Gourmet Detective (27 page)

“I'm finding that out. You must long for lie-detectors.”

“In the meantime, it's just hard work.”

“You must have had background checks carried out on both Raymond and François,” I said. “Did you find out anything about the feud?”

“The Paris police sent us all they had but there's not a word about the cause of the feud or its nature. Of course, the police had no reason to be suspicious of either of them so we couldn't expect them to have much in their files.”

“You don't accept Raymond as a villain though?”

She looked prettily pensive for a moment.

“I don't think he's
THE
villain,” she said finally.

“Inspector Hemingway? What does he think?”

“He hasn't suggested any likely candidates to me.”

“Time's running out for him,” I reminded her.

“He knows it. He has something up his sleeve but I'm not clear what it is. Should know today or tomorrow.” She put her elbows on the table. “Now—tell me about VDZH.”

Again she listened attentively, not speaking until I had finished.

“You have a good memory,” she commented.

“Archie Goodwin could remember a long interview almost word for word. He never made a mistake and never forgot a thing.”

“Archie—? Oh, yes, Nero Wolfe's assistant. I've only read one of the books. So you got the impression from Mr Broodman that VDZH are contemplating furnishing venture capital to a restaurant or restaurants? And Ivor Jenkinson had talked to him because he had some reason to suspect that it was illegal in some way—and was going to expose it on one of his programmes?”

“An admirable summary.”

The waitress came by with a pot of coffee and we both had refills.

“So Broodman was left with the impression that you were acting for one of the principals?”

“I said nothing to suggest that—he jumped to that conclusion,” I told her quickly.

She smiled. “You're clever at that. NTV probably still think you're from the Yard.”

“Honest,” I said. “I haven't told—”

“It's all right,” Winnie said. “I believe you.”

“But on the subject of VDZH—”

“Yes?”

“Well, if there is a vast amount of money involved and if there is some plot afoot—”

“Go on.”

I took a deep breath and blurted it out.

“Am I in as much danger as IJ?”

“Are you asking for police protection?”

“Only if you can provide it personally,” I told her.

The smile came back. “Then you're not that worried. Good.”

“I am serious,” I said. “About the personal protection of course … but can you see VDZH rubbing anybody out?”

Winnie's smile widened. “Rubbing out! What a lovely euphemism! Has it been used since Edgar Wallace?”

“Seriously—”

“I don't think there's any risk—really.” Her eyes searched my face. “I'd tell you if I thought otherwise. I'll mention it to the inspector though and we'll get more run-down on VDZH—we'll see if the Banking Squad have picked up any rumours about them.”

“You told me to be careful, remember? Any reason?”

She shook her head. “No. Just in general.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'm relieved. Now how about Scarponi? Found him yet?”

“Not yet but we're close.”

“The sinister Dr F?”

Winnie shook her head. “We're further behind there. Don't have any ideas about him at all. You?”

“Nothing. I have another question though.”

“Go on,” she said.

“If it was deliberate poisoning, how was it done?”

Winnie nodded, pleased to be able to report some progress.

“We've been working on that. The poison in the lamprey is in glands in its mouth. This breaks down the muscle tissue of the fish it eats—and that includes shark. It's possible to culture the poison quite easily—”

“Easily?” I asked in alarm.

“We're keeping that information from the media and want to continue to do so. We don't want any copycat crimes—but yes, it's very easy.”

“But wouldn't someone need lots of lamprey to provide that much of the botulin?”

“We've been working on that too. We've checked every fishmonger in Greater London. A sale was made of 50 lbs. of lamprey a week before the Circle dinner. That's enough to provide poison to kill several people.”

“How long does it take to culture it?”

“A few days.”

“You investigated the sale naturally?”

“Yes,” Winnie said. “Cash. No record.”

“You've also checked, I'm sure, on the lamprey that was bought for the dinner. Could the botulin have developed through careless handling? Keeping it too warm … in unhygienic conditions …?”

“Yes. It was ordered 48 hours in advance as the preparation is quite lengthy.”

“So it is possible that it was just carelessness? And the other sale of lamprey was unconnected?”

Winnie shrugged. “About one chance in a thousand, the experts say. And Inspector Hemingway doesn't believe in those odds any more than he does in coincidence.”

“So where do you stand now?” I asked.

“We're making a detailed study of every person connected with both Raymond's and François' restaurants and everyone who's worked there in the past five years. We're making a similar study of every member of the Circle of Careme.” She made a wry face. “That's why I have to work tonight.”

“In that case,” I said, “my invitation to dinner is extended to tomorrow night.”

“M'm,” she murmured, considering. “I'll accept—but you'll have to understand that there may be a break in the case between now and then and I won't be able to get away.”

I nodded. “Otherwise—it's on?”

“Yes. Where?”

“I, er—have a modest reputation as a cook. I'd like to prepare a meal for you.”

Her eyebrows rose a fraction. She considered again.

She smiled. “All right. We'll view this discussion as strategic. Tomorrow, we can discuss tactics.”

“Any food dislikes? I gathered from our meal at La Bordighera that you like almost everything.”

“Anything,” she assured me. “There's one other question I must ask though—where are your investigations taking you next?”

“Oh, I'm not forgetting my duty to my client,” I said virtuously. “I'm going to stop by Le Trouquet d'Or tonight.”

“Just routine?”

“Yes. I may spend a half hour at Raymond's too. Nothing in particular.”

“You're not giving up on your suspicion of Raymond, are you?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Well, good luck. I must get back. What time tomorrow?”

“About eight?”

She flashed a smile. “Fine. See you then.”

During the tube ride back to Hammersmith, I made a list of the items I wanted for tomorrow night. I knew the markets which would still be open at this time although it meant several scattered visits.

