by Peter King
Next came a tiny portion of Brouillade d’Oeufs Mystère. This was a real touch by a master chef—taking so much effort for what amounted to only a few spoonfuls—but what spoonfuls! François had poured Mornay sauce and melted Parmesan cheese in baking dishes, layered them with thin-sliced mushrooms previously sautéed in cream and minced shallots then poured in scrambled eggs and covered with more sauce and cheese. The trick with the scrambled eggs was to add raw egg at the end of the cooking in order to give it a really smooth consistency and François had done it to perfection.
The wine glasses had been removed and another wine was being poured. It was a Château Lafite and its glorious colour was full of promise. My table companion with the travel agency said he had organised several trips to the Bordeaux region and quoted Professor Roger, the eminent authority on the wines of that district—“The man who has never tasted a great bottle of Lafite cannot know the perfection of which claret is capable.”
The Frenchman with the restaurant in Paris said, “Mr Malcolm Forbes agreed with that—he had his son buy a bottle at an auction for $165,000.” We all looked at the approaching bottles with renewed respect.
The satisfied nods which went around the table upon tasting it suggested that the Lafite’s taste met this reputation. It was perfectly proportioned, mature and full of charm. A claret might have seemed an odd choice for this early in the meal but the next course was arriving. Sasarties are a South African dish despite their Malay name and consist of paper-thin slices of beef, marinated for forty-eight hours then quickly grilled over a very hot fire and served with a slice of pumpkin.
It was the next course which brought the wine into prominence though and a very unusual selection this was but this seemed to be the hall-mark of the Circle of Careme. The dish was Lamproise Bordelaise.
The Australian journalist lady was an Anglophile who reminded us of the story of King Henry I, said to have died of a surfeit of lampreys. It used to be called the dish of kings, she said but after one of them died of it, the dish’s popularity declined and it has been virtually unknown since World War I.
François had marinated the lampreys and then cooked them in fish stock, bay leaf and port wine. Now they were being served with a rich, dark Bordelaise sauce over them. Cut and served in such a manner as to remove all its natural resemblance to the eel, lamprey had a taste midway between sweetbreads and turtle meat.
The pastry man was effusive in his praise. “The wine was chosen to accompany the sauce not the fish,” he pointed out. “Very wise.” The excellence of the food muted the conversation then as the last morsels were disappearing from plates, the benevolent influence of the Château Lafite renewed discussions.
I could see Sally Aldridge, heated and vociferous again. Near enough to hear was Vito Volcanini, rated by many as Britain’s leading Italian restaurateur and owner of the hugely successful Trevi.
“The food of Parma and Bologna may serve the stomach,” Vito was saying, “but it is the food of Apulia that touches the heart. There, it is a part of life and of living. Sitting down to a meal is a joyous occasion, a ceremony—no, that is wrong, that suggests something pompous, something scheduled—and Apulian food is never that.”
“It is Arab-influenced though, isn’t it?” asked Ellsburg Warrington.
“Arab—yes and Greek, Turkish, Norman, Spanish…”
“Seafood mainly though,” insisted Warrington.
Vito put down his fork and kissed his fingers.
“Zuppa di pesce—there is no other like it. It is magnifico. Every local fish will be in it—bream, langoustine, mussels, clams, lobster, octopus, squid, sea urchins—and any other fish that swims into the net.”
“So it varies from one day to the next,” needled Warrington. “How can you keep customers that way?”
“Of course it varies!” Vito’s response was explosive. “What do you want? A soup controlled by a computer?”
Frankie Orlando sat within range. His Medici Palace was also a very popular Italian restaurant and it was inevitable that Frankie should disagree. His background put him in a different camp to Vito when it came to cooking.
“Apulian food is okay,” said Frankie, condescendingly. “Fourth, maybe fifth in Italy. As everybody knows, Tuscan food is the best. Roast pig stuffed with garlic, rosemary, fennel and sage—now there is a dish for royalty. But you don’t have to be royalty to enjoy it. It is sold from vans in the streets, delicious slices of tender pork with some well-salted crackling and wrapped in a piece of paper—just like your fish and chips used to be.”
