Gourmet Detective (8 page)

“Thanks, Klaus. I'll let you go back to work.”

“You wish to return to François' office?”

“I'd like to talk to Mr Leopold. Think he's in yet?”

“Possibly. He comes in about this time.”

He led me to Leopold's office, knocked and went in. Leopold was there, behind a tidy desk with neat stacks of folders, papers and bills. Klaus introduced me and left.

Larry Leopold was one of the most dynamic individuals I had met in a long time. Lithe and wiry, he moved with a quick nervous energy like an electrified marionette. In his early forties, he had an angular face with short reddish-brown hair and darting eyes. His outstanding feature was a well-trimmed reddish-brown Van Dyke beard which jutted out from his chin in a way which gave him a distinctly piratical look.

He paced up and down as he talked, despite having seated me. Bookshelves stuffed with files and folders covered one wall and on another were diplomas, certificates and framed photographs. It was a working office and had an energetic, efficient air that matched its occupant.

“Any progress in finding out what's going on around here?” he asked in a staccato voice that delivered words in machine-gun like bursts. “No, of course not. Haven't had time yet, have you? François told me he was hiring you.” He viewed me critically. I wondered if I passed the inspection. “Damn funny business. Any ideas?”

“Not so far,” I said. “I need more information. What can you tell me?”

He was still pacing. I wished he would sit.

“Klaus told you what he knows, did he?”

“He told me about the mice.”

He paused for a moment, eyed me then went on pacing.

“Ah, yes, the mice. Good man, Klaus. Fine chef. We're lucky to have him.”

“He seems quite certain that the mice were put there—and if so, it must have been by a person who knew that the food inspector was coming that day.”

“And you're thinking that's what he would say—”

“Am I?” I asked.

Larry Leopold rubbed the sharp point of his beard against the back of his hand reflectively. “No chef would accept that he runs a dirty kitchen, would he?”

“You think Klaus does?”

“Of course not.” His voice was sharp.

“What about the other incidents?”

“I can tell you about the missing VAT files. That's in my area.”

“Missing? Files do get mislaid.”

“These were missing. One day they were here, the next they couldn't be found.”

“They never turned up?”

“No.”

“What happened then?”

“There was a hell of an argument with the VAT people naturally. We estimated the VAT payments as best we could but they weren't happy about it. They've been breathing down our necks ever since.”

“François mentioned foodstuffs, supplies, going astray. What can you tell me about those?”

His pacing increased in tempo. He was a very nervous individual. “The worst incident was the last one. We were doing a big banquet for one of the Scotch whisky groups. They had asked for lamb chops—we'd had a big write-up in the
Evening Standard
a few weeks earlier. Perhaps you saw it?”

I said I thought I had but I didn't remember.

“The write-up was so good that the whisky people wanted the same meal. We had to order the chops specially. They didn't arrive.”

“Did you find out what had happened to them?” I asked.

“The supplier insisted he had sent them to us. We said they hadn't arrived. We had to give the whisky people a different meal. They were furious, I can tell you.”

“You both looked into it further, I suppose?”

“Sure,” said Leopold. “All we could find out was that the driver of the delivery van had been told by someone here that the order had been cancelled. We never found out who.”

“You said that was the last incident. There were others?”

“Yes, earlier. Of course, we thought it was human error then. The kind of mistakes that can happen anywhere.”

“For instance…?”

He was still pacing. He rubbed his chin again.

“We use a special honey for one of our dishes—”

Now, I was rubbing my chin. It was to cover a slight smile I had not been able to suppress. I knew which dish used that kind of honey and I knew how it was used. I concentrated on Leopold. “—It comes from abroad by air. One complete shipment arrived with every jar broken.”

“Accident?”

Leopold stopped in mid-stride. “Never happened before.” He resumed his patrol. “Another time, we had ordered a shipment of oysters. We received mussels.”

“Readily replaceable, surely?”

“Certainly not,” Leopold said irritably. “Ours are on special order from Turenne. We can't just substitute them with a boxful from the local fishmonger!”

It would make anyone irritable, I thought. In fact, there seemed to be a pattern all through this—all these items were not readily replaceable. Whoever was behind this knew a lot about the restaurant.

“Can you give me the dates of all these?”

“Of course.” I nodded wisely. I had no idea what I'd do with this data but it sounded competent to ask for it.

“Here's my phone number,” I told him, handing him a card. He had to stop moving long enough to take it. “My answering service can get in touch with me twenty-four hours a day—” I must tell Mrs Shearer about that. She'd be astonished and want more money.

He didn't look impressed but I was. Just like a Continental Op.

“If there are any more incidents—call me at once,” I admonished him. He nodded and we shook hands and I left. With all those papers on his desk, he'd have to sit down now.

François was on the phone. I waited till he was finished.

“I'd like to pop in from time to time,” I told him. “No schedule, just at random.”

“Of course.” He rummaged in his desk drawer and pulled out a key. “This is to the back door.” I hadn't meant out of hours but I took it anyway.

“Did you get what you need from Klaus and Larry?”

“Very interesting,” I said sagely.

He fixed me with his piercing look again. “I'm very worried about this situation, very worried,” he said. “I hope you're going to get to the bottom of it.”

“I will,” I said confidently. François looked less confident but he nodded, “Good.”

I was about to take my leave when he said:

“One other thing—”

“Yes?”

“There is a banquet on Friday night for the Circle of Careme. We are hosting it here. You'd better be on hand.”

I could hardly believe my luck. “Of course.”

“Call me the day before and I'll give you whatever details you need.”

When I left Le Trouquet d'Or and stepped out into a blustery wet wind, I was in a euphoric daze. I had just completed my first day as a real private eye … it hadn't gone too badly and I thought I had asked most of the right questions. Had I made any progress? I'd have to think about that.

