by Nan Lyons
“I sent the labels from my caviar jars and half a crown to the NKVD.”
“Achille,” she began, “the reason I think I’m going to be killed has something to do with you.”
“Splendid. I’ve felt so left out of all this.”
“Achille, there are some things only your best friends will tell you,” Max said.
“Do not flatter yourself.”
She began gently. “We believe Louis, Nutti, and Jean-Claude were killed because someone hates you.”
“Indeed. And was I also the cause of the Franco-Prussian War?”
“Listen to me, darling. They each made one course of your favorite dinner. They were killed in the order of the courses. And they were killed as though they were part of the recipes for those dishes.”
“And you fancy yourself the dessert?”
“Yes.”
Achille began to laugh. “It’s absurd. It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Achille, I’m terrified!”
“Terror is part of life, my dear. It does not give one a license for lunacy. You cannot seriously expect me to believe that anyone could possibly hate me.”
“It might come as a surprise to you, Achille, but perhaps on an off-day you alienated a few thousand people.” Max shrugged his shoulders.
“Natasha, my darling, was it not I who wanted to open a charlotte russe factory in Bangladesh?”
“Achille …”
“Did not I suggest sending round-the-clock quiche when the coal mine collapsed in Wales?”
“Achille, don’t…”
“And …”
“Achille,” she yelled, “someone hates you enough to kill me.”
There was a pause. “Do you think I might be in danger from this madman as well?”
“No,” Max said. “That’s the kicker. I don’t think you’re in any danger at all. The murderer thinks he’s hurting you more by killing off your favorite chefs.”
“To whom have you told this incredible theory?”
“To no one,” Natasha said. “I didn’t want to get involved with the police again. But there’s no more time, Achille. Someone is planning to kill me, and you’re the only person who can help.”
“You have only to ask, puss.”
Max leaned forward. “Achille, I think you know who the killer is. You may not know he is a killer, but you know him. Now, I grant it could take a lifetime to investigate everyone who hates you, but there must be a few standouts in your mind.”
“Can you think of anyone, Achille?” Natasha clutched his arm. “Do you have any ideas at all? If you could think of someone, you might save my life!”
Achille sat silent as Natasha and Max looked at him. “Well, I congratulate you both. I cannot recall another time I have been at such a loss for words.”
“We need you, Achille. You’ve got to give us some names.” Max waited for an answer.
“I cannot think of anyone who would wish to harm me.” Natasha and Max sat back in exasperation. “However, I shall reconsider the possibility.”
“Darling, I’m running out of time. You’ve got to think fast.”
“Natasha, I promise to think of who among my legion of dear friends is trying to kill you. In the meantime, you will never walk alone. You will have either me or Max at your side. I presume Peter Plastic will share your chamber this evening.”
“Yes, but I have to go back to Paris in the morning,” Max said.
“No matter. Lucino and I will escort you to Harrods tomorrow, where you will be surrounded by an adoring throng.”
“I think we should go to the police anyway,” Max said.
“No, Millie, I won’t go through that again. The police can’t do anything. I won’t be subjected to their endless questions, their innuendos … I just can’t.”
“Of course you can’t,” Achille said, soothingly. “Surely, Max, she’s already been through enough without further mindless prodding. Really, I don’t see the harm in a day or two in which to recoup.”
“She might not have a day or two, that’s why.”
“Stop referring to me in the third person! I’m still alive.”
“That’s what I’m trying to guarantee.”
“Millie, Achille is right. Give me at least a day or two. I won’t be alone. If Achille comes up with something, we’ll go right to the police. Otherwise, I’m not ready to go through the agony of convincing Carmody I’m not the killer but that I’m going to be the victim.”
“One day,” Max said. “On Thursday morning I go to the police.”
“Agreed,” Achille said. “On Thursday morning we shall meet with the police and present my list of suspected assassins.”
“Millie, it’s okay,” she said, taking his hand. “Nothing can happen to me tomorrow.”
Achille darling,
Here it is. Now do be careful. Isn’t this fun?
