Death with Blue Ribbon

by Bruce, Leo

  ‘Sit down, you conceited fool,’ said Carolus, but not altogether unkindly. ‘Don’t you realise I’m the only chance you’ve got? You’re going to answer questions for the next ten minutes and I’ll tell you whether I’ll take the case or not. First I had better make something clear. The investigation of crime is a hobby with me but I have never looked at anything less than murder. I am rather inquisitive about that, I must admit. I’m a schoolmaster, you know, and I think it’s answering the questions of small boys all term-time that makes me want to ask some of my own in the holidays. You haven’t got a murder to offer me?’

  ‘It’s worse than murder. It’s blackmail,’ said Rolland.

  ‘Still, one often leads to another,’ Carolus reflected. ‘You had better tell me all about it.’

  He offered Rolland a cheroot and when he nervously refused, lit one himself.

  Carolus was a spare muscular ex-Commando in his forties. His lovely young wife had died during the last war and he had remained a widower. The inheritance of what he described as an embarrassingly large income from his father had left him independent, but, unable to live in idleness, he had become senior history master at the Queen’s School, Newminster, and fulfilled his duties conscientiously, though his colleagues viewed his Bentley Continental, his comfortable Georgian house, his reputedly self-indulgent way of living, cared for by his magnificent housekeeper Mrs Stick and her retiring but industrious husband, as unsuitable for one in his position on the staff.

  The investigation of murder was his one interest outside the school. He applied a mind both scholarly and worldly to this and had been surprisingly successful in finding solutions to many puzzles connected with it. He had a quiet reputation as an investigator but never asserted himself. Two people claimed to disapprove of his criminological activities; his headmaster, Hugh Gorringer, who ‘feared for the good name of the school they both served’ as he put it, and Mrs Stick herself who did not like him to ‘get mixed up in these nasty murder cases.’

  Mrs Stick’s facial expression when she had shown Rolland in that afternoon warned Carolus that she guessed the nature of his visit. She was a little woman, peering fiercely through steel-rimmed glasses, and her shrewish devotion to Carolus was not to be doubted.

  Carolus had never listened more unwillingly to a recital of misfortunes, for Rolland showed the quality he most disliked—pretentiousness. But he had long believed that the protection racket was more common and more successful in England than was generally supposed and he was tempted to challenge it. He had no faith in the comfortable conviction of many people who read about it in newspapers that ‘they only do it to their own kind.’ He knew it to be a cruel and cunning form of crime, difficult to detect and sometimes impossible to bring to justice. So he encouraged Rolland to tell his story.

  When he began with the visit of Rivers and Razor Gray a few days ago, Carolus drew him back to the past and in a few minutes had discovered, to his own satisfaction at least, how the Fleur-de-Lys Hotel had been purchased and the Haute Cuisine Restaurant added to it.

  ‘What kind of pub was it before?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, just a pub,’ said Rolland. ‘Nothing but local trade.’

  He could not have said anything more calculated to lose the sympathy of Carolus.

  ‘Nothing but local trade. I see. And what has happened to the “local trade” now?’

  ‘We still get a few in the Georgian Lounge. The better type. But we had to abolish the Public Bar. There simply wasn’t room. They mostly go to the Black Horse at Netterly. It’s three or four miles away, but they all have cars nowadays.’

  ‘Go on, Mr Rolland.’

  ‘Then I built on the restaurant. Georgian style. Chairs imitation Chippendale. Murals by a very clever lady artist representing hunting scenes. Silver …’

  ‘I see it all,’ said Carolus. ‘You were successful from the first?’

  ‘It took a lot of building up. But I’m pleased to say we are now one of the few Five Star restaurants in Great Britain, recommended by…’

  ‘Yes. Yes. You have a good chef?’

  ‘Antoine. I have to make suggestions, you know. But he can carry them out. And I have a first-rate head waiter. Stefan. He was at the Bordelaise for years.’

  Rolland had mentioned one of the best restaurants in London.

  ‘Why isn’t he still there?’

  ‘There was some trouble, I believe.’

  ‘What trouble?’

