by Peter King
He stood up.
“The sergeant will escort you out. It’s been nice to have this chat with you.”
“The last part especially,” I said. “The earlier part—well I’ll do the best I can.”
“We value your co-operation,” were the inspector’s final words although he seemed to me to re-constitute his Legion commandant image and really mean:
“We hope your desperate mission will be successful. Then you can return.”
Chapter Thirteen
WE HAD STARTED THE downward journey in the lift.
“So, Sergeant Fletcher,” I said, “you will be able to tell me later today what the forensic report says.”
“Yes. Do you want to give me your phone number? We can arrange to meet and I can tell you about it.”
“Surely, Sergeant Fletcher, with that voluminous file which tells you which dentist I visited at the age of ten—you don’t have to ask for my phone number?”
There was a merry twinkle in her eye. “Oh, perhaps it’s in there somewhere … and I take your point. If we’re going to be working together, the ‘Sergeant Fletcher’ might be cumbersome. My first name’s Winifred, most call me Winnie.”
“I’ll call you Winnie too. Anything to simplify a working relationship,” I said and mentally dubbed her “Winsome Winnie”.
The lift stopped. She walked across the lobby with me. It was almost full. I would have loved to know which were criminals and which were informers and what the others were but I had the mantle of a private eye on my shoulders now.
“I’ll call you later this afternoon,” said Winnie.
“Fine,” I said. “We can meet this evening if you don’t mind overtime.”
She pulled a wry face. “No such thing as regular hours when a case like this is in progress. It becomes a twenty-four hour a day proposition.”
“I’ll await your call.”
“Good-bye for now.” She held out a hand. “I’m glad you’re with us on this.”
“So am I—I think.”
She smiled and walked out of the lobby.
So I was on the case. There were two people I had to tell about it. I walked past the Guildhall and took a taxi to Bookery Cooks in Streatham.
Bookery Cooks is a unique establishment. Run by Michael and Molly Markham, two of my best friends, it is the Mecca for lovers of books about food and cooking. Entering, it looks like any bookshop at first—but then the delicious aromas of exotic dishes come wafting through the air. By the time the visitor has recovered from the unlikelihood of Indian cookbooks smelling of curry or Italian cookbooks of basil and garlic, the kitchen on the first floor of the store has become evident. The two attractive girls cooking and serving equally attractive food have also become apparent.
Today, it was Indonesian food, judging by the peanut odours of Satay and the pungent tickle of ginger. Dorothy, a tiny girl with freckles and a pony tail and a real knack with spices, waved a hand while tasting a sauce. Marita, a raven-haired beauty with an enticing smile but also a boy-friend who was a chef and six feet two, was herself a star performer particularly with Asian foods and marinades. She came over, waving something from the spit for me to taste.
I took the skewer and nibbled. I made horrible faces for Marita’s benefit and she scowled ferociously and raised another skewer in a threatening gesture. I held up a placating hand and we went into our accustomed ritual.
“Lancashire pork—” I guessed.
“That’s easy,” she said. “And—”
“Marinated at least forty-eight hours—”
“That’s easy too. And—”
“Marinated in soya sauce, garlic, er—chillies—”
“And laos powder …”
“Oh, of course—and then, let me taste again … The sauce …”
I tried another taste. “Roasted and crushed peanuts—”
“How do you know I didn’t use peanut butter?” Marita demanded.
“Because you never take short-cuts—”
Her face crinkled in a happy smile.
“Go on. The sauce—?”
“Onions, garlic, more chillies, lemon grass, shrimp paste, lemon juice, sugar and—naturally—coconut milk.”
Marita clapped her hands prettily. “Bravo!”
“Do I get another skewer?”
Marita pretended to consider. “I don’t know—Well, maybe just one.”
“Don’t give him any more, Marita,” called Dorothy. “It’s almost lunch-time—he’s free-loading.”
“Stop teasing the staff,” said a voice from behind me. “Good help is hard to find.”
“It is when they cook like these two,” I agreed, turning.
Michael Markham is small and compact. He moves with much purpose and determination, never wasting a movement. He had worked for a large international engineering concern and finally left to run his own factory. Food and its enjoyment was his ruling passion and as a sideline he had built up an archive on food and cooking that had no equal in the English-speaking world. He plucked information from obscure places, found recipes that were thought to be lost and was in continual demand to supply food facts to writers, reviewers and compilers. He tired of the world of manufacturing, sold out and created Bookery Cooks in Streatham. At last the archive had a permanent home. The shop was a condensed, more easily manageable and greatly reduced version of the mini-empire he had run before. We teamed up and I put out my board as The Gourmet Detective with half of the financing coming from Michael and Molly and the agreement that he would furnish the food facts that I needed as well as pass along inquiries that needed follow-up, leads and commissions.
The truth was that Michael could have been a better gourmet detective than I would ever be. But he was happier now in a more modest, behind-the-scenes role, doing indirectly what he might have been doing directly. This more leisurely life with an absence of stress made both Michael and Molly happier.
“Ever think of opening a restaurant?” I asked him.