As ever.
Chapter 15
Natasha, Max, and Lucino were dropped at the Dorchester. Rudolph then drove Achille to his flat. “Will you want me this evening, sir?”
“No.”
“What time tomorrow shall I be here?”
“Be here at eleven sharp. We will call for Miss O’Brien and take her to Harrods.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.”
Achille walked into the building, and, as he rode upstairs, his thoughts were still on the conversation with Natasha and Max. He unlocked the door. Cesar brushed against his foot and purred.
Achille sat down on a chair in the foyer. He felt his heart pounding and was suddenly aware that his body was covered with perspiration. He leaned over to pat Cesar. After a moment, he stood up and removed his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He walked naked into the bedroom and turned on the Chopin sonata tape. Cesar meowed loudly until he was fed the chopped lobster Mrs. Booth had left in the refrigerator.
Achille stepped into the shower. He allowed the water to wash away the perspiration and then stood under the heat lamp while the blowers dried his body. A few splashes of strawberry vermouth across his chest, on his forehead, under his arms, and then he put on his blue silk robe. He walked through the living room and opened the door to the wine wall. Behind the shelves, among the cases, was an unmarked square carton. He carried the carton into the kitchen and lifted it onto the stainless steel counter.
He was perspiring again. For some reason, it had never occurred to him they would think he held the key to the murders. But what if they did? There was no evidence that he was involved. They could suspect whatever they wanted. There was simply No Evidence. He went back into the living room, to the bookshelves. From inside his copy of Les Misérables he took the passport of Hugo Victor. From within The Return of the Native he took Hardy Thomas’ passport And from behind his set of The Story of Civilization he took the small brown envelope that contained C3, a plastic explosive.
Once in the kitchen, he placed the C3 envelope atop the square carton. He lit one of the burners on the stove and set Hugo Victor and Hardy Thomas aflame. He put them into the sink to bum. That was the end of his only connection with the Rome and Paris murders. He used a paper towel to clean away the ashes in the sink and flushed them down the toilet.
Achille untied the twine and took off the wrapping paper. The carton itself was imprinted with a likeness of the new Hansen electric mixer that Les Amis de Cuisine had formally approved. He opened it carefully so that it could be resealed. He extracted the gleaming white mixer and its steel beaters from the polyfoam mold. He stared at it. Using a small screwdriver, he took off the false bottom that had been built into the mixer. From behind the picture of a Spanish melon above the counter, he untaped the drawing of the mixer and detonating device. He studied the drawing, almost unwilling to believe it could be so simple. He opened the C3 envelope, took out what appeared to be a package of semisoft clay, and proceeded to pack it into the base of the mixer. Then he screwed the base back and burned the diagram. With great care he wiped
all his fingerprints from the mixer, put it back into its polyfoam mold and then into the carton, which closed with a series of interlocking tabs. He fit the wrapping paper back around the carton, sealed it with tape, and retied it with the twine.
Using a thick black marker, and writing with his left hand, he slowly printed in block letters
HARRODS
URGENT PRIORITY FOR MR. ST. CLAIR
SPECIAL EQUIPMENT FOR BBC COOKING DEMONSTRATION
THIS EQUIPMENT IS TO REPLACE MIXER IN EXHIBIT KITCHEN
FRAGILE FRAGILE FRAGILE
THIS SIDE UP THIS SIDE UP
Achille put the carton and the black marker into a large paper carrying bag. The Chopin was still playing as he began to dress. It was dark outside. Cesar glanced up for a moment as Achille closed the door.
Once in the street, Achille walked quickly, carrying the bag close to the building. After two blocks, he hailed a taxi to Piccadilly Circus. The driver stopped at Piccadilly and Lower Regent Street Achille walked down the stairs to the Underground, made his way through the labyrinth of corridors, and found a secluded area where he rented a locker. He took the carton out of the bag, pushed it to the back of the locker and secured the door. On his way out of the station, he threw the bag into a litter basket He walked back up the stairs into the neon frenzy of Piccadilly Circus at night.
