Someone is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe
Page 11
“There is no less than Mr. Ogden. Call Paris, then.”
“Alois had a message for her to call you. I thought perhaps I should cable her some expense money. Perhaps five hundred.”
“Why did she leave Rome?”
“I don’t know. I presume she was upset by Mr. Fenegretti’s death. Speaking of which, Mr. Fenegretti’s cousin in Manchester has called three times, and his brother in Palermo wants to be sure you’re going to the funeral.”
“Tell them I’m overcome with grief. Another Michelangelo has been lost. Arrange for a boys’ choir to sing at the funeral. And pick up the check for whatever catering they want.”
“The Les Amis de Cuisine branch in Rome wants to know if you will deliver the eulogy.”
“Tell them I’ve been captured by gypsies, but that all their subscriptions have been extended an extra month in memoriam.”
“I’ve written a eulogy for you. I thought we could Telex it to Benito at the embassy and he could deliver it for you.”
“Benito could not deliver the morning paper for me.”
“It’s being typed now. Do you want to see it?”
“Your usual diabetic prose?”
“Mrs. Kohner called. She wanted to thank you. She was the only one at Mr. Kohner’s funeral. She said the boys’ choir was lovely.”
Achille banged his fist on the desk. “Is this a publishing house or a burial society?”
“It’s an unfortunate coincidence. But these men were your friends. You can’t ignore it.”
“I don’t wish to discuss these moribund matters any further. Deal with them as you wish. Don’t involve me. I have my own problems.”
“Clearly.”
“Of which you are not the least annoying.”
“Speaking of annoying, Mr. Tresting is most anxious to see you.”
“Who is he?”
“He is the treasurer.”
“The one with the heart condition?”
“Yes. He told me he hasn’t seen you in six months. I explained how fortunate he was, but apparently he’s self-destructive.”
“What does he want?”
“He said it was confidential.”
“I don’t want to see him. I don’t like accountants.”
“He was most persistent.” The telephone rang. Miss Beauchamp answered it. “Yes, he’s here now, operator.” She handed the receiver to Achille. “It’s Paris. Miss O’Brien.” He took the receiver and waved her out of the room.
“What are you doing in Paris?” he shouted into the telephone. “I had you on assignment in Rome.”
“Someone murdered the assignment.”
“I know. I expect to be named mortician of the year.”
“Achille, within three days … both of them … what do you think is happening?”
“You must know. You were with them both.”
“Achille”—her voice grew tense—“what are you saying?”
“Nothing, puss. But then again I wouldn’t want you hanging around my neck as a good-luck charm.”
“Achille, Inspector Carmody alerted the Rome police about me. He thinks I killed Louis.”
“Rubbish.”
“I know, but he thinks I did. And then I was in Rome when Nutti was killed. What do you suppose Carmody thinks now?”
“Undoubtedly he is convinced he is right. However, I do not wish to participate in your gothic fantasies.”
“It’s not just my fantasy. I met with Auguste. He’s also convinced that the same person killed Louis and Nutti. Thank God, I’ve had Millie here.”
“Don’t tell me Flash Frozen has captured your heart again?”
“No,” she said defensively. “I just need some time. A few days to recoup.”
“And then what? Will you become a madam for H. Dumpty?”
“Of course not. I just need some time to think.”
“An unproductive activity.”
“Achille, have you seen Hildegarde?”
“No. But I understand she had a splendid time at the funeral. I had the Harrow Boys Choir sing The Trout.”
“Achille, shouldn’t I have been there?”
“Guilt is also unproductive. You seem to have cornered the market on boring symptoms.”
“I shouldn’t have gone to Rome. I should have stayed in London and been at the funeral. Then I wouldn’t have been there when Nutti was killed.”
“And now you are in Paris, missing yet another funeral!”
“I saw him. In the tank.”
“Indeed.”
“Achille, it was so terrible. There was a lobster crawling up his arm.”
“Lobsters have never been known for their manners. Listen, my love, you may comfort yourself that although you missed the funeral, you saw the murder.”
“My God, you’re heartless.”
“Heartless? After personally insisting on an all-Schubert program for Louis? And what about the eulogy I’ve written for Nutti? I’m merely trying to shake you out of the heebie-jeebies, ma fleur. You are voraciously groveling in self-pity to the exclusion of all else. Since you did not murder Louis and Nutti, stop worrying.”
“Achille,” she said, becoming very serious, “you’re one of the few people I really trust.”
“Then take my advice. I would personally feel much better knowing you were enjoying these last few days.”
“You are a dear.”
“Don’t snivel. After all, what are friends for?” He said good-bye, hung up the receiver, and rang for Miss Beauchamp on the intercom. She came into his office. “I’m hungry. I want my lunch.”
“It’s on its way,” she said. “How much weight have you lost?”
“None of your business. Twelve pounds.”