“Peasant cooking,” sneered Vito. “In Tuscany, the grill and the spit do all the work and the wood smoke does all the flavouring. What need is there of cooks in Tuscany?”
Frankie Orlando had his mouth open for a spirited reply when Maggie McNulty said silkily, “Personally, I prefer Venetian cooking.”
There was quiet for a few seconds. Vito and Frankie regarded her with astonishment. How dare any non-Italian enter the arena—and a woman at that!
“Fegato Veneziana—made from calves’ liver naturally. Now there is a dish,” Maggie went on smoothly. “Have either of you ever had it at Dino Boscarati’s in Mestre? Superb! Or how about duck with apple and chestnuts—a perfect example of using local ingredients. Accompanied by a bottle of St Magdalener, it’s a—”
Maggie had over-reached. They leaped on her.
“Santa Maddalena!” snorted Vito. “With duck?”
“Impossible!” cried Frankie. “It needs a Teroldego or an Amarone.”
“They’re red,” objected Vito. “Don’t you know anything about wine in Tuscany? You need a white wine to allow the full flavour of the duck to come through. A Gambellara or a Friuli would be the—”
The Italians had the ball back and were bound together in an alliance that might last several minutes. The main course was being served now though and attention was re-directed.
“Roast Pork Perigourdine” it said on the menu card. Meltingly tender symmetrical discs of roast pork with a centre piece of truffle and an undertaste of garlic with the jellified gravy from the joint, they were accompanied by Pommes Parisiennes.
I knew that François had spent most of the morning supervising the preparation of this masterpiece of seeming simplicity. The wine was a Château Ausone, a veteran vintage, master of the table and a benevolent dictator of the meal. Rich and full yet smooth and rounded, it had an elegant nose and a lasting but restrained finish.
What was that? Someone not waiting to enjoy this marvellous dish? Tarquin Warrington had risen to his feet and was heading for the door. It was not one of the doors leading to the facilities—it looked as if he were leaving. He was passing my seat and I put out a restraining arm.
“Leaving so soon?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said curtly and shook off my arm.
He was never particularly polite but I had a job to do even if he didn’t know it. “Why are you leaving before the meal is over?” I asked.
“None of your business,” he snapped and was gone.
That was strange. What would Lord Peter Wimsey have done? He would probably have been enjoying the meal as much as I was and would have shrugged it off as a problem to be solved later. I didn’t know what else to do—I could hardly stop him leaving—so I emulated Lord Peter.
“That lamprey was really delicious,” said the Australian lady. “Better even than carp.”
“Never eaten carp,” confessed the pastry man. ‘I kept goldfish as a boy. They’re related, I understand, so you can see why I’d never think of eating carp.”
The Frenchman shook his head. “The English have always been sentimental about food.”
The travel agency man said, “Nightingales’ tongues used to be very popular in Ancient Greece. I had them at a banquet once.”
The pastry man shuddered. “I could never eat anything that sings.”
“Don’t see why not,” said the Australian lady cheerfully. “You eat things that moo, don’t you?”
&nb
sp; The Château Ausone flowed substantially and soon there was not an uncleaned plate in sight. Comments were being exchanged and François would be glowing with pleasure if he could hear them. It had been truly a memorable meal.
There was a puzzled murmur which seemed to roll through the many conversations. Heads turned. It looked as if there was going to be a speech. IJ had risen to his feet and stood surveying the room. Voices quieted. Most faces were surprised. No one was expecting this and François had not said anything to me about a speech.
Silence fell. Every guest was watching IJ, waiting for him.
He stood, surveying the Circle.
“The two of them are in it together,” he said in a loud, clear voice. There was a soft buzz of mystified muttering. No one knew what to make of this. IJ looked from side to side, taking in the entire banquet room. He seemed to be looking at everyone yet somehow focusing elsewhere.