  ‘Stefan is temperamental.’

  ‘You mean he drinks?’

  ‘I’ve never seen any evidence of it. Well, nothing serious. Stefan…’

  ‘Russian?’ asked Carolus.

  ‘No. Birmingham. His name’s Stephen Digby. But he has style. I saw it at once and gave him a chance.’

  ‘Very shrewd of you. You don’t think he’ll… let you down?’

  ‘No. I’ve got him where I want him.’

  ‘You’re very frank. Who else is employed?’

  ‘Two Moroccan waiters. Ali and Abdul. Stefan brought them back from Tangier. They don’t have much to do with anyone. The customers seem to like them though. There’s a wine waiter called Molt.’

  ‘And in the kitchen?’

  ‘Antoine’s assistant Tom Bridger. Very good chap. Reliable. And an apprentice, David Paton.’

  ‘All male?’

  ‘No. There’s a local woman for cleaning—Mrs Boot. And the barmaid, of course.’

  ‘What about her?’

  Rolland looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Oh, she’s just a barmaid. Manageress of the bar we call her.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘Her professional name is Gloria Gee.’

  ‘Very nice too. It goes with Stefan and Antoine. Is she young?’

  ‘Under thirty.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Get on with the customers?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘You seem to have a very satisfactory staff.’

  ‘They want watching, of course. I have to be everywhere at once. If I didn’t see to everything I might as well close down.’

  ‘Now let’s come to this visit you received.’

  Rolland described it in detail, repeating with painful accuracy the words of Jimmie Rivers, which seemed to have burned themselves into his mind, as the saying goes.

  ‘It must have been very uncomfortable.’

  ‘It was a shock. But of course I absolutely refused to have anything to do with it.’

  ‘And the two men went, without another word?’

  ‘ “Be seeing you”, Rivers said.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘No. But two nights later this character appeared in the dining-room.’

  Rolland described what had happened on that occasion.

  ‘You thought he was just an ordinary customer?’

  ‘Of course. Till the thing happened.’

  ‘You are sure he wasn’t—an ordinary customer?’

  ‘I’ve told you, he made a scene.’

  ‘Mightn’t anyone if he thought he had been given food poisoning?’

  ‘You don’t mean you think the whole thing was unconnected with Rivers and his… threats?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But there doesn’t seem much evidence that the man himself was connected with them. I should be bloody angry if I was given something poisonous when I was paying your prices. How much do you charge for Dublin Bay prawns, or scampi as you call them?’

  ‘Twenty-five bob. Stefan serves them from a chafing-dish.’

  ‘Where do they come from?’

  ‘Dublin Bay,’ said Rolland.

  ‘Then why call them scampi? They’re frozen, of course?’

  ‘Kept in the deep-freeze.’

  ‘I see. And a customer got a wrong ‘un. It could be that he did, you know. It would only take one to do it.’

  ‘Impossible!’ said Rolland.

  ‘Not quite im
possible. I’m not jumping to any conclusions, Mr Rolland, but it is possible that one of those wretched prawns was deliberately “placed”.’

  ‘Oh God! You mean that one of the staff may have done it?’

  ‘I only said it was possible.’

  ‘But why? You don’t mean that one of my employees may be working with Rivers?’

  ‘How can we be sure? From what you tell me you’re up against something pretty formidable.’

  ‘Does that mean that you want to keep out of it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Look here, Rolland, I can’t pretend I’ve got much sympathy for you. I don’t like pretentious restaurants and phony French food. If I investigate this thing it won’t be to save your bacon. But I happen to detest blackmail and I believe there is a whole organisation here dedicated to it. I shouldn’t be surprised if half the smart restaurants in London were paying out to these people. That will never do, you know. It will mean more expensive food, for one thing. I’d like to know a great deal more about it.’

  ‘You will come then? Can you come at once?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, by a most unfortunate coincidence (or perhaps the bastards knew), Imogen Marvell is coming down on Thursday.’

  ‘Who is Imogen Marvell?’

  Rolland goggled.