“What? You must be mad!” he grinned. “When Dorothy and Marita have this kind of talent! Why should I waste them in a restaurant?”
“That Satay Sauce is delicious. What do I look for on the label at Safeway?”
When Michael grins, he looks like Ronnie Corbett and his large glasses seem to cover even more of his face. The grin faded now as he asked: “What about this terrible business at Le Trouquet d’Or and Ivor Jenkinson?”
“I was there,” I told him.
His mouth opened and his eyes widened until his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back with one finger. “You! You were there at the Circle of Careme! How did you manage that?”
“I was lucky enough to get an invitation,” I said, “although in the light of what happened, maybe I was unlucky.”
“Come on in the office and tell me about it—I can’t believe this! You were there! Molly!” he yelled and she appeared from the storage room. Molly is small like Michael and with a round, pleasant always smiling face. She gave me a hug.
“What’s all the shouting?” she wanted to know.
“He was there! At the Circle of Careme!” Michael was almost dancing with excitement. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”
I told them everything, from beginning to end. Michael’s glasses kept slipping down his nose as his eyebrows got higher and higher.
“A bit awkward for you,” was Molly’s sympathetic comment.
“I’m helping Scotland Yard with their inquiries.”
“You mean you’re under suspicion?” grinned Michael.
“Certainly not. I mean I’m really helping them. They think my assignment for François is somehow connected with IJ’s death.”
“So now you’re a real private eye,” said Michael admiringly.
“Just like Hercule Poirot,” added Molly.
“Only he investigated murders,” amended Michael.
It was Molly’s eyebrows that went up now. “IJ was murdered?”
“Scotland Yard
are handling it as a murder investigation until they know more.”
“I haven’t read the papers yet,” Michael said. “I saw it on the television news this morning. They didn’t say what he died of.”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Sounded like poison. A weird one though. I mean, seeming to die then coming back to life.” Michael shivered.
“Must have been scary.” Molly looked apprehensive too.
“It was,” I admitted. I hadn’t gone into the details of IJ’s icy hand seizing me in that terrifying grip. It had been a lot more scary than either Michael or Molly knew.
“Anything I can do to help?” Michael asked.
“Yes. See what you can dig out on Legionnaires’ Disease, the Salmonella scare, the Mad Cow affair, the Currie and eggs business and anything else that seems relevant to you.”
“Right.” This was what Michael loved. Molly would be on her own in the book store for a while until Michael had ransacked every bit of information at his disposal.
“Oh, and see what you can find about lamprey, too, would you?”
“Lamprey?”
“It was on the menu.”
“Was it indeed!” Michael pushed his glasses back up again.
“I know—the Yard are sceptical about it too. It doesn’t have to be suspicious though. It is edible.”
Michael nodded. “These master chefs go to great lengths to be different, don’t they? One serves curry sauce on salmon and another served Cow’s Udders once. I’ll get on it right away. Anything else?”
I was about to say no when I had another thought.
“Maybe this is nothing but—”
“All the great detectives say that—then it turns out to be a vital clue. What is it?”
“See what the financial situation is at Le Trouquet d’Or and at Raymond’s.”
Michael was clearly surprised but didn’t voice it. “That’s it?”
“Not quite. How about one more skewer? I’m on my way over to Le Trouquet d’Or now and after last night, they may not want to invite me to lunch.”
Michael grinned. “I think that can be arranged. You’d better try these meat balls too. Molly, is there any more of that South Tasmanian Burgundy left or has it gone off completely?”
Molly scowled at him. “We can do better than that. Michael’s got the continent right and that’s about all,” she confided to me. “We have this case of Australian Shiraz from Cathcart Ridge—it’s a really super wine. Hang on, I’ll bring some up.”
The meat balls that Michael had referred to were, he told me, really called Rempah and are a sort of Indonesian hamburger. Coriander, cloves, cumin and ginger are the principal spices and of course, they contain shredded coconut like so many dishes from those islands. They are as easy to make as their Western equivalent and are ideal as a snack, an hors d’oeuvre or a main course. A plateful of those, two more skewers of Marita’s pork and a couple of glasses of the excellent Shiraz staved off the possibility of starvation.
I headed for Le Trouquet d’Or feeling fortified. I was likely to need it too. François was not going to be in a very friendly mood. He had hired me to make sure nothing further happened to his restaurant—and what had occurred? A violent death, no less. Splashed all over the newspapers and television and likely to be a cause célèbre as long as it sold papers and programmes. What had it done to François’ business? I didn’t like to think. I didn’t relish going there either but I had to—like it or not.
At the tube station, I called Mrs Shearer. Now that she was my twenty-four hour a day answering service, she acted like she was my assistant. I expected her to ask me about the case and so to head her off, I said:
“I’m expecting a call from Scotland Yard. Has it come in yet?”
She was suitably impressed. “No, they ’aven’t called,” she told me in a hushed voice.
“They will. I’ll call you every couple of hours. It’s very important.”
“Don’t you worry,” she said earnestly. “We’ll look after you.”
It was the busy lunch period on the Underground by the time I caught a train. I had to stand all the way but I didn’t feel I could conscientiously charge a cab to François’ bill.
