Gourmet Detective (34 page)

“I said there were a couple of items…” Hemingway said. “The other concerns the typewriter on which Leopold typed his suicide note.”

Raymond was still standing.

“The typewriter?” he asked perplexed. “Why is that important?”

“Typewriters have plastic keys today,” said Hemingway as if imparting information of great wisdom.

Everyone hung on his words but it was Benjamin Breakspear who interrupted. He had once played in a James Bond movie, I remembered, and he didn't intend to let anyone forget how much the role had taught him about police work.

“Fingerprints, eh, Inspector?” he said with a knowing smile.

Hemingway regarded him innocently.

“The fingerprints on the keys are those of Leopold and no one else.”

Deflated, Benjamin looked back sullenly.

“A great deal of progress has been made in recent years in the forensic identification of body fluids,” Hemingway continued. “They are present in the skin and can readily be transferred to other surfaces—especially absorbent surfaces such as typewriter keys. The body fluids that our forensic people picked up on those keys are definitely those of Leopold only but—”

The inspector paused and looked around the room. He must have studied acting at the Sahara Desert School of Dramatic Art.

“But those body fluids were transferred to the keys after Leopold had already died from botulin poisoning.”

There was a stunned silence. Even speculation was frozen.

Finally, Vito Volcanini could contain his impatience no longer.

“What are you saying, Inspector?”

“I'm saying,” said Hemingway, “that the suicide note was typed by a dead man.”

A
FAINT RATTLE OF
pans could be heard from the kitchens. They were some distance away but the Great Room at the Lanchester Palace was so still that the shelling of a peanut would have reverberated like thunder.

Hemingway paused, perhaps awaiting comments or questions but there were none. He resumed speaking.

“Our first thought was that Larry Leopold had recovered consciousness after taking the botulin in the same way that Ivor Jenkinson had revived briefly. Psychologically, it seemed unlikely—if he wanted to write a suicide note he would have done so before drinking the botulin. Scientifically, it was even more unlikely. The forensic lab ran further tests—they had no doubt whatever that Leopold was dead—thoroughly dead—when he typed the note.”

Hemingway paused then added: “Or perhaps I should say ‘when his body fluids were transferred to the typewriter keys'.”

“Transferred?” The word floated out of the assembly from an uncertain source.

Hemingway nodded. “There is only one explanation. The note was typed using gloves then Leopold's fingers were pressed on the keys.”

There was another silence but this time it was broken more quickly. It was François who called out in an unsteady voice:

“Then Larry did not write that note?”

“He did not.”

“Did he—did he commit suicide?”

“No, he did not. He was murdered.”

No silence this time but incredulous gasps and then a babble of outraged comments.

Maggie McNulty's voice was the first to cut through the forest of sound.

“Then it's not solved at all!” she cried. “Now you've got two murders to solve!”

The rising hubbub would have unnerved many a lion-tamer or prime minister but Inspector Hemingway looked cool and efficient. Unless I was mistaken, he was more—he was confident. He waited until the bedlam died down.

“I referred earlier to an accomplice. Ivor Jenkinson used several freelance helpers in his investigations. One of them was a photographer—a real paparazzo—who knew all the tricks. He took a lot of photographs including, as we now know, some that were in the envelope that you handed to Ivor Jenkinson just before the dinner. Mr St Leger—”

The inspector turned in his direction. “You have continually maintained that you did not know what was in that envelope.”

“I didn't. I collected it from Scarponi and brought it to IJ as he told me to do. I didn't open it.”

“We have been to the laboratory where Scarponi had his work processed. They said that Scarponi always took the negatives. He knew all the tricks, as I said.”

“Then why don't you ask Scarponi what was on the photographs?” asked St Leger.

“He says they were shots he had taken of Leopold. Some had other people on them but no one he recognised.”

“From the way IJ looked at them,” said St Leger slowly,
he
did.”

“Can we come back to you now, Miss Aldridge?” asked Hemingway unexpectedly.

