”

“Pretty well.”

“Well as I know Ursula?”

“How well is that?” I parried.

“Married to her once. In fact, she insists that she should get credit for my first round-the-world voyage. She may be right too. It was about that time I was ready to do anything to get away from her.”

A hand pulled at his arm and as he turned, his expression lit up with recognition. He gave me a wave and was gone.

I took another sip. It wasn't bad, not vintage but that could hardly be expected with this many people. Someone jogged my elbow and I spilled the rest.

“Sorry,” said a voice. “My fault—let me get you another.”

I laughed. “Optimist!” but before I could turn, my benefactor had done exactly that and a full glass was in his hand.

He was balding, heavily-built but active looking.

“You must have pull to do that,” I said.

“You're lucky I was around. We're cutting the drinks off in ten minutes. Too many freeloaders coming in.”

“When what you want is bookbuyers.”

“That's what I want.” He stuck out a hand. “Don Stone.”

I identified myself. I recognised his name. “Sally's publisher.”

“One of the partners, yes.” He studied me. “Which are you—a freeloader or a book buyer?”

“Neither. Just an old friend of Sally's.”

He nodded.

“You've got a hot property there,” I told him.

“Yes, she's one of our best meal tickets.”

“Long may she reign.”

“It's a precarious business,” he said. “You a writer?”

“No, no.”

“Publishing?”

“Certainly not. You really know how to hurt a person, don't you?”

He laughed. “Didn't think you could be or I'd know you.” He went on in a more serious voice. “Don't mind me. I'm having a suspicious day today.”

“Suspicious of what?”

“Everybody. Some outfit's trying to lure Sally away from us. Could be some bastard here—might have been you.”

“I can assure you it isn't. But didn't she sign a new contract with you recently?”

“Publishers and their writers are like husbands and wives—they all want somebody else's.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Because I was talking to a person the other day who suggested the opposite.”

“Opposite how?”

“They thought it was you wanting to get rid of Sally.”

He said nothing but kept looking at me. I decided to go a step further.

“Restaurants can put that much pressure on, can they?”

He shook his head. “Don't know what you mean.” His expression didn't change though. “Enjoyed talking to you.” He was still looking at me as he moved away.

I squeezed past a good-looking woman in a sequinned black dress. She was saying, “I didn't really want to come here today but I would have been furious if I hadn't been asked.” She turned and smiled as if she would have liked me to squeeze past her again but the human tide had me and I floated by.

Then I saw it—an oasis. I pushed through the gibbering, gesticulating natives and came upon it, a haven of peace and tranquillity.

It was really just a small clearing in that jungle of noise and motion. It consisted of a table piled high with books, all the same one, and a diminutive figure seated, scribbling her name time after time.

I worked my way behind her and said, “Personally, I only read library books. After all, when you've read a book, what can you do with it?”

“You can throw it at somebody,” said Sally without moving her head or stopping signing.

“And your aim is good as I recall.”

Sally dashed off two more signatures. The line of requestors was temporarily vanquished. She swivelled in her seat to look at me.

“I don't see any scars. I should have used heavier books.”

“At least you're writing heavier books. How many pages do you have here? 500?”

“Only 469.” Her face crinkled in a welcoming smile. “Nice of you to come. Not your kind of thing, is it?”

I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Always support worthy causes.”

“Liar. You didn't support me.”

“That was because you always made more money than I did. Sally, you look great.”

“You're lying again but I like it.”

She did look good. Her dark hair had an untamed appearance that was probably the result of hours in the beauty shop. Her small face had an elfin charm, just enough little girl in it to persuade you that she was sweet and innocent. Not at all obvious was the steely resolve to do whatever she set out to do and do it supremely well.

“You seem to have another hit,” I said, indicating the stacks of books.

“Coming out in the States next month, simultaneously in hardback and paperback. Should do well there.” She examined me more carefully. “What about you? Still gourmet detecting? You look well. Must be taking care of yourself. Undernourishment is never going to be a problem to you, is it?”

“I'm fine. I seem to be getting enough to eat.”

Her expression changed. “I didn't get the chance to talk to you at the Circle of Careme. Wasn't that an awful business?”

“Horrifying. I've never seen a man die once before—let alone twice.”

“I wonder what the police have found out.” Her eyes searched my face.

“Not too much as far as I know.”

“You've talked to them of course.”

“They've talked to me might be a better way to put it,” I said.

“And they're not making much progress?”

“Last I heard,” I said casually, “was that they're looking for some fellow called Alessandro Scarponi.”

I didn't need to be Mike Hammer to spot the reaction to that. She gasped, turned pale under her make-up and bit her lip.

“Know him, do you?”

She nodded. “I did. I used him for some photographic work—he's a freelance and a very good photographer. We became friends—went out together a few times.”

“Seen him lately?”

She shook her head.

“Know where he lives?”

“No. He used to live near King's Cross but I know he moved.”

“You know who else he worked for, don't you?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Ivor Jenkinson.”

She nodded, regaining her composure quickly.

“Sandro told me. Why are the police looking for him?”

I shrugged. “Just his connection with IJ. They're checking everybody known to have had any contact with him.”

“Oh.” It seemed to satisfy her.

“What about all these rumours concerning you?”

She was quite her normal self again.

“Which rumours?”

“Changing publishers.”

She frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

“A friend in the trade.”

Her face darkened. “Must be that nosy bitch Nelda. Is she using the present vindictive tense again?”

“Thought she was a friend of yours,” I said mischievously.

“I'm glad she's not. She picks her friends—to pieces.”

“Then she wouldn't tell any secrets about you?”

“With Nelda, secrets are always too good to keep.”

“So you're not thinking of changing publishers?”

“I keep an open mind about the future.”

“Even if it means breaking a contract?”

“They have lawyers to take care of that kind of thing.”

“Publishers have lawyers too,” I reminded her. “Aren't you afraid you might get dumped?”

Her eyes widened. “Listen,” she said and her voice rose, “this book is going to be a best-seller in several continents and twenty countries. Think they're going to dump me? If that's what that boozy, overdressed lesbian is saying about me, just let her put in in her column—I'll sue her so—”

Sally became aware that a small group was gathering around, whether to hear the rest of this fascinating diatribe or wanting to have books signed wasn't clear.

A wispy little man came bustling up and said in a surprisingly deep voice, “If you will all get into line, Miss Aldridge will be delighted to write a personal inscription in each book. Now please, will you—”

“Bye, Sally,” I said but she didn't hear me. She was turning on her best beam for her admiring public. I struggled through the mob and went in search of lunch.

I
HAD RECEIVED A
request a short time ago from a new Mexican restaurant just open in Hampstead. They wanted to know where to get quinoa, the protein-rich seeds of a high-altitude plant native to the Andes but used primarily in Mexican cooking. It resembles couscous but is much more nutty. I had to admit defeat in finding a European source but did manage to put them in touch with an old friend in Chile who could arrange direct shipment.

Ever since that episode, I had wanted to try their food and as I had time before my VDZH appointment—now was the opportunity.

The partners greeted me cordially. One was Mexican and the other his brother-in-law was English. The former was the chef and the Englishman ran the restaurant. It was a delightful place. The dining areas were on three levels and the walls and richly detailed ceilings were painted cream with a blue trim. Strikingly colourful wall hangings of Mexican tapestry decorated the walls and agaves stood in the corners.

I explained that I wanted a meal of several small courses so as to sample as many different dishes as possible.

“We call it Mod-Mex,” said Daniel. “Enrique prepares the basic food and I modify it wherever I think it necessary to suit the English palate. Not too much though.”