  ‘You don’t know who Imogen Marvell is? It’s impossible! She’s the greatest power in the world of gastronomy today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s the proprietor of The Gourmet’s Vade Mecum to the British Isles, by far the most powerful of the guides. She leaves Ronay and Postgate and the rest of them standing. She’s the author of three coffee-table cookery books which have outsold Elizabeth David and Larousse. She opened the Ma Façon Restaurant in Chelsea three years ago and already there’s a Ma Façon in Shepherd Market, Hampstead, Cheltenham, Bath and Tunbridge Wells, and she’s opening them in Torremolinos and Ibiza. She’s never out of the newspapers.’

  ‘And what does she know about food?’

  ‘Nothing,’ snapped Rolland. ‘But she writes about it, and broadcasts, and is photographed with it in colour. I hear she’s making a full-length film of her gastronomic life. Last month she did her first programme on television and eight million people watched her cook Lobster Thermidor à ma façon. She’s a tycoon.’

  ‘What is she coming to your place for?’

  ‘It’s her annual visit for the Gourmet’s Vade Mecum. She has to be treated like Royalty. If anything goes wrong while she is there it will be the end of the Haute Cuisine.’

  ‘And you think I can prevent it?’

  ‘You have said it. You’re my one chance.’

  ‘I can’t prevent it, Rolland. I won’t even undertake to try. If these men have got something planned for that day there is nothing I can do about it. What I will do is to come and stay at your pub and find out what I can. I won’t accept your offer of free accommodation. I will take no responsibility at all. But I will come as an ordinary guest and perhaps, I can only say perhaps, I may help to break this thing up.’

  ‘That’s something,’ said Rolland.

  ‘It may take time. I can’t promise you anything at all before Thursday when your visitor arrives. But I will come tomorrow. All I ask is your authority to put any questions I like to anyone in the place.’

  ‘Certainly. Certainly.’

  ‘But I must warn you again that blackmail often leads to murder.’

  Carolus had not noticed the entrance of Mrs Stick who had evidently caught the last words. She stared at Rolland with grim hostility as she set down the tray of drinks she carried.

  ‘Will there be anything more, sir?’ she asked Carolus as though she was a warder asking the last wishes of a man in the condemned cell.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Stick.’ He looked at Rolland as though to enquire what his movements might be. ‘A drink?’ he asked.

  ‘No thanks. I shall have to be getting back in a minute,’ said Rolland.

  ‘You must have a drink first.’ He turned to Mrs Stick. ‘I shall be out to dinner,’ he said.

  It was a subterfuge to prevent Rolland from staying on too long but Mrs Stick was disappointed.

  ‘You didn’t tell me, sir, and I was going to give you some nice foy dag no panny,’ she said reproachfully, ‘with free tots den dives.’

  ‘Sounds delicious. We must have that another time. By the way, I’m going away tomorrow, Mrs Stick. I shall be staying at Mr Rolland’s hotel, the Fleur-de-Lys at Farringforth.’

  Mrs Stick could repress her anxiety no longer.

  ‘I couldn’t help but catch what you were saying when I came in,’ she said.

  ‘What was that, Mrs Stick? Oh yes, murder. I was just telling Mr Rolland that circumstances sometimes lead to it.’

  ‘They do if you have anything to do with it,’ said Mrs Stick ferociously. ‘I knew as soon as this gentleman came to the door what it would mean.’

  ‘Really, Mrs Stick.’

  ‘Well so long as they don’t start coming here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Murderers and policemen and that. Mr Gorringer phoned to say he’d be over in a few minutes.’ She went out.

  This announcement seemed to stir Rolland. He stood up and said: ‘I shall see you tomorrow then?’

  ‘Yes. Before lunch.’

  Rolland hesitated. Carolus thought he was going to make another reference to fees, but no, he wanted to ask a question.

  ‘What did she mean?’ he queried thoughtfully.

  ‘Mrs Stick?’

  ‘Yes. That rigmarole of strange words. What on earth did she mean?’

  ‘Just what she said,’ replied Carolus staunchly. Foie d’agneau pané. Fritots d’endives. She has her own method of pronunciation. Like Rolland for Rowlands. Or Antoine for Tony Brown. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Three

  Carolus, settled snugly into his favourite chair with his whisky-and-soda beside him, was resigned to the imminent arrival of his headmaster.