“That’s wonderful. You’ve only got a hundred and forty-three pounds to go.”
There was a knock at the door. She opened it, and André, the house chef, entered carrying a tray. He wore a white jacket, black-and-gray-striped trousers, and a freshly starched toque straight up on his head. He was a wiry man with a pencil-thin black mustache.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Bonjour, Monsieur van Golk. Aujourd’hui le caviar avec un verre de champagne.” He walked to the desk and put the tray in front of Achille. Ceremoniously, he removed the linen napkin that covered the tray. “Voilà, le déjeuner extraordinaire.”
In the center of the tray was a richly ornamental Georgian silver bowl filled with crushed ice. A small crystal cup of caviar was embedded in the ice. André arranged the small wooden spoon and the lemon wedges so they were at right angles to Achille. He pulled back a napkin to show one slice of toast with its crust removed. Then he took the towel off the top of the ice bucket, removed a split of Bollinger ’66, inserted the tulip-shaped glass upside down in the ice for a moment, opened the champagne, poured exactly four ounces, and removed the bottle and bucket. “Bon appétit, monsieur. Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He left the room.
“What about Tresting?” she asked.
“Send him in, send him in. But you go away.” She left the office. Achille licked his lips. He looked at the small pearl-gray eggs. Carefully, he put his spoon to the caviar and took but a single egg. It was perfect. He pressed it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Then he brought the glass of champagne to his nose. He sniffed it, put his lips to the glass, and merely moistened them. He sat back thinking of how the first snowflake must have tasted to the gods on Mount Olympus. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called.
Arnold Victor Tresting was fifty-six. He was a medium-sized man, with no distinguishing features. Light-brown hair, pleasant enough looking, neatly attired.
“Good afternoon, Mr. van Golk,” he said, entering the room with his hand extended. Achille was busy spooning some caviar onto a small piece of toast.
“You must excuse me, Tresting, but as you can see …”
“Yes, of course.” There was a pause.
“Well, Tresting, it must be six months at least since I
’ve seen you. Why have you been avoiding me?”
“Oh, I haven’t been avoiding you, Mr. van Golk. We’ve been very busy, sir.”
“You are the treasurer, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then tell me, what do you treasure?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For what treasure did I employ you to be the treasurer?”
“Well, you see, sir, I’m really more of an accountant.”
“Then let us have an accounting. How do you account for the weather these days, Tresting? And how do you account for the abominable manners of the young?” He picked up his glass and again moistened his lips. “Ah, Bollinger tries, but the Dom will out.”
“Mr. van Golk, I am Arnold Victor Tresting. I am the treasurer, and I have been in your employ for six months. I came to this firm after recuperating from a series of seventeen mild heart attacks.” Achille looked at him and frowned. “I took this particular position because it was my evaluation the firm was showing a modest profit and no severe strain would result from my involvement in the finances of this company.”
“Do you like caviar, Tresting?”
“I prefer fish sticks, myself.”
“Tresting, what do you want?”
“Mr. van Golk, I merely wish to inquire whether you foresee the increasing profitability of this firm continuing at its present rate. Our subscriptions have gone up forty percent over last year, thereby increasing our profit by some sixty percent. You are becoming an exceedingly wealthy man and I am frankly …”
“What is it, Tresting? Trest me.”
“I am frankly afraid if the spiraling profitability continues, this position will become too taxing for me. The first thing I know you will want to diversify. You will increase my wages, and both my professional and personal lives will be altered immeasurably. I have been worrying about this problem for a number of weeks and I would appreciate your assurance that you expect a decline in our profits.”
Achille pushed aside his caviar. He pushed back his chair. He stood up. “Tresting, are you seriously telling me that if this company continues to make more money it will be detrimental to your cardiac condition?”
“Yes, sir. That’s it. That’s precisely what I’m saying.”
“Tresting, you are dismissed. Write yourself a check for one month’s wages. Leave these premises within half an hour or I shall apply a magnet to your pacemaker. Do not expect you will receive any recommendation from this firm other than encompassing our suggestion you be admitted at once to Charenton Asylum. You may go.”
“Yes, sir.” Tresting got up from his chair, and turned curtly to leave.
“One more thing, Tresting,” Achille called after him.
“What?”
“BOO!”
