It was a full-length interview with Guido Moscato written by Chantal Ricci. The tone of the piece was adulatory. Moscato was called one of the world’s great hoteliers, ranking alongside Jean-Claude Irondelle of the Hôtel du Cap at Antibes and Kurt Wachtveitl of the Oriental in Bangkok.
‘When Signor Moscato arrived in London he realized that the British capital had no hotels of the first rank,’ she had written. Julia read this with growing astonishment.
The Savoy had become like an old woman who has had too many face lifts by mediocre surgeons; the Ritz a pale shadow of its elegant older sister in Paris. Signor Moscato took a look at them and knew that London was crying out for a first-class hotel.
This is incredible, Julia thought. The article continued.
Signor Moscato has entertained the Queen in the hotel’s magnificent restaurant. The rich and famous from all over the world can be spotted rubbing shoulders in the lobby or sitting over drinks at the bar. The staff is the envy of every hotelier in London. Their loyalty to him is unquestioned. He makes every one of them feel that it is his or her contribution that makes the hotel great …
And so it went on.
Julia reached for her buzzer. ‘Have you read this?’ she asked when Emma appeared.
‘Can’t you tell by my face?’ Emma replied. ‘I almost threw up.’
‘He must be crazy,’ Julia said. ‘So must she. When the newspapers find out she’s also working here they’ll have a field day at our expense. I can’t let those two get away with this sort of thing.’
Brandishing the magazine she stormed off to see Moscato.
‘Why wasn’t this cleared with me?’ she asked angrily, confronting him in his luxurious office.
Moscato looked up at her. ‘First, Miss Lang, I’d appreciate it if you would not take that tone with me. Secondly, there was no reason why you should know about it. Miss Ricci suggested the idea. I agreed. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Don’t you realize how ridiculous this makes us look?’ Julia snapped. ‘Some columnist is bound to discover this woman is employed here.’
Moscato sat back. ‘I am anxious to let people know what I am doing at the Burlington,’ he said. ‘You have suggested nothing –’
Julia gaped at him. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of weeks …’
‘Miss Ricci saw no need to wait.’
Julia stood quite still, trying to control her temper. ‘Signor Moscato, this is not going to work unless we get something straight right now. I am the Publicity Director for the Burlington. Stories about the hotel go through me. All of them. I take responsibility for them. And never would I have allowed this to go through. It’s rubbish.’
Moscato’s face flushed. ‘You are being impertinent, Miss Lang. I suggest –’
‘I am always open to suggestions,’ Julia said sharply. ‘But any more wonderful publicity ideas – such as this piece of self-promotion, or advertising the Queen’s visit here – will come to me for approval. I hope that’s understood. I have a contract with the Sultan and as long as he feels I am doing a good job for the hotel this is where I stay. Good afternoon.’
Sitting at her desk, still fuming over her clash with Moscato, Julia remembered Lisa’s remarks about Brand’s house in Mexico. She buzzed for Emma.
‘We keep Travel and Leisure, don’t we?’
‘Since they did that piece on us.’
‘Could you get me the file, please, Emma?’
‘Can I find something for you?’
‘I just want to flick through it.’
Julia glanced at a dozen copies of the glossy travel magazine before she found it. After Brand’s claim to abhor publicity she was surprised to find six whole pages devoted to Casa Shalimar, the opulent Brand house built on three levels above Acapulco Bay. There were fountains and waterfalls on every level and it was hard to see where the vast swimming pool ended and the sea began, so cleverly was the house designed.
This is truly paradise, ran the caption under one of the pictures, showing half a dozen guest suites, each with its own pool. There were no pictures of Brand, but several of Grace, one taken of her standing at the water’s edge, silhouetted against the sunset. She looked elegant and serene. Julia examined it closely. Grace was a tall, slim woman, deeply tanned, wearing a flowing white caftan. Julia looked at her for a long time before putting down the file.
Why am I doing this? she thought. None of this has anything to do with me.
