by Peter King
“Come on, you don’t expect me to admit that to a copper!”
I adopted my sternest expression. “You’d better, my lad.”
He didn’t look in the least intimidated. Nevertheless, he answered. “Irregular, unethical, illegal even—I don’t doubt.”
“Ever meet any of them?”
“Saw some of them now and then, didn’t actually meet any. IJ didn’t share his sources.”
“Do you know who any of them were?”
“You mean names?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his chin in thought. “There was an Italian chap, a photographer, always needed a shave, long hair. Worked for that magazine—what’s it called … Scandalous.” He grinned. “It’s well named, ever see it?”
“Yes. It’s the one which specialises in pictures of famous people in places and positions they’d rather not be seen in.”
“That’s the one—and with people they’d prefer not to be seen with.”
“What his name, this photographer?”
Quinn shook his head. “Don’t remember.”
“Try.” He tried. His brow crinkled and he screwed up his face with the effort. Finally, he gave up.
“Can’t think of it. I’ll call you at Scotland Yard if I do.”
Before I could comment on that, he was asking inevitably,
“What’s your name again?”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll be in touch. Back to IJ—he didn’t have a secretary?”
“No. Used the secretarial pool. That way, no one got to know anything.”
“Office?”
“He had a sort of an office…”
“Sort of—?”
“Well… want to see it?”
Of course I did and he led the way down the corridor, turning through a door into what seemed like a small, untidy conference room. It was little more than that with a large table, lots of chairs and a huge blackboard covering one wall.
“This is his office?” I asked in astonishment.
“You’ll have gathered that IJ didn’t go in for show,” Mike Quinn said. “He didn’t spend that much time in the building. He was always out so he didn’t need much here. He used this room to talk to people.”
“A weird operator.”
“He was that sure enough.”
My gaze strayed across the big blackboard and my interest quickened when Quinn said casually, “Some of that’s his.”
He meant all the squiggles, notes, scrawls and undecipherable jumbles that covered the board in half a dozen colours. I was about to ask a question when the door opened and a young man of about Quinn’s age came in.
He was lean with dark hair and a light olive complexion. He walked with a slight limp and Quinn greeted him jovially.
“Hello, Joel! Have a good holiday?”
“Yeh, it was good.”
“What d’you do? Twist an ankle coming down the slopes?”
“Not likely! wouldn’t catch me out there in all that white mush. No, I fell over a stool in the lodge. It was the last night fortunately.”
“Mix the punch pretty strong there, do they?”
“Something like that.” He was looking at me with frank curiosity and Mike Quinn waved a hand of introduction.
“Joel Freedman—this is, er …”
“I’m investigating the death of Ivor Jenkinson,” I said quickly. “Did you just get back from holiday?”
“Last night. My flat-mate told me about it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known. I didn’t follow any news in Austria.”
“You knew IJ, did you?”
Freedman shrugged. “A little, yes. Nobody really knew him.”
“We were just looking at the board here when you came in,” said Quinn. “You’re one of the few who knows his writing. How much of this is his?”
I moved towards the board, curbing my eagerness. Here was a real chance to learn something—something that Scotland Yard didn’t know as they had been here yesterday and Joel Freedman had only returned last night.
Freedman looked over the board languidly.
“They took photos of it yesterday,” commented Mike Quinn and I felt like telling him to shut up.
“Any additional information,” I said, “is always welcome.”
Freedman pointed to a line of red writing. I took out my diary to write in and found a pen. I wrote down the line.
“Dr F—B4 CC.” What did that mean? Freedman was already pointing to some yellow chalk inscriptions. “That’s his too.”
“VDZH St Armand—12, 9.30.” I wrote that down too.
Freedman was scanning the board. “I’ve been gone ten days,” he said. “All this is new since I left.” He waved an arm at the board. “IJ always scribbled his notes—such as he had—on this side of the board. The rest seems to be from a presentation somebody else gave on marketing old programmes.”
I was about to put my diary away when Freedman said, “Oh here’s another one.” He smiled. “Looks like a pay-off to one of his informants.”
“£150 AS.” I added that to the others. It might take an expert code-breaker to figure those out.
“Any more?” I asked.
“Seems to be all.”
“Anyway, you’ve got the photographs,” said Mike Quinn. “Your people will be able to match up his handwriting and know which is IJ’s.”
Smart alec—probably watched all the Maigret re-runs.
“Well, thanks,” I said. It was time to get out while my cover was still intact.
“Did an escort bring you in?” Joel Freedman didn’t sound suspicious but I wasn’t taking any chances.
“Millie brought me.”
“Oh, then I’ll take you down to—”
“That’s all right,” I told him. “Millie’s taking me out too.”
I shook hands briskly with both of them and left. The corridor was busy with people hurrying or sauntering on various errands and I walked quickly, merging with them. I had had a sudden idea and I was going to strike while the mental iron was still hot.
