Just Desserts (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  Bognor, relinquishing the hand, looked up at the eyes which he realized, disconcerted, were studying him with an amused, almost supercilious attention. They were steel grey like her hair and her pearls, and they looked as if they didn’t miss a trick. ‘And how is the Board of Trade?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ he replied inanely.

  The thin-lined face smiled, though the pleasure was not reflected in the eyes. With that sort of person in that sort of position, he had long since learnt, it never is.

  ‘You had an enjoyable flight?’ The remark was addressed to both of them, and they proceeded to a minute or two of very small talk until she excused herself and moved on to another guest. Bognor just had time to confirm his first impression which had in turn confirmed what he had already heard. Charming, formidable, shrewd etcetera, etcetera: typical Frenchwoman, typical businesswoman.

  The Bitschwiller plane was on charter from Air France. It was a Boeing 747, the original Jumbo. Bitschwiller had their own jet, but it was not large enough to accommodate the cocktail party. Bognor learned from a voluble French restaurateur, who had fought with a Maquis near Lyon and was thus on intimate terms with Blight-Purley, that there had been a move to go by Concorde. Unfortunately it would have taken two to get them there, and even for Bitschwiller and their co-sponsors that represented too great an expense. The final choice meant that though their party was a large one there was still room to wander and stretch. Bognor, like most of his fellow passengers, watched the film (All the President’s Men) which he had seen already and was rendered incomprehensible by some bad dubbing into French. He also ate and drank excessively and well, and slept fitfully. In between, a certain amount of fraternizing went on. La Veuve Bitschwiller and her immediate entourage were in the upstairs section normally reserved for first class. Occasionally an aide would appear and summon one or other of her less privileged guests for an audience. They had just passed Bermuda and Bognor was dozing off for the third time when he was tapped on the shoulder by a minion enquiring if he was Monsieur Bognor.

  ‘Oui,’ said Bognor, rather crustily in his school boy French, ‘bien sure. Bognor c’est moi.’ La Veuve, it transpired, wanted the pleasure. He stumbled upstairs rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bognor,’ she said in English which was almost too perfect. ‘I thought I should use the opportunity for a little chat. I have heard so much about your mission. Tell me about it.’

  He sat down heavily next to her. ‘We’re looking at the top end of the food and drink market,’ he began, and went through his spiel once more like a sleepwalker. As he did so he was thinking about his real mission: the double deaths; the threats; the spy and blackmail ring.

  ‘So, you would be looking for some way to assist a new English wine for example,’ she said. He realized with a jerk that he must have finished his exposition.

  ‘Like Château Petheram,’ he said, quick, he thought to himself, as a flash.

  She smiled knowingly and said, ‘Did you know Escoffier Smith?’

  In his head alarm bells began to ring.

  ‘No. That is, I used to go to his restaurant until he died.’

  ‘I think he was the best chef your country has ever produced,’ she said quite seriously. ‘Of course, we had hoped that he would be with us today but …’ She made a little gesture with her hands which appeared to suggest that Scoff’s death was one of those tiresome events which happen from time to time and must be accepted with fatalism.

  ‘I’m sure Gabrielle will fill in very adequately,’ he ventured.

  ‘Gabrielle is merely a girl.’

  ‘But she knows her stuff. I mean, she learned a lot from Escoffier.’

  ‘She is a girl. She has no—what would you say in England—no “flair”. She has no originality. She is a deputy. She is suitable for peeling vegetables.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There is a Mr Petrov who is also dead.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bognor had forgotten that Petrov was, as far as most people were concerned, merely missing, presumed dead. Now, suddenly, he remembered it. ‘That is unfortunate.’

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘He was a gourmet, I should say. For a Russian that is unusual.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Death is not something which concerns you at the Board of Trade?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘During the war I was, you know … involved … in the Resistance. My husband and my father were both captured by the Germans. That was also unfortunate.’ She smiled glacially. ‘It is also, as you say, another story. During the war I had a great many dealings with your British Intelligence personnel. Many of them were not … probable.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have anything to do with anything like that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you been in Mexico before?’ he asked, rather obviously.

