Gourmet Detective

by Peter King

  The inspector continued smoothly as if there had been no interruption.

  “You had no suspicion at any time that Leopold was your anonymous caller?”

  “No,” said St Leger defiantly. “None at all.”

  “Thank you,” said the inspector. “You have been very helpful.”

  I was disappointed. He was letting St Leger off the hook for the time being. But he was cunning—he would be back at him, I felt sure.

  Benjamin Breakspear stood, his portly figure pushing his chair back.

  “Inspector, is this getting us anywhere? You said you only had a few points to clear up. I trust that you have almost done so?”

  “Almost,” nodded Hemingway. “Almost, Mr Breakspear.”

  I would have bet a six course meal that he didn’t think so at all. He went on, smooth as double cream.

  “Mr Ellsburg Warrington. Can you help us now?”

  A rumble of surprise. Heads turned.

  The very tall, very lean figure rose and the grey head towered as he faced Hemingway.

  “What can I tell you, Inspector?” Surprise showed in his voice.

  “Sergeant Fletcher—” Hemingway called and Winsome Winnie rose, delectable as chocolate fudge cake with Chantilly cream.

  “I have a statement here,” she said in a clear, almost girlish voice, “which, summarised, states that an agreement was prepared whereby Le Trouquet d’Or would supply an extensive range of gourmet foods to the Warrington chain of supermarkets.”

  She sat demurely.

  “Absurd!” boomed Ellsburg Warrington. He might be old but there was nothing aged about his voice. It reverberated through the room. “Absolutely absurd! We have agreed no such thing.”

  A few rows from him, François was on his feet too.

  “Inspector, this is nonsense! I know nothing about any such plan either!”

  Both were ready to go on. Both were glaring at each other but the inspector calmed them down.

  “Please, gentlemen … we’re making excellent progress here. May I ask you both to sit down so that we can conclude?”

  The two glowered at each other a moment longer then they both sat reluctantly.

  “Thank you,” said the inspector politely. “Perhaps Mr Tarquin Warrington can clear up this question?”

  A few sharp intakes of breath punctuated the quiet of the banquet room. Heads turned to look at Tarquin Warrington, sitting some distance from his father. The quiet persisted, an uneasy interval which awaited the first voice to break it.

  “We had a couple of casual conversations.” The words seemed squeezed out of him. His voice was hoarse. He drank some water, didn’t stand up. “There appeared to be some advantages in such an idea that we wanted to assess before going further—”

  François was on his feet again. “I didn’t take part in any such talks! I know nothing about such a plan!”

  “Mr Warrington—?” The inspector’s silky voice was inviting but had a needle point to it.

  “The talks were with Larry Leopold,” Tarquin Warrington said.

  “Without my knowledge!” snapped François.

  “I didn’t know that,” Warrington insisted.

  “It’s easy to blame a dead man,” retorted François.

  “Now that we’ve clarified that matter,” went on Hemingway, “we can move on.”

  No wonder he was almost cheerful. He was getting all kinds of help, even if much of it was unwilling. He looked around the room. Who was he going to settle on?

  “Miss Sally Aldridge,” he called out. “How can you help our investigation?”

  Sally remained seated. She toyed with her wine glass. She looked up at Hemingway then back at her wine glass.

  “You were approached too, weren’t you, Miss Aldridge?”

  She glanced up at him finally.

  “This may affect my work in a way that—”

  The inspector didn’t let her finish.

  “I don’t believe so. If it did happen, I would regret it. Nevertheless, I still intend to follow up this point. Let me remind you that two men are dead, both under abnormal circumstances—” his tone was hardening “—and I intend to continue this investigation until we have a full explanation.”

  He eased up, playing the game like an expert fisherman.

  “Now please tell us what happened.”

  Sally gave a small sigh of resignation. “I began a book which I planned on calling Secrets of the Great London Chefs.”She glanced in the direction of Nelda Darvey. “Then I heard that a certain female journalist was preparing a newspaper series on the same subject—”

  “Nothing of the kind!” called Nelda loudly. “Besides, my work isn’t so flimsy that it’s that easily affected.”