THE VAN GOLK DIET
Prepared by André Decharne and the staff of LUCULLUS
1. This menu averages 1218 calories per day, allowing for the addition of reasonable amounts of coffee or lemon tea.
2. As per agreement with Mr. van Golk, he will sleep through the morning meal. There is no provision for breakfast.
WEEK ONE
Monday Calories
per meal
Luncheon
4 oz boiled lobster–103
2 T curried mayonnaise–197
4 oz champagne Dom Pérignon Brut ’66 – 100
400
Dinner
4 oz lamb filet (mignonettes) – 236 each wrapped in bacon
2 slices bacon – 62
2 t oil – 82
2 t butter – 66
4 oz leeks – 59
2 T brown sauce – 36
127
1/2 cup yellow squash – 13
1T grated parmesan cheese – 27
1 4 oz peach – 38
2 oz port – 92
6 oz wine Château Mouton-Rothschild ’49 – 120
Tuesday
Luncheon
3 oz prosciutto – 227
8 oz casaba melon – 62
4 oz champagne Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin Brut ’59 – 104
393
Dinner
1 cup onion soup gratinée – 92
8 oz frog’s legs – 166
2 T butter – 200 garlic, parsley, vinegar – trace
1/2 cup steamed carrots – 27
1 T chopped walnuts – 49
I t butter – 33
1 cup strawberries – 53
1 oz kirsch – 83
6 oz wine Château Laville-Haut-Brion ’66 – 120
Wednesday
Luncheon
4 oz saumon fumé—200
1 slice toast – 67
4 oz champagne Mumm Double Cordon Extra Sec ’64 – 109
376
Dinner
1 cup asparagus consommé – 71
4 oz roast venison au poivre—143
8 oz fresh mushroom caps – 62 sautéed in
1 T butter – 100
1 cup fresh raspberries – 82
3 T crème fraîche—159
6 oz wine La Tâche ’61 – 180
Thursday
Luncheon
4 oz roast beef – 273
1 oz horseradish – 11 mixed with
4 T whipped cream – 106
4 oz champagne Moët et Chandon Brut ’61 – 87
477
Dinner
1 1/2 oz melted Raclette – 152
8 oz poached striped bass – 238
2 T aïoli – 194
1 cup steamed cucumbers with fresh dill – 20
8 oz Spanish melon – 62
1 oz lime juice – 7
6 oz wine Pouilly-Fumé, Ladoucette ’71 – 120
Friday
Luncheon
4 oz whole grain fresh Beluga caviar – 296
1 slice toast – 67
4 oz champagne Bollinger Extra Sec ’59 – 109
472
Dinner
1 cup jellied madrilène – 60
4 oz filet mignon – 245
3 T Sauce Béarnaise – 156
1 small tomato grilled – 24
I t butter – 33
5 fresh medium kumquats – 65
6 oz wine Château Pétrus ’61 – 120
Saturday
Luncheon
4 oz roast pheasant – 184
3 T Sauce Maltaise (Hollandaise and Orange) – 171
4 oz champagne Heidsieck Monopole Brut ’61 – 109
464
Dinner
8 oz petite marmite – 40
8 oz Dover sole – 180 Sauce Amandine – 240
1 cup spinach – 36
1 t butter – 33
1/2 oz gruyère cheese – 50
1/2 T bread crumbs – 13
Coffee Granitas
1 cup espresso – 0
1 T sugar – 46 freeze, shave, serve
6 oz wine Wehlener Sonnenuhr Auslese (Joh. Jos. Prüm) ’71–120
Sunday
Luncheon
4 oz sturgeon – 169
1 slice Russian black bread – 57
4 oz champagne Taittinger Extra Sec ’64–109
335
Dinner
4 oz shell steak – 277 stuffed with
4 oysters–49
2 t butter–66
2 t oil–82
1/2 oz chopped shallots – 10
1 T white wine – 10
2 T brown sauce – 36
4 oz raw mushrooms – 31
2 T lemon juice – 8
1 orange – 77
1/2 oz Curaçao – 50
1 T freshly grated coconut – 28
6 oz wine Chambertin-Clos de Bèze (Pierre Gelin) ’66–180
NOTE: It is not intended that Mr. van Golk subsist this poorly every week. We have had to estimate some of the calorie counts given above, but by next week we expect final reports from the laboratory as well as more accurate figures from the wine châteaux. Be assured that future menus will be more distinctiv
e and varied.
Chapter 11
Natasha was awake. Max’s arm lay across her chest, cupping her right breast in his hand. She watched his arm move up and down with each breath she took. Max’s head was resting on an unwrinkled pillow. She smiled, remembering how she used to fight with him for sleeping so neatly. She wondered how great a commitment she had made by going to bed with him. The months without Max had been exhilarating. The bloody coup inaugurating the revolution was successful and the new government had been recognized. But now, continued isolation, or coexistence?
Unlike other men with whom she had slept, Max was a compulsive talker, telling her how he felt, explaining each sensation, requiring that she describe her feelings. He insisted that making love in silence was antisocial and selfish. Each time she moaned, he said “Tell me.” After each intake of his own breath, he offered a full explanation. He wanted her to know how she pleased him, but he also wanted to know how well he was pleasing her. There was an honesty, a vulgarity, a sensitivity, and an excitement with Max she never had with anyone else. There had been others who were more romantic, but no one had ever demanded so much of her.