  ‘Quite often. Entre nous I prefer Vallarta to Acapulco. Acapulco has no chic. It was an American idea. Do you know Acapulco?’

  ‘Only from films.’

  ‘It is better in films.’

  They chattered for a few minutes, then Bognor announced that he must not keep her from her sleep. She did not demur, but, as he was leaving, she said, ‘You must not believe everything that Erskine tells you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She put her finger to her lips and pursed them, smiling thinly.

  Bognor smiled back and went downstairs.

  Acapulco was very like the films. The drive from the airport in air-conditioned coaches took them past the Acapulco Princess, a vast hotel constructed in the style of an Aztec pyramid. One of its swimming pools had underwater music; Howard Hughes had died in its penthouse. A very small Mexican guide with a whining falsetto voice pointed it out and told them, ‘The superlative chefs of the Princess speak only the language of the haute cuisine.’ The English party tittered. Next to Bognor Amanda Bullingdon yawned widely and said, ‘Oh really!’

  A few miles further on they turned a corner and saw the resort itself. ‘Lulworth with skyscrapers,’ said Bognor feeling jaded.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Amanda. ‘It’s a beautiful bay. And look at that sea.’

  ‘Very blue,’ he admitted. It was, he privately conceded, a very picturesque bay, though marred by the presence of the rusty tramp steamer in the middle of it. A tiny speedboat churned the surface, sending up creamy foam behind and towing something. He looked for the water-skier but couldn’t see one.

  ‘Isn’t that parachute fun!’ said Amanda, pointing. He followed her finger and saw that the boat was pulling a parachute of red, white and blue; from it there dangled a person.

  ‘Very Acapulco,’ he said.

  The coach stopped at a smart gate-house with a cluster of pink and white jeeps outside. ‘All French and German guests alight here,’ said the Mexican guide, adenoidally. The French and Germans did as they were told, noisily and with much throwing about of hand luggage. When they had gone the English were the only ones left in the coach.

  ‘We’re at the Bristol,’ said ffrench-Thomas, standing up. ‘There wasn’t room at Las Brisas for everyone, and in any case I thought we’d all rather be downtown where the action is.’ He laughed hollowly. They were driving along a wide avenue flanked with tall buildings and tourist-oriented bars. Bognor noticed one called ‘Carlos ’n’ Charlie’s’ and then another called ‘Charlie’s Chilli ’n’ Dance Hall ’n’ Grill’.

  ‘Everyone here seems to be called Charlie,’ said Amanda.

  ‘And the language is like what the Bushmen of the Kalahari talk. All glottal stops.’

  The coach stopped outside a gigantic concrete pile with a revolving glass door and a lime green awning. ‘Lunch in the hotel restaurant at one,’ ffrench-Thomas kept saying, as they checked in. Bognor filled in his marital status, age, sex, and passport number, and ascended sleepily to his room on the seventeenth floor. Before going to sleep he phoned down for an alarm call and discovered that it was ten past ten local ti
me. He flung himself down on the bed and was almost immediately dreaming fitfully of lobster and guacamole and chilli sauce and then, more disturbingly, of being held down by four Mexicans called Charlie. They wore ponchos and vast straw hats, and they were chanting ‘Gringo’ repeatedly while a fifth, a dour scarfaced man with an exaggerated Zapata moustache, poured alternate bottles of tequila and Bitschwiller into a funnel held to his mouth. Finally, just as he was on the point of drowning in alcohol, he woke. The phone was ringing. His watch showed eleven-thirty. He swore.

  ‘Hello, it’s Mandy, can I come round?’

  ‘Well …’ He attempted to focus. He wasn’t in the mood for sex. Too tired. Besides, even though he was fond of Amanda he wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved.

  She read his thoughts. ‘It’s all right, don’t panic. I’m not going to rape you. I’ve just had rather an intriguing phone call. I thought it might interest you.’