Suddenly he wanted to be part of the crowd. He wanted to nod at pleasant-looking ladies. He watched slender young men as they jousted with each other and wanted to tell them how daring he had just been. But then, after only a moment, he wanted to go home, to be closer to Estella.
At nine o’clock the next morning, Achille was freshly shaved and showered. He wore a tan raincoat with a white silk scarf knotted at the neck. He left his flat and walked to Park Lane, where there was a public telephone booth.
“Harrods. Good morning.”
“Mr. St. Clair, please.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. St. Clair’s office. Good morning.”
Achille cleared his throat and raised his voice to the level of a dowager empress. “Good morning. BBC here. May I please speak to Mr. St. Clair about the cooking demonstration?”
“One moment, please.”
“St. Clair, here. May I help you?”
“This is Miss Gompers. BBC. I’m afraid there’s rather a sticky problem concerning the demonstration with the American chef this afternoon.”
“What do you mean? We’ve had adverts in the papers for days. I’m expecting an overflow crowd.”
“Mr. St. Clair, I’m afraid you haven’t confirmed receipt of the special equipment. Our messenger service delivered a special mixer and we haven’t received your confirmation that you replaced the old mixer with the new one we sent to you.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve received no mixer. I have no notes here that any equipment was to be expected. Now see here, we’ve put quite a bit into this demonstration and I don’t want your messengers mucking it up.”
“Mr. St. Clair, I suggest you contact your receiving room at once. They undoubtedly have the parcel in question. I’ll ring you back to be sure you have it. You know how these Americans are. You can’t imagine what we’ve had to put up with here. Ta for now.”
Achille stepped out of the booth and hailed a taxi. “Piccadilly Circus, please.”
He walked down into Piccadilly Station, went directly to his locker, and opened it. He glanced about quickly, took off his scarf and raincoat, and put them into the locker. Achille was wearing a faded blue coverall. He took a crushed blue cap from his pocket and put it on his head. Then he took the carton from the locker and closed the door. He walked to the nearest phone booth.
“Harrods. Good morning.”
“Mr. St. Clair, please.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. St. Clair’s office. Good morning.”
“Miss Gompers. BBC. Has your Mr. St. Clair located the missing mixer?”
“Oh, Miss Gompers. I can’t tell you the rage Mr. St. Clair is in. You know this whole demonstration was his own idea, having the same dessert served to Her Majesty re-created by the cook who made it at the Palace. He’s beside himself.”
“I should think that’s the last place he would want to be. Unless he’s found that mixer, I’m certain the American will refuse to cook. I surely will be forced to bring back our camera crew.”
“Oh, I know he’ll find it. He’s gone down to the receiving department himself. You can imagine how upset he is, if he did that. But are you sure it was sent yesterday?”
“My dear, we at the BBC tell Big Ben the correct time! Surely, we can manage a wee parcel. I trust your Mr. St. Clair fares well.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’ll be no problem, Miss Gompers.”
“There had better not be. Else heads will roll.”
Achille hung up, walked quickly to the ticket booth, and said “Knightsbridge.” He got his ticket and walked through the gates following the blue signs for the Piccadilly Line. As he arrived on the platform, a train was just pulling in. He stepped in and sat down. He looked around, thinking the people were truly not much worse than those who ride the airlines. Green Park Station. It was all rather an interesting interlude, apart from the mingling of unde-odorized passengers with overly deodorized trains. If only people realized the importance of the sense of smell. Hyde Park Comer. Animals realized it. But at some point, as man became less a predator, he allowed his nose to atrophy in favor of his tongue. Another folly of the middle class. Knightsbridge.
Achille walked out of the station and onto the crowded street. He put on a pair of large sunglasses that would hide his eyebrows. Turning left, he crossed to the Basil Street side of Harrods and into the large open delivery area. No one took notice of him as he walked to the edge of the receiving platform. Mr. St. Clair was screaming at the men and blaming their stupidity for the fall of the British Empire, devaluation, and the energy crisis. Achille put the package onto a moving conveyor belt and walked quickly across the street.