‘Do you realize what you’re suggesting?’ Commissioner Bonnet glanced sharply at the investigator sitting on the other side of his cluttered desk.
‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ Albert-Jean Cristiani said. ‘Di Marco’s suicide makes no sense.’
Bonnet grunted. ‘He was an old man. He had nothing to look forward to.’
Cristiani moved his chair slightly to get the winter sun out of his eyes. ‘I saw him not long ago,’ he said. ‘A restaurant in Geneva. He was concerned about something; wanted to talk. I told him to call.’
‘You knew him well?’
‘We’d run into each other now and again.’ Cristiani moved his chair even further from the desk.
‘Shall I draw the blind?’ Bonnet asked.
‘It’s all right now.’ Cristiani reached for his coffee. ‘He called me to set up a meeting. He loved to eat, you know; he suggested we dine at Girardet’s. He even made a booking for the following week.’
‘Did he, indeed?’
‘He even ordered the food in advance. A few days later they found him in the lake.’
‘A sudden fit of depression?’ Bonnet ventured.
Cristiani shook his head. ‘Does a man go to the trouble of ordering dinner at the finest restaurant in Switzerland and then walk into Lake Geneva?’
‘It’s possible,’ Bonnet said.
‘But not probable?’
‘No,’ Bonnet agreed. ‘Not probable.’
‘And what about the overcoat?’
‘What overcoat?’
‘He wasn’t wearing one. But it was bitterly cold that week. I cannot believe di Marco left his apartment and walked down to one of the bridges without a coat.’
Bonnet frowned. ‘Perhaps he removed it; put it down. Someone could have taken it.’
‘No. I talked to his sister last night. She collected his things before returning to Zurich. She says di Marco had a favourite coat – a black one with a fur collar. He wore it all the time.’
‘So?’
‘It was still in his closet.’
‘Who knows how a man thinks when he’s going to kill himself? Perhaps he couldn’t bear to ruin it.’
‘But he wore an expensive suit. From Busatti in Bern. I checked.’
Bonnet leaned forward. ‘Perhaps you should tell the police? That young inspector in Montreux – what’s his name?’
‘Thibault.’
‘Tell him your suspicions.’
‘He considers the case closed.’
‘Then that’s it.’ Bonnet sighed. ‘Maybe when you set up as an investigator you should make this your first case. Beats tracking down runaway kids.’
Cristiani ignored this. He got to his feet. ‘If di Marco didn’t drown himself,’ he said, ‘that leaves only two possibilities.’
‘He fell. Or he was pushed.’
‘I think he was pushed,’ Cristiani said.
Chapter 12
For two days some of Julia’s time had been devoted to compiling a list of people to be invited to a series of private dinners that the Burlington’s chef, Gustave Plesset, was planning to give in his private quarters in the kitchens. There were to be four dinners with six guests at each. Gustave would host all of them and Julia had been asked to submit a list of possible guests. Final approval would lie with Moscato.
Among those on Julia’s list were two Fleet Street editors, a well-known novelist, a Mayfair restaurateur and a handful of personalities she knew would spread the word about Gustave’s cooking. The idea of dining in the chef’s ow
n quarters, she felt sure, would appeal to all of them.
The day after completing her list she was sent for by Moscato. She had not seen him since their row over the Trends interview and she was dreading another encounter.
When she walked in Moscato waved her to a chair. She remained standing, conscious that her heartbeat had increased markedly. She tried not to look at him directly.
‘I spoke with the Sultan yesterday,’ Moscato said. ‘He informed me that your contract has another two years to run.’ He leaned forward and adjusted the position of his desk calendar. ‘Clearly it is in both our interests to get along during that time.’
He looked up at Julia. She said nothing.
‘That said, I am far from happy with your choice of names for the private dinners,’ Moscato went on. ‘In France Gustave Plesset was a three-star chef. He is our Maître Chef des Cuisines. As such, an invitation to dine in his quarters is something to be prized.’ He opened the centre drawer of his desk and drew out Julia’s list. ‘Most of these people strike me as nobodies.’
