Gourmet Detective (6 page)

François moved his position slightly. The chair made no protest. “Oh but it is,” he said softly. “Very serious indeed.”

I would have groaned but my parched throat wouldn't have allowed it. I swallowed so that I could speak.

“But you're a great chef—you have conceived so many great dishes—”

“You know who I am?” He sounded more pleased than surprised. I was relieved—even the most important people respond to a little flattery and I needed all the help I could get.

“Of course,” I assured him. “Everyone knows you.” I was laying it on a little thick but the exaggeration was pardonable under the circumstances. He nodded, not with pride but rather with the confidence that comes from the recognition that one's talents are known and appreciated.

“I have been told that you are the man I should talk to,” he said and even those chilling words didn't prevent me from noting that his English was without accent. Nevertheless, my body temperature dropped several degrees because I had another irrelevant thought. I had just remembered the other job he had had besides prizefighting. He had been a butcher.

“My business has been a little slow lately,” I pleaded. “When a good assignment comes up, I take it. I mean, I have to, I can't afford to say no.”

“I hope you're not going to say no to me.” His slightly gravelly voice was softer yet. Was it with menace? I tried not to shiver.

“Things are picking up now though,” I told him hurriedly. “I'm getting quite busy. Anyway, you're not concerned about the past, it's over and done with. It doesn't matter who or what—”

He cut in smoothly. “Let me tell you why I am here and then you can judge whether you really want to say no to me.”

I was getting desperate. His cool calm manner was infinitely more terrifying than any threats.

“Some activities of a detective—well, any kind of detective really—are not always evident to the outsider,” I rushed to explain. “What may seem like trickery and deception may be merely observation and deduction. No puzzle can be devised but that someone can't find the answer. No code can be invented that can't be broken—” I broke off. He was looking at me strangely. I plunged on anyway, “—and no recipe has ever been created that can't be re-created.”

“Re-created?” he said as though baffled. He went on in a firmer tone. “Someone is trying to put me out of business.”

“Surely you're mistaken!” It was fatuous but it simply blurted out. How could one recipe put him out of business?

He shook his head again, very firmly. His eyes were grim and his mouth was tight and determined. That pugnacious chin jutted out as he said, “No. I'm not mistaken. Someone is trying to put me out of business.”

I was really in trouble and I knew it. Worse, I didn't have a clue on how I was going to get out of it. But how had he found out? Had one of the staff recognised me? A customer even? Perhaps Raymond had been seen leaving my office? Otherwise, how …

François was speaking again. “Let me tell you what has happened at Le Trouquet d'Or during the past few weeks. Shipments of food items have been diverted—always vital ingredients for certain popular dishes. Mice were found in the kitchen the morning of a visit by a food inspector. VAT records disappeared and were never found.” His voice was bitter and I found I was holding my breath. We looked at each other. Neither spoke. Then I asked in a croaky voice “Anything else?”

His eyes widened. “Isn't that enough?”

I let out a sigh of relief that rustled the unpaid bills on my desk. At the same time, I coughed to hide the sigh of relief and the combination wasn't pleasant. I didn't care. He didn't know! He didn't know about Raymond or about Oiseau Royal! I felt ten years younger and was so pleased that I said genially, “And what do you want me to do?”

François smiled for the first time since he had been in my office. “I knew you'd accept the assignment. Only a man with your detailed knowledge of food and restaurants could take it on. I want you to find out who is trying to put me out of business and why.”

I had put my foot in the trifle and no mistake. I tried to backtrack hastily. “Ordinarily I would be delighted to help you but as I said I'm very busy right now—”

He went on as if he had not heard me. “The first question you're going to ask me is if I have any ideas on who might be behind this—well, I don't. I have competitors naturally—”

I was so elated at being off the hook that I went boldly where I might not otherwise have gone. “Raymond in particular?”