“I have the proof,” he said confidently. His hand patted his side. It appeared to be a gesture of confidence but I realised that he was patting the pocket where he had put the envelope handed to him by Roger St Leger.
“I can prove…” his voice, strong before was faltering now. He made an effort to get out the words. “I can prove that they are—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He collapsed across the table with a crash of glasses and crockery. An overturned bottle spread its dark-red stain across the white table-cloth. A woman squealed and there were gasps of horror.
Next to IJ, Goodwin Harper on one side and Raymond on the other side pulled him up and eased him back into his chair. Goodwin Harper had his hands on IJ’s wrist, feeling for a pulse.
There was not a sound in the room. Goodwin Harper felt IJ’s neck then he straightened slowly, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“He’s dead,” said Goodwin Harper.
Chapter Nine
THE SCENE IN THE banquet room was vastly different from that of half an hour earlier. Then it had been glowing with camaraderie and basking in good humour. Now, fear and uncertainty hovered in the air like great vampires.
The guests stood clustered in small uneasy groups, discussing IJ’s death in low voices. Suspicion and doubt were in every face. Hercule Poirot would have said that the smell of death was in the air but to be honest, the odours of good food still lingered.
The calls for an ambulance and the police had brought forth a constable from his beat, hastily summoned by his walkie-talkie and he was in the restaurant within two or three minutes—even before the initial furore had subsided. The doors had promptly been closed and within a further few minutes, a sergeant and a horde of constables had descended upon Le Trouquet d’Or.
Against a wall, the body of IJ lay on a table, the subject of many a nervous glance. The occasional guest wandered over, unbelieving but irresistibly drawn then turned away.
Near me, Benjamin Breakspear was regaling his neighbours with a reminiscence brought on by someone thoughtlessly asking him the kind of question he doted on.
“Oh yes, I was in a James Bond film once,” he boomed. “I was killed off in the first five minutes but I…” Something on the faces of his listeners must have given him a hint. He was ordinarily as impervious as a buffalo but on this occasion, he went on quickly—“Just a film, of course. Not at all like real life…”
Maggie McNulty approached me. “God, I need a drink! Don’t you have any influence around here? These young men in uniform are very sweet but they haven’t been trained in the social amenities.”
“You’ll have to forgive them, Maggie. I don’t think we can expect them to be serving any liquor just yet. After all, the body isn’t even cold.”
Maggie shivered. “Did you have to say that?” She walked away in search of better co-operation.
Vito Volcanini was waving his arms and rolling his eyes. I supposed he was saying something dramatic and Latin. Johnny Chang was listening, imperturbable by contrast to Vito’s volatility. The police sergeant weaved his way through the knots of people, his eyes on me.
“Can I have a word, sir?” he asked politely.
“Certainly.” We distanced ourselves from the others. I noticed that constables had been stationed by all the doors, not blatantly, in fact quite discreetly though it was evident that no one could get in or out unless they allowed it. Two or three of the constables had disappeared, presumably gone to the kitchens to establish similar control.
“Sergeant Nevins, sir,” he introduced himself. He was a little over thirty, red-faced and beefy. He looked like a tough man to face in a rugger scrum. “I believe you’re responsible for security in this establishment.”
“Not exactly, sergeant—” I began.
“Mr Duquesne says he hired you to keep an eye on things here.”
“Well, yes, that’s true but—”
“In the Force, we would consider that as responsible for security, sir.”
“It may look that way to you, sergeant, but in fact I have only just been hired.”
“Hired to be responsible for security, sir?”
“There’s more to it than that!” I was getting rattled. Did what I had been hired to do include security? Perhaps so but I had not anticipated anything like this. What niggled at me too was the feeling that whatever I had been hired to do, I hadn’t done it very well. Still, no one could blame me for not preventing IJ’s death but Sergeant Nevins’ questions were getting under my skin.
“You had any inkling of what might happen here, sir?”
“Of course not, none at all.”
“You weren’t told to watch out for food poisoning or such?”
“Certainly not.”