  A few chuckles sounded. Many knew of the vendetta between the two of them.

  Nelda was continuing. “—And my series is quite different. It’s on London’s Great Restaurants.” She turned an accusing stare on Sally. “I thought that was your title too.”

  “I don’t believe it” blurted Sally. “You were—”

  “Ladies!” There were a few titters at the mild reproof in Hemingway’s voice, especially as he neatly avoided any hint of sarcasm. “At least we’ve accomplished one worthwhile objective today. We’ve sorted out the misunderstanding between you. Would you continue, Miss Aldridge?”

  Sally tossed another blistering glare in Nelda’s direction for face-saving purposes and went on.

  “I talked to Raymond and François and got some information from both of them. After a conversation with François, Larry Leopold took me aside and asked me various questions about printing, publishing and so on. We chatted and then he invited me to lunch. He proposed the idea of a writing and publishing group as part of an expanded organisation, financed by Le Trouquet d’Or. He wanted me to direct such a group.”

  Up popped François again. “I know nothing of this either!” he protested furiously. “Inspector, this is going too far! I must ask you—”

  Hemingway held up a placating hand.

  “Mr Duquesne, I agree. This has gone far enough. What have we learned so far?” He lifted his head to take in the rest of the great room.

  “Combining Larry Leopold’s confession with the statements we have heard, we know that he was trying to put Le Trouquet d’Or out of business so that he could then buy it. He intended to use it as leverage so that he could set up a vast food empire—a world-wide chain of cooking schools, a line of gourmet foods for sale in supermarkets, a printer and publisher of books on food, possibly others we have not yet uncovered.”

  He had everyone’s full attention now and he continued, slick as golden syrup.

  “We have established that Larry Leopold was acting without Mr Duquesne’s authority in all this for obvious reasons.

  “We have also established that IJ became interested in an exposé of Le Trouquet d’Or—and possibly other restaurants—but then he realised he had a much more explosive story, the illegal establishment of a vast food empire.”

  He stopped, looked around the room. I knew him just well enough to know that he was spinning a web and waiting for someone to step into it. There was a barely audible gasp of expectation from several mouths.

  “Well, go on, Inspector,” urged Ted Wells. “Leopold killed IJ. Is that what you’re saying? The lamprey was poisoned—we know several others got minor doses. But why did IJ die?”

  Inspector Hemingway had got the reaction he wanted for continuing.

  “He arranged to have drinks before the Circle of Careme dinner. He confronted Leopold with evidence that established his guilt. Leopold had already put small amounts of the botulin in some of the lamprey—just enough to look like carelessness in preparation. Alarmed at finding that IJ was about to expose him, he put an additional dose into IJ’s drink. He hoped it would look as if several people had got small doses and IJ an extra dose. Determined to be sure that it would be lethal, he overdid it.”

  Maggie McNulty raised a hand. “B
ut surely it was reckless of IJ to tell Leopold what he knew? Dangerous, even.”

  “Mr St Leger has given me his opinion on that,” said the Inspector.

  “I probably knew IJ as much as anyone did,” admitted St Leger. “He didn’t need proof as much as the police would. His technique was to accuse—then let the accused defend themselves. It made a much better programme that way. He was a journalist first and an investigator second. With him, there was no searching for truth or justice—he was simply putting on a TV show.”

  “How could you tell that some of the botulin was in the lamprey and some in a drink?” asked Nelda, scribbling furiously.

  “It was the timing. The botulin takes at least an hour to kill. Less than thirty minutes elapsed from the start of the meal to the serving of the lamprey. At any time before the meal started, Leopold would have been having drinks with IJ in François’ office.”

  There was a lengthy pause. Hemingway didn’t seem anxious to go on. There were one or two buzzes of low-level conversation then Raymond spoke up.