He said nothing for a moment. He looked at his knuckles. They looked scarred and formidable from where I was sitting and I was glad he was here as a restaurateur looking for help rather than as an ex-prizefighter disgruntled at having his pet recipe taken from under his nose.

“It's no secret that Raymond and I are competitors.”

“Rivals, would you say?”

“Rivals certainly.”

“Enemies?”

He hesitated. He sighed and then said, “Many years ago, there was an incident between us … since that time a gulf has divided us—” he broke off. He seemed to be considering whether to say more but when I couldn't wait any longer I asked:

“Enough of a gulf that he might want to put you out of business?”

He spread his hands in a Gallic gesture that meant he wasn't going to answer this one at all.

“Especially after so many years?”

He looked at his knuckles again. Perhaps he wanted to punch somebody with them. Was it Raymond or was it me?

“If I could tell you anything helpful, I would. But I can tell you nothing useful at all, I'm afraid.” His manner seemed sincere enough. “That incident I referred to with Raymond—well, there's really nothing there either—I mean nothing with any relevance to this affair.”

The tough private eye always growled, “Best let me be the judge of that” but I didn't think that would work with François. Besides, now that I knew François wasn't there to pin me to the wall for unmasking the secrets of Oiseau Royal, I was breathing a little easier although I still wasn't sure I wanted this job.

“Actually I'm not that kind of detective,” I told him. “What I do is—”

“Oh, I know what you do,” François said. “And you do it very well. You're the man who found a new source of lotus leaves for Johnny Chang.”

I wasn't too worried about him knowing that. It was good publicity when the occasional commission was leaked.

“Yes, I am. So you can see that I'm not really the kind of detective you want.” I said it in my most persuasive voice. It was as ineffective as recommending a Ploughman's Lunch with pickles to a ploughman.

“I told you I need a man who is well-informed about food and restaurant procedures.”

“If it's an investigator you want, try Knightsbridge Inquiry Agency,” I suggested. “They're very reliable, their reputation is—”

“What do they know about food?”

“Everybody knows something about it—”

“Do they know as much as you?”

Honesty was pushing me towards saying “no” whereas self-preservation was yelling “yes, yes”. I was still trying to reconcile the two when François was saying:

“I won't take no for an answer. I love my work as a chef, I love my restaurant. No one can take them away from me—I'll do whatever I must to protect them.” He eyed me almost accusingly. “You must feel the same way. You can't want to see a place like mine forced out of business.”

“Of course I don't but—”

“Or a restaurateur of my calibre being humiliated.”

“It would be unfair—”

“Who knows if the same underhanded tactics might be used on another restaurant—and another—and another? It could affect the whole culinary scene!”

So I wasn't as tough as Mike Hammer. I was weakening and François knew it. With masterly timing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cheque book. Grabbing at any straw, I asked feebly: “You've received no threatening notes? Ransom to be paid—anything like that?”

“Nothing. No.” He pulled out a pen. “What are your fees?”

From wondering how I was going to get through the rest of the month financially, suddenly money was pouring in, first Raymond and now François. I had run out of ways of saying that this wasn't my kind of detection. Anyway, I had already deviated a little from usual operations in accepting the task of uncovering Oiseau Royal. Now François wanted me to deviate a little further. It was how people became alcoholics and embezzlers—a little more every time. Well, just this once and no more. They probably said that too.

With more time to think about it, I would have been able to come up with a really nice figure. After all, if I wasn't that enthusiastic about taking the job, I could set my demand high. Then it wouldn't matter if François backed down. But was I that sure I didn't want the job? Any private eye would have wanted it. It would probably have appealed to Nero Wolfe most of all—eating was how he got to weigh a seventh of a ton.

“A thousand pounds down and a thousand pounds on completion,” I said promptly. Too promptly and I knew it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to add, “—and a hundred pounds a day plus expenses.”

François already had the cheque written before I could think of anything else to add. I took it with a sinking feeling that I was making a mistake.