“Perhaps you can tell me why you were hired, sir?”
I’m not sure what I would have told him. It would have been blistering, that’s for sure. But it was at that moment that a door opened and a constable entered, ushering in a man in plain clothes.
This was the man who was to be in charge of the investigation. It was obvious from his manner and his bearing. He looked competent and efficient. If there was a crime to be solved, here was the man to solve it.
He was close to six feet, slim and spare and carried himself with military erectness. He was about fifty, had a small neat moustache and a keen, alert face. Any casting office would have signed him to play the commandant of the Foreign Legion garrison. His light grey suit was Gieves and Hawkes and his tie was Pierre Cardin. He was clearly used to authority—that was clear from the way his gaze swept around the room. Even as it alighted on Sergeant Nevins, that policeman was already hurrying across, his interrogation of me forgotten.
They talked in low tones for a few minutes. The newcomer went over to the side of the room where the body of IJ lay. He examined the corpse without disturbing it then spoke to the sergeant who looked round the room. He walked towards François, brought him back. They talked briefly. François nodded and left. The sergeant spoke to a nearby guest who pointed out Ted Wells, presumably as the nearest thing to a responsible official as the Circle of Careme possessed. The sergeant brought him and there was a longer conversation. The newcomer raised his voice and addressed the room. Everyone else fell silent.
“I’m Inspector Hemingway from Scotland Yard.” His voice was strong and firm. He didn’t have to speak loudly to be heard. “I must ask your co-operation so that we can get to the bottom of this tragic incident as quickly as possible. The constables will be taking their places at tables where you will give them your name, address, phone number and affiliation. If you have any information which you think might be helpful, give them that too.”
Ellsburg Warrington stepped forward, bristling with indignation. “This is preposterous! We are all well-known people—you cannot treat us like this!”
Hemingway regarded him calmly. “I know who you are, Mr Warrington and I recognise several of your fellow guests but a death has occurred and it is my responsibility to establish how and why. The quicker we conduct these formalities, the sooner you can go.”
<
br /> “We may leave then?” asked Mike Spitalny.
The inspector nodded. “Yes, you may.”
“Can we stay if we wish?” called out Nelda Darvey. Good old Nelda, always the news-hound. It would be a great coup for her column.
“No, Miss Darvey,” answered Hemingway smoothly.
I was astonished. What kind of a detective was this who recognised Ellsburg Warrington and Nelda Darvey?
The constables were getting set up already and guests were jostling for position. Inspector Hemingway and Sergeant Nevins were coming towards me. I had no intention of letting the initiative get back into the hands of the sergeant. I promptly introduced myself to the inspector. The piercing grey eyes assessed me swiftly.
“Ah, yes, you’re the fellow who helped Winston’s Restaurant in Holland Park to locate a European source of mahi-mahi.”
“I’m amazed,” I stammered. “How on earth did you come to know that? Not that it was a confidential assignment—but surely Scotland Yard has more important things to do than keep track of fish shipments!”
“I’m in charge of the Food Squad,” said Hemingway.
I goggled. “The Food Squad?”
“Yes. The Yard has a Fraud Squad, an Art Squad, a Computer Squad and we even have some chaps who specialise in matters pertaining to religion. They call them the God Squad.”
“Good Heavens!”
“Quite so. Why then, shouldn’t we have a Food Squad? We may be behind the others in total crime turn-over but we’re catching up.”
I was flabbergasted. “As it happens, I spent nine years in homicide,” Hemingway was continuing, “so I assigned myself to this case when I was told an unexplained death had occurred—especially as it involves a famous name.”
His tone took on just a fraction more ice and I knew he was going by what he had been told by the red-faced sergeant. “Now, perhaps you’ll tell me exactly what you’re doing here tonight? I believe you’re here in a security role.”
The private eye of fiction is always ready for this question. “I can’t tell you that,” he always says. “My client’s identity is confidential and I can tell you nothing about my assignment without his permission.” He would light a cigarette and puff smoke arrogantly at the inspector.