  “Inspector, as you know there were some similar incidents at my restaurant… you haven’t mentioned these.”

  Hemingway addressed him with a nod.

  “Thank you, Mr Lefebvre. There are just a couple more items and then we have all the answers we need. The point you make is one of them—” he paused. This casual manner of his was likely to have a juggernaut following close behind.

  “Larry Leopold must have had an accomplice. We believe that Leopold was not satisfied with taking over control of Le Trouquet d’Or but he wanted to take over Raymond’s Restaurant too.”

  More gasps sounded. The air trembled with expectation. So did I—Hemingway was going to expose St Leger, I was sure of it.

  Raymond stood up. He was bulkier even than Benjamin Breakspear and his expansive face had that perpetual irritable look.

  “You know who this accomplice is?” he asked.

  “I said there were a couple of items…” Hemingway said. “The other concerns the typewriter on which Leopold typed his suicide note.”

  Raymond was still standing.

  “The typewriter?” he asked perplexed. “Why is that important?”

  “Typewriters have plastic keys today,” said Hemingway as if imparting information of great wisdom.

  Everyone hung on his words but it was Benjamin Breakspear who interrupted. He had once played in a James Bond movie, I remembered, and he didn’t intend to let anyone forget how much the role had taught him about police work.

  “Fingerprints, eh, Inspector?” he said with a knowing smile.

  Hemingway regarded him innocently.

  “The fingerprints on the keys are those of Leopold and no one else.”

  Deflated, Benjamin looked back sullenly.

  “A great deal of progress has been made in recent years in the forensic identification of body fluids,” Hemingway continued. “They are present in the skin and can readily be transferred to other surfaces—especially absorbent surfaces such as typewriter keys. The body fluids that our forensic people picked up on those keys are definitely those of Leopold only but—”

  The inspector paused and looked around the room. He must have studied acting at the Sahara Desert School of Dramatic Art.

  “But those body fluids were transferred to the keys after Leopold had already died from botulin poisoning.”

  There was a stunned silence. Even speculation was frozen.

  Finally, Vito Volcanini could contain his impatience no longer.

  “What are you saying, Inspector?”

  “I’m saying,” said Hemingway, “that the suicide note was typed by a dead man.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A FAINT RATTLE OF pans could be heard from the kitchens. They were some distance away but the Great Room at the Lanchester Palace was so still that the shelling of a peanut would have reverberated like thunder.

  Hemingway paused, perhaps awaiting comments or questions but there were none. He resumed speaking.

  “Our first thought was that Larry Leopold had recovered consciousness after taking the botulin in the same way that Ivor Jenkinson had revived briefly. Psychologically, it seemed unlikely—if he wanted to write a suicide note he would have done so before drinking the botulin. Scientifically, it was even more unlikely. The forensic lab ran further tests—they had no doubt whatever that Leopold was dead—thoroughly dead—when he typed the note.”

  Hemingway paused then added: “Or perhaps I should say ‘when his body fluids were transferred to the typewriter keys’.”

  “Transferred?” The word floated out of the assembly from an uncertain source.

  Hemingway nodded. “There is only one explanation. The note was typed using gloves then Leopold’s fingers were pressed on the keys.”

  There was another silence but this time it was broken more quickly. It was François who called out in an unsteady voice:

  “Then Larry did not write that note?”

  “He did not.”

  “Did he—did he commit suicide?”

  “No, he did not. He was murdered.”

  No silence this time but incredulous gasps and then a babble of outraged comments.

  Maggie McNulty’s voice was the first to cut through the forest of sound.

  “Then it’s not solved at all!” she cried. “Now you’ve got two murders to solve!”

  The rising hubbub would have unnerved many a lion-tamer or prime minister but Inspector Hemingway looked cool and efficient. Unless I was mistaken, he was more—he was confident. He waited until the bedlam died down.