Sally looked back at him. From where I was sitting, I could only see her profile. She looked tense.

“You were a close friend of Alessandro Scarponi, weren't you?”

Sally nodded.

“Friend!” muttered Nelda.

“I have no intention of prying into your private life, Miss Aldridge, but as you were living with Scarponi for a time, he must have shown you many of these photographs.”

“Why should he?” asked Sally carelessly.

“Because, as he told us, he didn't recognise everyone on them. What more obvious than to ask you? You knew every face in the restaurant and food business.”

Hemingway went on, speaking directly to Sally now.

“With Larry Leopold's death, it was obvious that he had been the one sabotaging Le Trouquet d'Or. Who then was doing the same thing at Raymond's?”

Heads turned in Raymond's direction, including mine. He sat immobile.

“Miss Aldridge,” asked the inspector, “in the photographs which showed Larry Leopold, did you recognise anyone who was associated with Raymond's?”

“Yes,” said Sally quietly.

“Did you identify this person to Scarponi?”

“Of course not,” said Sally, regaining some of her usual spirit.

“Why ‘of course not'?”

“He was in the business too—I didn't want him taking my story. If he didn't use it himself, he would have sold it to the highest bidder.”

“And what was that story?”

“It would have shown the feud between Raymond and François in a new light.”

“Miss Aldridge,” said Hemingway, his tone hardening, “in our discussions with you, you have never mentioned this person to us. Why not?”

“I was still holding on to the story so I could use it. It was good gossip. Besides, it has nothing to do with the police.”

“It has everything to do with us,” said Hemingway sternly. “Now please point out this person.”

Opposite me, Klaus was holding his breath. Even Nelda was wide-eyed. There couldn't have been a person in the room who wasn't one or the other.

Sally stood, reluctantly.

Her finger reached out and she pointed to Paula Jardine.

I couldn't see Paula well, only her lustrous red hair.

“What did you conclude from the photographs, Miss Aldridge?” The inspector was inexorable.

“That Paula and Larry were—well, very good friends. There were several pictures of them together. Alessandro is an expert in his line of work.”

Sally sat abruptly, clearly unwilling to say more.

“Well, Miss Jardine?”

I couldn't believe it. Nor it seemed could anyone else.

When Paula answered, her voice was cool.

“Very well, Inspector. I suppose I have to admit our relationship. Larry and I have been lovers for some time. We didn't want it publicly known because it might affect the image of two duelling restaurants that Raymond and François have worked so hard to build up.”

“H'm.” Hemingway's comment was dismissive. “Lovers, you say. Not partners?”

“Certainly not,” said Paula, still cool as ice. “Oh, I knew Larry was ambitious and wanted to achieve so much more. I knew he was laying plans of some kind but he didn't tell me what they were. He wouldn't, of course. Our restaurants were in competition with one another.”

“And you were not his accomplice?” Hemingway persisted.

“That's ridiculous.” Contempt for the idea spiked Paula's answer.

She might be cool but Hemingway's temperature was comparable.

“I believe you,” he said.

I don't know who else gasped but I did.

“I believe you,” he repeated. “You were not Leopold's accomplice—he was yours. You were the instigator, the prime mover, the planner. You were the Lady Macbeth. I don't know which of you put the botulin in Ivor Jenkinson's drink before the Circle of Careme dinner but it was you who put it in Leopold's. Was he getting cold feet? You probably hadn't intended to kill IJ at first but then you found he knew too much. So it was very convenient to get Leopold out of the way and plant the entire guilt on him. That way, you could go through with the original plan alone.”

Paula was on her feet now. She looked splendid as with flashing brown eyes and heaving breasts she protested her innocence.

“This is absurd! I don't know who his accomplice was but it's preposterous to accuse me!”

Another person was standing now. It was Roger St Leger and he was angry.

“So that's why you came to my house that day! To get me drunk! All those questions! It wasn't me at all, was it? You wanted to find out if I'd seen those photos before I gave them to IJ. I hadn't but you didn't believe me at first. You probably had some of that poison with you in case I suspected you!”