The conveyor belt carried the package almost into the hands of St. Clair, who put the carton under his arm and stormed out of the receiving room. The men made obscene gestures with their hands as St. Clair slammed the door behind him.
Achille walked back to the Knightsbridge Station. He took the Underground to Piccadilly Circus and went to his locker. He removed his cap and sunglasses, put the scarf around his neck and then got into his raincoat. He walked up the stairs, hailed a taxi, and went back to his flat.
It was ten minutes to ten. Cesar looked up from the floor, where he had fallen asleep next to his half-eaten dish of lobster. Achille took off his blue coverall and hid it in the back of me closet He picked up the telephone.
“Harrods. Good morning.”
“Mr. St. Clair, please.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. St. Clair’s office. Good morning.”
“Well, have you found it yet?”
“Miss Gompers? Yes. He did. I’ll let you speak to Mr. St. Clair.”
“St. Clair here.”
“Well, St. Clair, have we a show today or have we not?”
“Indeed we do. I myself have the parcel. However, I was personally in the receiving room when it was delivered this very morning. Not yesterday. And so it appears that the BBC is not as infallible as one might be led to believe. Eh?”
“Mr. St. Clair, to err is but human, as they say. I’m jolly well relieved that you now have the package, and the envelope with the special instructions.”
“What envelope?”
“Let’s not joke about at this point, St. Clair.”
“What envelope?” he repeated. “There was no envelope. Just a carton with lettering all over it as though it were written by a mental deficient. This side up. Fragile. Fragile. Fragile. Et cetera. But I assure you there was no envelope.”
“But I personally told them to affix it to the outside of the package. Perhaps you should see if the envelope is inside.”
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“Very well. Just a moment” Achille heard the receiver being put down and the shrill voices of St. Clair and his secretary as they searched for the envelope. “No. Damn it See here, Miss Gompers, you had better tell me what was in that envelope. I don’t want to have to report you to your superiors.”
“I certainly hope you won’t do that, Mr. St. Clair.”
“Only if I must.”
“I can tell you what the instructions were. I typed them myself. I know what they are.”
“Then would you mind telling me?” he said angrily.
“It appears that the beaters have been preset and positioned at precisely the correct angle. The American appears somewhat paranoid about this. I can’t tell you what she put us through. Well, I suppose if you’ve cooked for the Queen …”
“Will you please give me the instructions?”
“Mr. St. Clair, the simplest thing is to carry the mixer gently to the exhibition kitchen. Have one of your workmen remove the mixer you already have there. Put this mixer down. Be very careful not to jostle it, lest the beaters come out of alignment. Plug it in. Turn it on for the slightest fraction of a second, just to be certain the current is working. Then leave it alone. Don’t allow anyone but Miss O’Brien to touch it. She’s threatened to walk off the stage if the mixer isn’t exactly the way she wants it. So I would suggest, unless you want an auditorium filled with very angry lady shoppers, you do exactly as I’ve said.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. But I warn you she’s a terror. It seems the beaters rapidly go out of alignment. Please don’t turn it on for more than a second to check the current.”
“Right I’ll take care of it personally. And I’d like to add, Miss Gompers, that none of this would have been necessary if you people at the BBC had done your jobs properly.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. St. Clair. I urge you to follow the instructions to the letter. Otherwise, you’ll blow it.”
Edgar St. Clair was a career man. His very first job was in the stock room at Harrods and now he was Manager of Special Events. He lived in the same flat in which he had grown up, from which he had buried his parents, and to which he had brought his wife, and their children. At forty-nine, with thinning blond hair, a huge handlebar mustache, and the inside track on getting unclaimed custom clothes from Harrods, Edgar St. Clair was not about to take any chances with the only special event he had scheduled for the month. He personally carried the mixer out of his office preceded by his secretary, who opened the door for him, pressed the button for the elevator, and stood guard as they went down to the auditorium.