At the end of the corridor was a small alcove with a coffee machine. Two girls were sipping coffee and discussing Tom Cruise’s latest film. I took a plastic cup to make me look casual but after a peek at the grey fluid in their cups, I decided against actually drinking any.
“Is the medical department on this floor?” I asked them.
“Medical department? Oh, you mean the clinic? It’s the next floor up, first door.”
I thanked them and went up the stairs.
The clinic was so white, it was dazzling. White-tiled floor, white walls, white ceiling and brilliant white neon strip lighting. A wheeled trolley was covered with a clean white sheet and two chairs with white nylon seats were placed by a desk with a white top and a sheet of glass over it.
“Anyone here?” I received no answer and was about to call again when a door opened. I hadn’t noticed it—it fitted the white decor so closely.
A head of pure white hair appeared followed by a tall elderly woman in a spotless white smock.
“Sit down,” she ordered and came up to me. She gave me a gentle push in the chest to help me sit.
“I’m not here for—” I began.
She was already peering into my eyes. “Open wide,” she instructed and when I did so, she snapped, “Your mouth—your mouth.”
“Look, I’m not a patient—”
“I’m not a patient person either,” she said. “But don’t worry. No one can help being ill.” She already had two fingers pulling down my lower lip. She almost recoiled. “Blue!” she said in amazement. “Your mouth is blue!”
She wrote rapidly on a pad on the desk. “Very unusual. Have you spent time in the tropics?”
I took advantage of her writing to pull myself away.
“I’m not a patient. I don’t work here. I’m investigating the death of Ivor Jenkinson. Did you ever treat him?”
“You’d better sit down,” she said calmly. “Now, what can
I do for you? From the police, are you?”
“IJ. Did he ever consult you—about anything?”
“Yes but never anything serious.” She eyed me solicitously. “Your mouth is blue though …”
“I had blueberry muffins for breakfast.”
“M’m,” she said complacently. “That would explain it.”
I took out my diary and made a pretence of making a note.
“Your name is—?”
“Dr Margaret Evans.” So much for hot ideas. She wasn’t the Dr F on the blackboard. “Did Ivor Jenkinson have a doctor of his own?”
“I suppose he must have had. Probably didn’t consult him much though. He was a very healthy individual.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
She rose and went to a cabinet. After a moment, she came back with a card in her hand. “Dr William Stanley, Weymouth Street.”
Another blank. “How detailed is that file on IJ?” I asked. “For instance, did he have any allergies?”
She examined the card. “None shown here.”
“Food allergies?”
“Nothing here.” She put the card down. “Terrible business,” she said. I nodded. “Never speak ill of the dead, of course—but he wasn’t a man who was liked. What have you found out? What was the cause of death?”
“That is confidential at the moment,” I said pompously.
“Professional interest, that’s all,” she assured me.
I thanked her and exited. I made my way out into the yard and across the parking area. At the guard gate, a window opened.
I turned and waved past a couple of cars. “Thanks, Millie.”
“Oh, saw you back here, did she?” the commissionaire asked, trying in vain to spot the invisible Millie. “We have strict rules about people being escorted at all times.”
“You’re very efficient about it too,” I told him.
I hastened off to study the immortal notes of IJ, hoping they would give me some clue about something. At the moment they were as incomprehensible as a menu at a Korean restaurant.
I phoned Winnie from the office. Perhaps I was feeling slightly guilty about having gone sleuthing at St Leger’s apartment and at the NTV studios. Inspector Hemingway had been firm—well, more than firm really—in his insistence that I must not get involved in the investigation into the death of IJ. But hadn’t he said himself that he believed it was mixed up with my assignment for Le Trouquet d’Or? How could I know which investigation was which unless I investigated?
That sounded convincing to me anyway. So I needn’t feel guilty and besides I wanted to know what was new with the Food Squad—and well, yes, I did want to talk to Winnie.
She answered promptly.
“Any progress?” she asked.
“A few things,” I said vaguely. “I’m not sure what they add up to—perhaps you can help me figure them out.”
“What are they?” She was brisk and businesslike today.
“I don’t think we can discuss them properly over the phone,” I said. “Is there anything at your end?”
“We’ve pretty well exhausted the list of relatives. None of them are close and none have had any contact which indicates any animosity. As for his friends—well, there’s not much there either except that he really didn’t have any.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” I agreed.
“As for his colleagues at NTV—well, you know the situation there as well as I do.”
Her tone was light but I didn’t have a response ready.
“Impersonating a police officer is an offence punishable under Code 2244—” she was continuing. She didn’t sound too harsh and I took a chance and threw myself on the mercy of the Law. She hadn’t mentioned St Leger. Did she know about my visit there too? Probably not but I’d better not push my luck too far.
“I haven’t actually impersonated a—”
“I know. You allowed them to jump to wrong conclusions.” She even chuckled slightly. “Don’t worry—I haven’t told the inspector.” What a wonderful girl! “Did you learn anything?”