Hemingway's plan was working. This was just the kind of corroboration he wanted and it was clear that the whole room knew it. The look that Paula flashed him said all too plainly that St Leger had had a lucky escape. She carried it off beautifully though. The look was gone in a second and she was herself again, all charm and outraged innocence.

But I knew and reluctantly I began adding up the other corroborating factors that I could supply.

Apparently protective of her uncle, she had cleverly hinted that “accidents could happen—even in the best restaurants”, and leaving him to be suspected of either inefficient and unsanitary operation or involvement in the sabotage at Le Trouquet d'Or. She had continued to toss suspicion in all directions—at St Leger “I hear he may take over IJ's programme”—and at Sally “her radical ideas—bad for the restaurant trade—may put us all out of business”.

And me! She had used me just as she had used St Leger—to find out what I knew. My vanity was bruised even worse than his for I realised why she had telephoned me from Larry Leopold's house rather than the police—if there were any clues to be trampled then an amateur like me was more likely to do it. She had even disputed the concept of a feud because she wanted to maintain the image of two sloppily-run restaurants.

She was magnificent though. I had to admit it even now as she faced Hemingway, spreading out her hands in a supplicant gesture of unfair accusation.

“If you are going to arrest me, Inspector, you will be making a very grave mistake.”

“Arrest you!” Hemingway looked appalled at the suggestion. “Miss Jardine, I am Food Squad. I can't even arrest people for selling broccoli with too much Vitamin K in it! I couldn't arrest you—not if you were spraying oranges with DDE!”

For the first time, Paula looked taken aback. She had not expected this but she rallied instantly.

“In that case, I can sue you and Scotland Yard for making false and malicious accusations!”

“I am not making any accusations of any kind,” said Hemingway suavely. His “would I do such a horrible thing” look was very convincing.

“I have closed the case as far as the Food Squad is concerned. I sent the file to the Department of Public Prosecutions yesterday and I will be forwarding today's additions in the morning.”

“You haven't heard the last of this!” stormed Paula. She was about to rage on but the inspector stopped her with a raised hand.

“You haven't heard the last of it either. There is one more request that will be made of you.”

“Request?” said Paula uncertainly.

“Yes. I have recommended that you be invited to a test for Tintilinum botulinum exposure.”

She said nothing, her body rigid.

“As most people know today, a simple test of a hand will determine if it has fired a gun within recent weeks—the gunpowder blowback remains in the skin. Similarly, anyone who has handled a botulin as virulent as Tintilinum retains traces of the bacteria for a similar length of time.”

Paula gave out a sound like a sob then quick as a flash, she kicked away her chair and ran for the nearest door. Winnie and the inspector started in her direction then stopped as she put a hand into her purse and came out with a small glass bottle.

“Keep back!” she shouted. She pulled out the stopper then fumbled behind her for the door handle. She wrenched the door open and slipped through it—only to re-emerge with the arm of a burly police constable around her waist.

She was still not finished. She turned her head aside and flung the contents of the bottle full in the policeman's face. There were shrieks and cries as the policeman staggered back, releasing his grip. Paula disappeared.

The inspector and Winnie came running to the policeman's side and I followed. He was clawing at the wall, unable to see and Hemingway pulled him away gently. Winnie's reaction seemed strange. She stood sniffing then she bent and picked up the bottle that Paula had dropped. She sniffed it and held it out.

“The cunning bitch,” she said in tones befitting a sergeant but not a well brought-up young lady. “It's Chanel Number 5.”

A second constable hurried in and Hemingway addressed him hurriedly. “See that this man gets attention. Let no one out.” To Winnie and me, he snapped, “Come on!”

We went pelting along the corridor and it led directly to one of the kitchens. We poured in through the swinging doors and there was no need to ask any questions. A young kitchen helper sat on the floor, bewildered. The liquid contents of a large pan were all over the floor.