  ‘Can’t it wait till lunch?’

  ‘It’s a bit private, and I have to go up to the restaurant after lunch to help Gabrielle.’

  ‘I thought you and Gabrielle didn’t get on.’

  ‘Oh well, you know how it is. Anyway, it’s about her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m coming round.’ The receiver went dead and a few seconds later there was a knock on the door. It was her. She looked crumpled and untidy but excited.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked tetchily. ‘It had better be important. I was asleep.’

  ‘Don’t be so bad-tempered,’ she said. ‘It’s interesting.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Bognor, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Well, Gabrielle rang. She’s having a dreadful time in the kitchens with all those foreigners. It’s ghastly. There’s a Taiwan chef working with the Americans, and the Chinese are objecting, and none of the blacks will work with the South African girls who’ve come to cook bobotie, and she says the kummel tastes of sewage.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Bognor. ‘Kummel can’t taste of sewage.’

  ‘Mexican kummel can.’

  ‘Mexican kummel can’t.’

  They stood glowering at each other.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Bognor eventually.

  She grinned. ‘No. She said Aubrey had been round to see her and made a nuisance of himself.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She was very hysterical. Something about the Dour Dragoon losing its rosette in Bitschwiller.’

  ‘What has Aubrey got to do with that?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was hardly coherent. All I really gathered was that Aubrey had been pestering her. And then there was this business about how she didn’t want to lose her Bitschwiller rosette.’

  ‘Now you’re being incoherent. I heard the first time. Aubrey came round and pestered her, and she’s worried about losing her rosette. OK. But what I want to know is did Aubrey tell her that he had the removal of the rosette in his power?’

  She looked blank. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Well.’ Again she hesitated. ‘I think that’s what was said. It’s certainly what she implied.’

  ‘It’s certainly what you inferred.’

  ‘I thought you’d be interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes, I am interested. Why was Aubrey pestering her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I began asking her, of course, but then I think she suddenly realized she’d said too much.’

  ‘And you’re going to help her this afternoon?’

  ‘There’s no one else, and it’s a dress rehearsal this evening.’

  ‘How do you mean—no one else?’

  ‘Only local boys. They’re no good. She’s been here two days already and she says it’s driving her mad. They had an earthquake yesterday.’

  Bognor raised eyebrows. ‘An earthquake? Here?’

  ‘Only a small one. But it cracked a whole lot of Gabrielle’s eggs. I feel really rather sorry for her. One of the Italians keeps making passes.’

  ‘What do you expect? If he’s Italian, he’s bound to make passes at her.’

  ‘It’s not a “he”, it’s a “she”.’

  ‘Listen.’ Bognor sat down heavily on the bed and wagged a finger at her. ‘Find out everything you reasonably can—only don’t be obvious about it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Aubrey must have gone straight round there as soon as we arrived. He must have been very keen.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘That’s what you’ve got to find out.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She smiled, wrinkling her nose. ‘Are we going to have lunch?’

  It didn’t take him long to decide that Acapulco was not really his sort of place. After a lunch of leathery enchilladas and rubbery prawns with overpriced vinegary Mexican wine, he went for a stroll along the Costera Miguel Aleman and then back along the beach. It was hot—hot enough for him to remove his lightweight jacket and dangle it casually over one shoulder. The buildings were tall and new except for the many restaurants and curio shops which fronted the bay. Vendors of fairground bric-a-brac accosted him with offers of hats and rude dolls. They continued to do so when he sat on the beach and took off his shoes and socks and scuffed his feet in the sand. The waves were noisy and forbidding, and there was a smell. After a while he decided to return to the hotel and use the pool, which meandered all around a centrally placed bar and restaurant. He changed into his pantaloon-style tartan swimming trunks, looked down at his spreading flaccid white stomach with something approaching dismay, and slipped gently into the tepid water. Swimming around in a clockwise direction, he came upon a row of bar stools in the water. They were unoccupied, and he sat down on one and rested his elbows on the side of the pool as if it were a bar counter. A waiter approached and asked something incomprehensible. Bognor nodded knowingly and said, ‘Si per favore.’