Julia took a deep breath. ‘I am well aware of Gustave’s credentials. They’ve been included in many of my stories –’
‘Then why have you not included the French Ambassador? Some Members of Parliament? Perhaps one of the Royals … Princess Margaret?’
Julia stared at him, incredulous. ‘Do you really imagine Princess Margaret would sit down at a table for six in our kitchens?’
Moscato’s eyes narrowed. ‘I want them invited,’ he said. ‘And except for these two –’ he ringed in red the names of the editors – ‘you can forget the rest.’
Julia stood quite still. ‘Three of the names on that list that you dismiss as nobodies are people who have done a great deal for this hotel – holding charity affairs here, giving dinner parties. Judith Cameron is the one who ran our etiquette course for youngsters – Mr Lattimer’s idea. It was a great success –’
Moscato held up a hand. ‘I am sure Mr Lattimer had numerous attributes,’ he said. ‘But he is no longer with us. I am now Managing Director of this hotel. Make sure the people I have mentioned receive invitations.’
Julia picked up the list from his desk. ‘I will send out invitations to the Ambassador, Princess Margaret and a couple of Members of Parliament. That’s four people. We need twenty-four for the four dinners. Who else do you propose to invite?’
Moscato took off his spectacles and polished them carefully. ‘I am sure you will be able to come up with some other names,’ he said.
‘No,’ Julia said firmly. ‘I don’t believe I will. In my opinion the names on my list are just fine. Since you disagree it would obviously be best if you decided on the others.’ She turned and walked out.
‘Well,’ Emma said, as Julia strode into her office, ‘did he like the list?’
‘Loved it. He deleted all the names except the two editors.’
‘What?’ Emma stared at her in disbelief. ‘Who does he want? The Duke of Edinburgh?’
‘That would absolutely make his day.’ Julia picked up her briefcase. ‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘We’ll send out some invitations tomorrow. He wants Princess Margaret, no less. The French Ambassador. Some Members of Parliament.’
‘He might get a couple of those,’ Emma said morosely. ‘Some of them will go miles for a free meal.’
Chapter 13
Since her first meeting with him when she had signed her contract, Julia had enjoyed good relations with the Sultan of Malacca, the small, balding Malaysian billionaire who owned the Burlington.
When he came to London they occasionally dined together, though never at the hotel, and she had always found him an amusing companion, full of good stories about his native land. The British-educated Sultan was ambitious. His aim was to own the finest hotel in the world. To that end he had lavished millions upon the Burlington. And each year he flew to London to check up on his prize, arriving unexpectedly and booking one of the four penthouse suites under another name.
When the news spread that ‘Mr Thomas’ had checked into the Regent Suite the night before, Julia cheerfully awaited his call. It was two days coming, and arrived in the form of a message asking her to join him in the suite at 4 p.m. This was unusual – always before he had called her himself – but Julia thought nothing of it. Right on time she presented herself at the door to be ushered into the sitting room by his secretary, a pleasant-faced young Malay. A moment later in came the Sultan.
‘Julia, how nice to see you.’
Expecting the usual embrace Julia moved towards him. Instead he shook hands with her, rather formally, and indicated one of the sofas on either side of the coffee table. ‘Sit. Let us be at ease.’ He fidgeted around to make himself comfortable and clapped his hands. A moment later a full tea was served, the same as guests were having in the lounge downstairs – Earl Grey, finger sandwiches, warm scones with jam and Devon cream.
With a wave of his hand the Sultan dismissed the floor waiter. ‘I’ve introduced these same teas at the Royal Malaysian,’ he said. ‘People told me it was a bad idea. Now the lounge is so crowded it’s hard to get a table.’ He poured tea for them both. ‘Tell me, how are things with you?’
‘Just fine, sir.’
‘You are doing a wonderful job, Julia. All those stories you’ve managed to get in the American travel magazines.’