“Come around tomorrow morning about nine-thirty,” said François. “I'll introduce you to the staff and you can get all the information you want.” He stood and shook my hand in a hard grip. His athletic stride took him to the door and he was gone. I was still a little dazed. I looked at the cheque for comfort. It looked fine.

I left the office early after collecting my mail from Mrs Shearer. I felt I was entitled to do so after all that excitement. I walked through the Hammersmith mall and bought a few items, for once not bothering to look at the prices. It's amazing the security one can feel from the comforting crackle of a piece of paper with numbers on it.

What's the best music for relaxing? Vivaldi is high on the list though some people say they find his melodies lively and stimulating. This is more true of his violin concertos but his chamber music is more soothing. I put on Mendelssohn's String Octet, Opus 20. It can be criticised as being slightly repetitive but it is simple and charming.

The Octet tinkled through the apartment as I read the day's letters. It wasn't much of a haul today. Would I like to take advantage of a special offer on dog-food? No, I wouldn't, I seldom touch the stuff. There was an invitation to a cook-book signing which I put aside to consider.

There was one really interesting letter though and it read:

“Dunsingham Castle is about to re-open after 200 years as a ruin and 20 years of intermittent restoration.

“It will be a luxury hotel of unequalled excellence with no efforts spared to raise it to the category of the very finest hosteleries of the Western World.

“As part of this re-development programme, we intend to offer mediaeval food in keeping with the period when the castle was at the peak of its importance.

“We have sampled mediaeval meals at several places and found them to be unsatisfactory. We seek your recommendations on suitable menus, balancing as far as possible authenticity of food and style with availability of raw materials.

“Please advise us if you will undertake this project and advise us of your fee.”

Now that was something I could get my teeth into. I had eaten a couple of so-called mediaeval banquets myself and found them to be pale and unconvincing replicas. Could I do better? It would be great fun to try and I began to scribble some notes.

Monchelet, for instance. It is a 14th century dish and unaccountably absent from modern menus. Pieces of neck of lamb are cooked in stock, mint, thyme, marjoram, onion and wine. Then ginger, saffron and cinnamon are added and it is cooked further. Egg yolks and lemon juice are blended with some of the broth and returned to the pot. The sauce resulting from thickening is aromatic and spicy and of a delicious golden colour. It is a superb dish and one I have cooked several times. It is fully deserving of revival and as all the ingredients are readily available today, no dish could be more authentic.

Goose should certainly be considered. It was a popular dish in the Middle Ages and is still eaten on feast days in Germany and Eastern Europe. It is a shame it is rarely encountered on menus today and hardly ever in the shops.

Potatoes were unknown so vegetable accompaniments should be the floury or starchy type to make up for them. Small tarts of fruit stewed with honey would be a simple and appropriate dessert. Several British restaurants offer syllabub today but it is usually pleasant yet uninteresting. I could hardly recommend making it by the original method—milking a cow directly into a bowl containing ale or cider but I could look into tastier variations. I had a dim recollection of an orange pudding I had once eaten but couldn't recall the details. I made notes to research these points and offer any other mediaeval suggestions.

Did Dunsingham plan blazing torches and low-cut wenches? I wondered. This would be where decision-making became tricky—steering a course between historical accuracy, reality and the images that we all have in our minds which are difficult to translate without appearing tawdry and cheap.

The soft, gentle music of Mendelssohn continued to roll around the room. I put down the notes and François' unexpected request came to the forefront of my mind. Some request—he had had me on the ropes from the moment I breathed that sigh of relief on finding out that he was not aware of losing his prized recipe.

The idea of putting a restaurant out of business was a terrifying one. Extortion and bribery were not unknown in the restaurant trade but this sounded different. What would be the point? Jealousy perhaps? Of the restaurant itself? Or the owner? Seemed a bit extreme but I supposed it was possible. Large amounts of money were involved when the establishment was as prestigious as Le Trouquet d'Or.