The restaurant was quiet. I went through to the kitchens and even there, it was muted and there was an uneasy stillness that hung in the air like a pall. One reason was immediately apparent—a plain-clothes detective was there taking samples, putting them in jars and labelling them. Klaus Klingermann gave me a grudging nod of acknowledgement. His face was grim and set. He didn’t look as if he wanted to talk.
Larry Leopold was in his office. This time he was sitting. He looked terrible, haggard and tired as if he had been up all night. Perhaps he had.
“I don’t think there’s much you can do,” he said. He didn’t sound friendly.
“I had to come,” I told him. “I suppose this is the kind of thing that François hired me to prevent.”
“It’s disastrous. Coming on top of everything else—well, I just don’t know how we can survive.”
“I hope it’s not that bad,” I said. He shrugged, his grey face thin and old.
“Better go talk to François.” He nodded, not caring much what I did.
The panelled walls of François’ office made it seem much gloomier than before but that was probably due to the countenance of its occupant. He looked like a man whose world has come to an end.
He glanced up as I came in, anger, sorrow then pure melancholy chasing each other across his face. He gave me a nod even more cursory than the one I had from Klaus. I felt like commiserating with him then decided on a more forceful approach. I knew it would help me, I hoped it would help him too.
“Did you have any suspicion that this might happen?”
He hadn’t expected that. “No.” He answered involuntarily then found more words. “No, I didn’t. I was worried over the incidents that we have told you about but I couldn’t have guessed that we’d have something terrible like this.”
“I took this job because it was intriguing and because—well, because I hated the idea of a great restaurant being persecuted this way.” His glum expression didn’t change. “But I didn’t bargain for anything like violent death—maybe murder.”
That got a reaction. His eyes widened but he didn’t say a word.
“And you know nothing that would suggest it might have been murder?”
He shook his head firmly. “No.”
“Do you think IJ’s death is connected in any way with the other incidents?”
“I can’t imagine any connection.”
He was a tough character. His jaw set in a stubborn pose. I could see I wasn’t going to get any more out of him. Did he know any more? I wondered. Was there something he wasn’t telling me? Or was he truly perplexed concerning all these bizarre events?
He sighed. “I’m sorry about this,” he said and before I could ask what he meant, he slid a piece of paper across to me. It was a cheque. “That will cover expenses and half of the fee we agreed. I think you’ll agree that’s fair.”
I stared at the cheque. “I don’t understand—”
“The other incidents were bad enough. Bookings had begun to drop off—”
“But who knew—?”
He cut me off. “In this business, word gets around—fast. The death of IJ is the end. It will finish me. I shall have to close up. Our contract is terminated. It’s not your fault but you can see I will have no further need for your services.”
He stood up and held out his hand.
Chapter Fourteen
WHICH WAS WORSE—BEING fired from my first job as a real private eye—or the knowledge that I had been a miserable failure—or the fact that I was off the case as far as François was concerned which meant that Scotland Yard had no more need of me?
Following swiftly after the latter was the awareness that I would no longer be working with Winsome Winnie, a prospect I had looked forward to eagerly. What did he
mean “no longer”! I hadn’t even started yet—and already I was finished.
I was stunned by François’ action. On reflection, I could hardly blame him but still it was a shock I hadn’t expected. I looked at the cheque and then at his hand.
“Now just a minute. I thought you used to be a fighter …” I paused but not long enough to give him a chance to say anything. I wanted to get my lick in fast. “Surely you’re not going to throw in the towel while you’re still on your feet?”
He leaned forward, resignation written all over his face.
“I can’t keep a restaurant open without customers. We’ve been accustomed to being booked a month ahead—now we’re not going to get enough people to cover expenses.”
I struggled for the right words. “Remember what you said to me? Your work as a chef? Your restaurant? Nobody can take them away from me, you said. We can’t see a place like mine forced out of business, you said.”
He shook his head. “It’s different now. A man is dead. Le Trouquet d’Or is going to be associated with his death in the minds of the public.”
“Who knows which restaurant might be next?’ Remember asking me that? So you’re going to lose Le Trouquet d’Or … you were very concerned about other restaurants then. Now you’re thinking only of yourself!”
There was just the slightest hesitation in his manner and I hoped I was reading it right. I leaped in.
I picked up the cheque and tore it in half.
“Give me two weeks.”
“No, I—”
“I’ll continue on the case. If I don’t find out who’s responsible for the incidents in your place in two weeks, I’ll return your money and you don’t owe me a penny.”
He was reeling on the ropes. In his weakened condition, he could only last a few seconds. No, I was wrong—he came back with another swing.
“And the death of IJ?”
I was about to say “I’ll throw that in as a bonus” but it sounded too flip and anyway, I didn’t want to sound overconfident. There wasn’t long to think about it or he would slip away. I had faith in Hemingway’s ability to solve the mystery of IJ’s death and if he could do it at all, I felt it would be within two weeks so I was safe there. If he were right about a connection between the death and the incidents at Le Trouquet d’Or then solving the major crime would produce a solution to the minor ones.