‘We have had good coverage in America,’ Julia agreed.
‘And I’m delighted; delighted. However, I do know Moscato is anxious to increase our European coverage. He feels we must keep a balance with our guests. Americans don’t want to come all this way to see a lot of other Americans. And there is always the danger that with another recession they will stay away.’
‘That’s true of European visitors too,’ Julia said.
‘Of course it is; of course it is. But when I arrived last night I did notice we don’t have more than a dozen French and Italian guests. Perhaps you should be doing a little more promotion on the Continent? You can go whenever you like, you know – Paris, Rome, Berlin.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, pleased.
‘Moscato tells me other hotels like the San Pietro in Positano and the Voile d’Or at St Jean-Cap Ferrat are faced with the same problem: too many Americans. It’s risky, Julia; risky. You know that Americans tend to stay home whenever there’s trouble. We don’t want to find the Burlington deserted next time a bomb goes off somewhere. We must widen our net, Julia; widen our net.’
He held out the plate of scones. She shook her head.
‘Please. I intend to have one.’
Reluctantly Julia took a scone and added jam and cream.
The Sultan leaned forward. ‘How are you getting on with Moscato?’
Julia hesitated. She had anticipated the question on her way up to the suite and had determined not to fall into the trap of criticizing the Sultan’s choice of Managing Director.
‘Well, sir, I haven’t really had much to do with him. We’ve had a couple of meetings. The last one over the dinners that Gustave Plesset is planning to have in his kitchen.’
‘A good idea of Moscato’s, that. Don’t you agree?’
‘Well … yes …’
‘You seem unsure.’
‘It’s just … well, I thought it was Gustave’s idea.’
‘The original suggestion was Moscato’s, I assure you. He put it to me weeks ago when we were discussing ideas for the hotel.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘I can see that.’ He added sugar to his tea. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘I have no professional problems at all with Mr Moscato.’
The Sultan looked at her over the rim of his cup. ‘He seems to have some with you.’
‘Oh?’
‘He feels you resent his appointment here. And the appointment of Miss Ricci to edit the magazine, which, I might add, I approved.’
‘That’s absolute nonsense. I have nothing against Miss Ricci.’
‘M
oscato says you complained to him about the piece she wrote in Trends.’
‘Rightly, I think. It was not cleared through me. It was a stupid thing to have done.’
‘Tell me why.’
‘She works here. Yet it was written as though it were an objective piece of reporting. If the newspapers pick up on that we shall look ridiculous.’
The Sultan nodded. ‘I agree with you. It was self-serving.’
‘There’s something else. Publicizing the Queen’s private lunch here was an outrageous breach of etiquette. She will not return. It had to come from him. Or Miss Ricci.’
‘That, too, was ill-advised.’ He paused. ‘Does that explain the animus which exists between the two of you?’
‘No, sir. It’s personal. There is a good reason for it. I’m not prepared to go further.’
The Sultan looked at her searchingly. ‘You put me in a difficult position, Julia. I brought Moscato to this hotel. I believe him to be a first-class hotelier.’
Julia said nothing.
‘Clearly you don’t agree?’
Julia remained silent.
‘I want you to understand one thing clearly,’ the Sultan went on. ‘The Burlington is very important to me. I want it to be well run, and for it to be well run it has to be a happy place. For the good of the hotel you must settle your differences. Otherwise you would be wise to consider a move. That position at the Royal Malaysian is open again.’
Julia was surprised. ‘I thought you hired Jenny Owen.’
‘She has been first class. But she is leaving to have a baby.’
Julia put down her cup. ‘I’m happy for her and sorry for you, sir. I know how good Jenny is.’
‘You’re still not interested?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
The Sultan leaned forward, studying Julia’s face intently. ‘Moscato has made it clear to me that, but for your contract with me, he would have dismissed you by now.’
Julia felt herself flush.
The Sultan looked exasperated. ‘I cannot imagine what can have taken place between you that has produced such dislike. You’re sure you can’t tell me?’
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