  “I referred earlier to an accomplice. Ivor Jenkinson used several freelance helpers in his investigations. One of them was a photographer—a real paparazzo—who knew all the tricks. He took a lot of photographs including, as we now know, some that were in the envelope that you handed to Ivor Jenkinson just before the dinner. Mr St Leger—”

  The inspector turned in his direction. “You have continually maintained that you did not know what was in that envelope.”

  “I didn’t. I collected it from Scarponi and brought it to IJ as he told me to do. I didn’t open it.”

  “We have been to the laboratory where Scarponi had his work processed. They said that Scarponi always took the negatives. He knew all the tricks, as I said.”

  “Then why don’t you ask Scarponi what was on the photographs?” asked St Leger.

  “He says they were shots he had taken of Leopold. Some had other people on them but no one he recognised.”

  “From the way IJ looked at them,” said St Leger slowly, he did.”

  “Can we come back to you now, Miss Aldridge?” asked Hemingway unexpectedly.

  Sally looked back at him. From where I was sitting, I could only see her profile. She looked tense.

  “You were a close friend of Alessandro Scarponi, weren’t you?”

  Sally nodded.

  “Friend!” muttered Nelda.

  “I have no intention of prying into your private life, Miss Aldridge, but as you were living with Scarponi for a time, he must have shown you many of these photographs.”

  “Why should he?” asked Sally carelessly.

  “Because, as he told us, he didn’t recognise everyone on them. What more obvious than to ask you? You knew every face in the restaurant and food business.”

  Hemingway went on, speaking directly to Sally now.

  “With Larry Leopold’s death, it was obvious that he had been the one sabotaging Le Trouquet d’Or. Who then was doing the same thing at Raymond’s?”

  Heads turned in Raymond’s direction, including mine. He sat immobile.

  “Miss Aldridge,” asked the inspector, “in the photographs which showed Larry Leopold, did you recognise anyone who was associated with Raymond’s?”

  “Yes,” said Sally quietly.

  “Did you identify this person to Scarponi?”

  “Of course not,” said Sally, regaining some of her usual spirit.

&nbs
p; “Why ‘of course not’?”

  “He was in the business too—I didn’t want him taking my story. If he didn’t use it himself, he would have sold it to the highest bidder.”

  “And what was that story?”

  “It would have shown the feud between Raymond and François in a new light.”

  “Miss Aldridge,” said Hemingway, his tone hardening, “in our discussions with you, you have never mentioned this person to us. Why not?”

  “I was still holding on to the story so I could use it. It was good gossip. Besides, it has nothing to do with the police.”

  “It has everything to do with us,” said Hemingway sternly. “Now please point out this person.”

  Opposite me, Klaus was holding his breath. Even Nelda was wide-eyed. There couldn’t have been a person in the room who wasn’t one or the other.

  Sally stood, reluctantly.

  Her finger reached out and she pointed to Paula Jardine.

  I couldn’t see Paula well, only her lustrous red hair.

  “What did you conclude from the photographs, Miss Aldridge?” The inspector was inexorable.

  “That Paula and Larry were—well, very good friends. There were several pictures of them together. Alessandro is an expert in his line of work.”

  Sally sat abruptly, clearly unwilling to say more.

  “Well, Miss Jardine?”

  I couldn’t believe it. Nor it seemed could anyone else.

  When Paula answered, her voice was cool.

  “Very well, Inspector. I suppose I have to admit our relationship. Larry and I have been lovers for some time. We didn’t want it publicly known because it might affect the image of two duelling restaurants that Raymond and François have worked so hard to build up.”

  “H’m.” Hemingway’s comment was dismissive. “Lovers, you say. Not partners?”

  “Certainly not,” said Paula, still cool as ice. “Oh, I knew Larry was ambitious and wanted to achieve so much more. I knew he was laying plans of some kind but he didn’t tell me what they were. He wouldn’t, of course. Our restaurants were in competition with one another.”

  “And you were not his accomplice?” Hemingway persisted.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Contempt for the idea spiked Paula’s answer.