  The man went away and returned with a coconut shell from which there protruded two candy-striped straws. The waiter bent down and put the coconut by Bognor’s elbows, at the same time producing a bill and a biro. Bognor signed it and wrote down his room number then sucked on the straws. The cold liquid tasted of coconut and alcohol. He was unsurprised. This, he supposed, as he caught sight of a dark brown fleshy body waggling past in an orange bikini, was the life. He pulled on the straw and wondered why Aubrey Pring should have gone round to Gabrielle so smartly, and precisely what he had done to upset her. He had never thought Aubrey suspicious before. On the other hand he had always harboured a hunch about Acapulco. Perhaps Aubrey was about to reveal himself.

  ‘How are you liking it?’ Anthony J. Ebertson executed a deft half-somersault behind him and ended up sitting on the next stool.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, Acapulco, your drink, life in general.’

  The American’s body, Bognor noticed enviously, was slim and muscular.

  ‘So-so.’

  Ebertson ordered a fresh orange juice. ‘I hear the future of the Scoff syndicate is still unresolved,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘How big a pitch are you making for it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we were making much of a pitch at all. I think I mentioned before my people’s attitude towards it is a bit like yours. Negative.’

  ‘We’d like to see it becoming a little more positive.’ He raised his drink in the direction of Bognor’s coconut. ‘Good health,’ he said. ‘Gabrielle apparently thinks she can run the show on her own, together with people like ffrench-Thomas and that fellow Dotto, the wicket-keeper.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We have someone in the kitchen.’

  ‘In the Dour Dragoon kitchen?’

  ‘He’s a waiter really. Not altogether reliable but we have something on him. He’s part of the family you could say.’

  ‘Not Massimo?’

  ‘Right in one.’ Ebertson seemed mildly impressed. ‘You know him?’

  ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘He tells me Aubrey Pring has suddenly started showing a
n interest.’

  ‘Really?’ Bognor affected an indifference he was far from feeling. ‘Anything definite?’

  ‘Simply an interest. Pring’s there a lot. Talks to Gabrielle in hushed whispers.’ Behind them there was the splashing of a swimmer slowly approaching. As it came closer they could hear that the splashing was mixed with elderly asthmatic breath. Turning they saw Blight-Purley rounding the bend. He was propelling himself with a very correct, military side stroke.

  ‘Pas devant le colonel,’ said Ebertson softly. ‘Don’t trust him.’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ said Bognor as Blight-Purley hoisted himself unsteadily on to one of the stools. His body sagged a little like Bognor’s, but he was, after all, old enough to be his father.

  He ordered a Margarita.

  ‘Bloody hot,’ he said conversationally.

  The first official—or semi-official—event of the gathering was the next day in mid-morning. Although the pièce de résistance was the great dinner, there were many smaller events organized by individual delegations. A demonstration of wok-work by a couple of the Chinese; of cuisine minceur by an unofficial French delegate; of a hundred and one ways with haddock by the Icelandic White Fish Authority; of how to provide meatless saddle of mutton and baron of beef by the International Vegan Brotherhood.

  The British were presenting a gloomily pedestrian film called ‘A History of British Cooking’ and, of course, the famous Château Petheram. This was being presented by the side of one of the Las Brisas swimming pools high up on the hill. Its only competition came from a Korean buffet consisting of ‘Food of the noble and beloved President Kim Il Sung, the great leader of the Korean people’. This was in a tatty hotel downtown and, apart from those few representatives of the communist bloc who felt obliged to attend on grounds of political solidarity, it was not popular.

  ‘I’m afraid this could prove embarrassing,’ said Blight-Purley, elbowing through the throng of international gastronomes. His face had been burnt to a still pucer colour than usual by the Mexican sun.

  ‘Is there going to be enough to go round?’ asked Bognor briefly, glimpsing a view through the scrum.