Then a real bonus! The Circle of Careme! And I was going to be there.

T
HE CIRCLE OF CAREME
.

The banquet room at Le Trouquet d'Or glittered under countless butter-gold candles. There was already a steady hum of conversation, growing louder as more and more members arrived. There was the occasional clink of a glass or a plate as the waiters put the finishing touches to the huge circular table. Seating was both inside and out, with gaps for access to the inner sections.

The Circle of Careme.

The most prestigious, the most celebrated of all gourmet organisations in the country. I felt quite privileged to be there, even under these circumstances. It would also be intriguing to learn something of the Circle for it was an enigma.

It had no known president, no identifiable secretary and no registered address. At various times, its periodic banquets would get a mention in the press, mainly because of the luminaries who attended. Guests were often invited it seemed but the membership was as nebulous as the panel of officers. One read that so-and-so or what's-his-name had been present but it was impossible to establish who were members and who were guests.

The Circle did not make obvious efforts to remain secret but it certainly maintained a cloak of anonymity that would have made Howard Hughes envious. It never sought publicity and probably exercised influence to avoid more than a minimum amount.

The purposes of the Circle were apparently two in number—the enjoyment of the very best of superb food and an opportunity to meet and talk with friends, colleagues, peers, rivals and competitors.

That was all I knew about the Circle and it was perhaps more than most. So now I was listening and watching with all the enthusiasm of a child paying his first visit to the circus.

François had phoned me the day before as promised and we had discussed how to handle this surveillance. I suggested going as a waiter but François thought it would provoke too many questions. Due to the clandestine nature of the group, he considered it better that anyone who wanted to do any wondering about my presence could speculate on whether I was a guest or a new member. Several others present would be the subject of speculation, he said, so one more wasn't reason to raise any eyebrows. I didn't know what strings François had pulled to get me invited and I didn't ask.

I began identifying those present. I saw Ellsburg Warrington first of all. He was the easiest to see, towering above everyone else. Very tall and very old, grey in hair and face, he was still active as the founder and owner of Warrington's Markets. “Cheaper than Tesco, better stocked than Sainsbury's and higher quality than Marks and Spencer” was their slogan and it annoyed many—those three especially.

Near him was his son, Tarquin, thin-faced, thin-lipped, the creator of the slogan and known to be influencing his father into more abrasive techniques of advertising and selling. He was deep in conversation with Johnny Chang, urbane and smiling as usual. I had done a job for Chang not too long ago, locating a European source of lotus leaves, the indispensable wrapping of the famous “Beggars' Chicken” dish which was one of the outstanding offerings at Chang's restaurant.

The conversation was thickening. I moved a few steps, partly to hear better and partly to look less statuesque and noticeable. Glasses were clinking and I was wondering if an aperitif in my hand would make me look more like I belonged.

“Well, don't tell me the Circle has admitted you! If I'd known about it, I would have blackballed you without any hesitation!”

Maggie McNulty was not what you could call a sophisticated dresser. Her clothes always looked as if they had been thrown on to her with a pitchfork and no matter what she wore, she looked as if she had just come in from riding a horse. Not unattractive in a jolly hockey-sticks outdoor way, she could be a stunner if she dressed better, learned something about make-up and lost a stone and a half. As long as she belonged to such conclaves as the Circle of Careme though, there wasn't much likelihood of the latter.

“Hello, Maggie. I didn't realise that this was the sort of organisation that would admit people like you or I'd have stayed home and curled up with a good cook book.”

She smiled, showing excellent teeth, one of her best features.

“The Circle needs us entrepreneurs and marketeers—we're a much needed balance against all these writers and talkers.”

I knew what she meant. From a background of magazine publishing (which was where I had first met her) and a dead husband's legacy, she had founded a company making and selling quick-frozen foods. The big step had found the market sceptical but she had gained a surprisingly strong foothold and her company was reputed to be growing rapidly.

Maggie swirled her glass. “Not drinking? You don't have to pay for them here, you know.”

“Just on my way to get one,” I assured her, thankful that she was not going to press for a reason for my presence,

She nodded and I moved away. Talking earnestly with two men was Per Larsson, a stocky Swede. I would have guessed he would be there even if I had not seen the attendance list from François. The high priest of food, the guru of cooking and travel, he was universally known for his
Larsson's Guide to Hotels and Restaurants,
the bible of many eaters and travellers.

I was not a bit surprised to see Benjamin Breakspear and would have heard his resounding voice and recognised him immediately although I had never seen him in person before. He was known to millions of film and TV viewers as King George the fifth, Nero, one of James Bond's adversaries and Hermann Goering among other memorable roles.

The bulbous eyes, the stylised gestures, the hammy mannerisms and the plummy enunciation were no longer in such demand due to his advancing years. He had kept his place in the public eye by becoming a regular on TV quiz and game shows. He wrote books, mainly autobiographical, which some critics insisted should appear under a fiction label.

“—just got back from America” he was saying to a small group. “I was in this restaurant in South Carolina and the waitress asked me, ‘How many hush puppies would y'all like, honey?'

“‘One for each foot—if I wanted any at all,' I told her but of course, she did not understand my impeccable English and returned with a huge bowl containing dozens of the things.”

“And what are they?” asked an obliging bystander.

“Balls of corn bread, deep-fried a golden brown. They got their name supposedly from a hunter who didn't give his dogs any of his bounty. They howled and whined so much that he fried bits of corn mush and fed them, saying ‘Hush puppies'.”

“You were lecturing over there, Benjamin?” asked Goodwin Harper. Rotund and red-faced, he ran what many believed to be the most English of English restaurants and the home of traditional roast beef.