I put some of the symphonic tone poems of Villa-Lobos on the CD as appropriate music to cook by. Originality was the quality of primary importance to Villa-Lobos when he wrote these and this makes them a good combination of music to listen to and music to hear—two different things.

At a suitable break-point, I drank a kir while stir-frying the scallops I had bought with some garlic and ginger. I ate these with some rice. Then I went back to preparation for tomorrow.

I had checked on the times for last orders at the places I was going to—11.30 at Raymond's and 12.00 at Le Trouquet d'Or. I wanted to arrive just after these had been taken, reasoning that anyone I talked to would be relaxed because the working day was almost over but also tired from a long day. In other words—vulnerable to questions.

So much for theory. Travis McGee never bothered with such niceties—he just went. But then he didn't take tube trains. At almost twelve o'clock, I was still sitting in the Gloucester Road station. The station announcer had said that there was an electrical fault on the line and it would be repaired in a short time. After fifteen minutes had dragged by, I left the train and found an official who knew nothing. I went out and took a taxi.

It was almost a quarter to one when we stopped at the corner by Raymond's restaurant. Two taxis were loading in front and my driver could get no nearer. From the corner, I could look down at the back door of the restaurant. In the narrow alley, a bulky figure was shuffling towards a waiting cab. The figure was so bulky that I couldn't be mistaken. It was Raymond. Something about his furtive manner and the back door exit seized my curiosity.

There cannot exist a single reader of fiction who has not wished that he could, just once, shout to a taxi driver “Follow that cab!” Readers of detective stories drool over the possibility, guzzlers of mystery fiction would forego the next six issues of the Sudden Death of the Month Club for the chance and all other readers from Barbara Cartland to Anthony Trollope and Armistead Maupin to Thomas Hardy must secretly wish it could happen to them.

Here was my opportunity. In fiction, they never had it so good as me. They had to look around frantically for a cab to appear as if by magic—I was already in one. I watched Raymond's cab pull away. My driver turned to see why I wasn't getting out. I pointed, took a deep breath and said it.

“Follow that cab.”

“Right, sir,” said the cabbie as if it happened to him several times a day. He reversed and turned down the alley, ruining the whole effect. I thought of asking him if he didn't find the request at least a little unusual but instead I just sat back, disappointed.

It was a short ride. Barely five minutes later, the lights of the cab ahead glowed.

“He's stopping, chief,” said my cabbie matter-of-factly.

“Stop here,” I told him.

Raymond climbed out of the cab. With his size, it was an effort. He handed the driver money then turned and went down the alley off James Street. I knew he wouldn't walk far but then I also knew where he must be going. I paid my cabbie and gave him an extra three pounds. He took it as if it were routine.

I watched Raymond as he stopped before a door. It was too dark to see any detail but it opened and he disappeared into Le Trouquet d'Or.

I
PONDERED THIS STRANGE
development. It didn't help and I was trying to decide if I should make a decision when I remembered that the key François had given me was still in my pocket.

A light drizzle had started and the alley was quiet. I took out the key and turned it in the lock. Inside, all was quiet. I went first to the restaurant areas. They were dark. A small night light enabled me to find my way to the kitchens.

They were dark too except for a yellowish light which filtered in through an alley window. It reflected off some highly polished stainless steel pans creating hulking shadows and bottomless pools of darkness. I edged my way slowly so as to make no noise. It's easy to make noise in a kitchen—everything clinks or clanks, tinkles or rattles, everything is metal or pot or glass.

I found my way over to the side of the big kitchen where the ovens were located. I thought there was a light switch there. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to turn it on and make sure that the shadows didn't contain other, more dangerous shadows which could—I was getting edgy. I forced myself to calm down then my fingers found the switch.

The kitchen sprang into normality. It looked just as it should. The shadows fled and I breathed normally again. There was no one here and nothing out of the ordinary—except…

I was standing before a large rack of knives. The bright light glistened on their shiny blades. What was strange about that? I wondered. “Nothing” seemed to be the answer and I was about to turn out the light when it struck me. I looked once more.

The last knife was missing. Judging from the others, it had a ten inch blade and my breath caught in my throat. Two deadly rivals, one prowling in the other's restaurant after hours—and one missing knife. I looked around more carefully and a lot more nervously. Still there was nothing. With an effort of will, I snapped off the switch. Only the offices were left and I made for François'.

The heavy door didn't permit any eavesdropping. I pressed my ear tightly against it but I wasn't sure if what I could hear was the murmur of voices or the blood pounding in my head. I didn't know what to do next. A knife missing—which of them had it? I examined the door—could I kick it down? No, the whole Liverpool football team couldn't do that if they kicked all day.

I was still pondering my next move when the door swung silently open.

It swung wide and gave me a view of Raymond, sprawled comfortably on one of the large couches and managing to occupy most of it. The table was spread with trays of food. An opened bottle of champagne stood there with two part-filled flute glasses. Raymond was regarding me but there was no surprise on his face.

François stepped into view from behind the door. He smiled gently, his battered boxer's features creased into good-humoured contours as he said:

“Come in, my dear fellow. Come in and join us in a glass of champagne.”

There was no ten inch knife in his hand or anywhere else that I could see. What was I to do? I went in.

The door closed behind me with a double click. I looked over my shoulder in time to see François turn the key in the lock and drop the key into his pocket. He went over to the wall where a red lamp glowed. He snapped a switch and it went out.

“There's a beam outside,” he explained. He motioned to one of the couches around the table.

“Sit down, sit down,” he invited. He went to the cabinet and took out another fluted glass which he brought to the table. I sat on the couch facing Raymond. François took the one between us and filled my glass from the champagne bottle. It was Louis Roederer Cristal, Cuvée de Prestige.