“Nobody liked IJ,” I said quickly, thankful for the diversion. “That doesn’t seem to be news though. But I can’t believe that anyone there had any reason to kill him. If indeed, he was killed …”I left the sentence dangling, hoping Winnie would take it up. She did.
“It looks that way. Forensic agrees that the heavy dose of bacillus that killed him is out of proportion to the minor doses that the others received. They’re also saying that such a dosage seems excessive—even for the most virulent lamprey.”
I took a deep breath. “Then it’s murder?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then she said:
“I’m not going to mention to the inspector that your detecting might have strayed into our investigation—and in return, I want you to keep what I’m going to tell you in the strictest confidence.”
“All right!” I assured her at once. Not even Sexton Blake or Lord Peter Wimsey were taken into the confidence of the Yard!
“The inspector doesn’t want to issue a definite statement that it was murder because then we—as the Food Squad—would have to turn the investigation over to Homicide.”
“How long can you hold out?”
“A few days only. The inspector is determined to solve it in that time.”
“Do you think he can?” I asked.
“When the inspector determines to do something, he usually does it.”
“But at the moment, you don’t really have a suspect?”
“No,” said Winnie. “Do you?”
“I think I’m getting close.”
“Oh?” She sounded surprised.
“Give me a day or two. I should have something for you by then.”
She wanted to ask more but she said, “Very well. Keep in touch—oh, and be careful.”
She hung up before I could ask her what she meant by that.
Chapter Nineteen
FOR BREAKFAST, I MADE some muesli. I always make my own—it’s not that much more difficult than opening a packet.
Muesli started out as a mixture of oats, milk, apple and nuts. It was an instant hit because of its natural freshness and its high nutritional value. Health food stores make it easy to obtain all the ingredients and I like to be able to ring the changes and use whatever happens to be in the kitchen.
This morning, I had some rolled oats, some wheat flakes, rye flakes, some plain yoghurt, a little honey, a few raisins, some walnuts and some left-over apple sauce. Bananas, dried apricots or pineapple are good too if I have them. In fact, it’s always good and never the same twice. Would Dr Bircher-Benner from Zurich recognise it? I wondered.
On the way to the office, I detoured so as to look at Hammersmith Pier. Being so close to it, I’d seen it countless times but I wanted to have another look at the place where thousands of lamprey had been washed up dead. One lamprey is a frightening sight—almost prehistoric in appearance. Thousands must have been terrifying—the crowds would have been enormous.
From the “Unfinished Business” file, I plucked the letter from Dunsingham Castle and jotted down a few ideas as a start towards a proper reply.
One recommendation I wanted to make was that “Egur-douce” should be on the menu. This is kid—young goat—and a very ancient dish. The roast kid of the Holy Land perfumes the pages of the Bible with its appetising aroma. It is the roast of patriarchs and kings and retained its popularity into the Middle Ages. The meat is browned then cooked with ginger, raisins, onions and red wine.
Swan deserved some consideration if Dunsingham Castle really wanted to present authentic mediaeval food but it would take an expert chef to reduce the oiliness of the flesh which gives the swan its resistance to the water in which it spends its life. The texture can be leathery too though marinating could take care of that. The castle might have to prepare itself for a siege as the conservationists would probably storm the walls. Still, that could be a bonus—a real-life spectacle.
I re-assembled my notes on the wines suitable for a barbecue at Graceworthy Manor and prepared them for typing. Then I turned to the mail. It contained one letter which promptly intrigued me.
It was from a woman who said she was compiling a book of famous meals. She had heard of a dinner given by the Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo to celebrate his unique feat. Could I provide details? She offered a small fee. I’m a sucker for bizarre questions like that and I would enjoy this one. I recollected reading about the dinner to which the lady referred and believed it was in one of the books by that celebrated caviar taster (yes, as a profession), André Launay. I had a copy in the flat and would look it up.
There was an invitation to a testimonial dinner. I don’t usually attend those and was about to throw it in the waste basket when I noticed that the dinner was for Per Larsson. I set it aside to read later.
Another letter introduced its writer as with a group seeking a ban on synthetic food colourings. It urged my support for this worthwhile cause on the grounds that these are “unnatural”.
I would certainly send them some comments that might be helpful and perhaps correct some misapprehensions. For instance, when peas are canned, their natural green colour is destroyed and has to be replaced with an artificial colouring. Who would eat colourless peas? A great variety of natural food colouring substances is available but most of them are not used because they are unstable. Artificial colours are so much more stable. Stability is, of course, not the most important consideration but natural substances can be just as harmful as artificial ones. Spinach wouldn’t be allowed on the market if it were a synthetic product. It contains as much as 1 per cent oxalic acid and one fifth of an ounce of oxalic acid can be fatal to humans. Altogether a very tricky subject, food colouring. It would be my public service for the day to give this group some pointers on where to go for further information.