  Mr Gorringer was a large man with vast ears like hairy flappers and protuberant eyes. He enjoyed the pomp of headmastership, the weighty pronouncements in cliché-ridden prose, the awe in which he believed he was held by his assistants. His life was passed to the band music of his own illusions. He believed he was a figure of consequence in the world, that his wife was a woman of wit, that his school was a famous institution. Only Carolus with his easy flippancy sometimes disturbed his ponderous self-satisfaction. Yet the two men, for different reasons, enjoyed one another’s company; Carolus because the headmaster’s dialogue and passion for drama delighted him, Mr Gorringer because he secretly enjoyed his occasional part in Carolus’s investigations.

  He entered, wearing an enormous greatcoat with a fur collar of which Mrs Stick had failed to relieve him in the hall.

  ‘Ah, Deene!’ he greeted Carolus heartily. ‘January has certainly come in with a cold blast. Mrs Gorringer with one of her happier witticisms, yesterday wished me a frappé New Year.’

  ‘Hullo, headmaster. Chuck your coat down there and have a drink.’

  With a reproachful glance at Carolus, Mr Gorringer carefully laid his coat across a chair.

  ‘I shall not refuse a little, the merest soupçon of whisky,’ he announced. Then more solemnly added, ‘I had intended to consult you on another matter connected with our syllabus for next term but as I entered, your excellent Mrs Stick whispered in my ear what appeared to be a warning. I gather you are contemplating or already engaged in some activity connected with your unfortunate penchant for criminal investigation.’

  ‘What on earth did she say?’

  ‘Her actual words, well meant, no doubt, were scarcely well-chosen. Forgetting my position as your headmaster she spoke as though there was a kind of conspiracy between us. “He’s up to something” was what she whispered. I made no reply of course, but I could not but conclude that she alluded to one of these unfortunate criminological diversions of yours.’

  ‘Quite right,
headmaster. I leave tomorrow for Farringforth.’

  ‘Indeed? Not murder, I trust?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Carolus. ‘Blackmail. The protection racket.’

  Mr Gorringer joined the tips of his fingers.

  ‘I am not so ignorant of the world beyond the confines of our educational backwater that I have failed to see films, originating in the United States of America, which portray those engaged in such activities. But in England, Deene? In this later half of the twentieth century? You can scarcely be serious.’

  ‘Why not? There’s plenty of scope in the affluent society.’

  ‘You surely don’t intend to involve yourself in anything so squalid? The investigation of murder I have come, most unwillingly, to accept as a form of recreation in which you indulge during your spare time. But blackmail! It is a most unsuitable preoccupation for a scholar and a gentleman.’

  ‘I have never claimed to be either.’

  ‘You are,’ pronounced Mr Gorringer, ‘the senior history master at the Queen’s School, Newminster. That surely is sufficient.’

  Carolus longed to voice a pluralised monosyllable popular during his service in the army, but said only, ‘Oh rubbish. I’m a very inquisitive man, that’s all.’

  Mr Gorringer rose.

  ‘You offend me, Deene. If your position in the school which I have the honour to direct means so little to you that you describe it as “rubbish” I feel I should take my leave.’ As though anticipating a protest from Carolus he continued: ‘No. No. I am in earnest. The syllabus shall wait until you are in a state of mind to realise its importance.’

  Carolus stood up to help him on with his coat, which was not what Mr Gorringer intended.

  He turned in the doorway.

  ‘I leave you with some misgivings, Deene. I trust that before we reassemble for the Michaelmas term I shall find you with a better appreciation of the importance of your scholastic duties and free, at least temporarily, of your obsession—yes, sir, obsession—with matters far better left to our excellent police force.’

  He strode out and Carolus smiling gently poured himself another drink.

  Next day he arrived at the Fleur-de-Lys at Farringforth just as Gloria Gee had taken up her position behind the bar of the Georgian Lounge. Without seeking Rolland he had entered this carpeted room at once.