by Lee Strauss
“Yes, zat is correct. And when I am done, I put zee notebook in my safe. I will deliver zee recipes to zee publisher, only when I feel I have enough of zem to make zee book.”
“How about if you leave the kitchen for a moment, perhaps to have a break?” Ginger glanced about, taking in the nearest door that led to the passage. A thief was unlikely to escape through the window.
The chef shrugged. “I suppose zere have been short periods of time when zee book is left here unattended. But never more zan a few moments, and I simply cannot imagine my wife coming in here with nefarious intentions, or even my son for zat matter.”
Ginger knew from experience that just because something was unimaginable did not mean it was impossible.
“Of course, you are probably right,” Ginger said. “Is it possible to see the safe?”
Monsieur Arseneault led them to an adjacent room which served as an office with an oak desk and leather chair. There was a small combination safe sitting on top of a wooden table in the corner. Ginger noted there was no lock on the office door and the safe was not hidden or secured to the room in any way. Glancing out of the window, Ginger saw that it opened to a red-bricked window well. Even though it was accessed by the private courtyard at the back of the house, a thief with some skills could indeed gain access to the back garden and through this window if it was unlocked or open. The safe itself did not seem too much of an obstacle for a practiced safecracker. The notebook had not actually been stolen, however. Ginger guessed that if Monsieur Arseneault was correct and his recipes had actually been taken, the thief had instead used a camera to photograph the pages and later transcribed them. This made climbing in and out of the window well a little bit more challenging if one had a camera and even perhaps a tripod in tow, though it could explain why Monsieur Arseneault had not realised anyone had seen his notebook until much later.
Monsieur Arseneault approached the safe and turned the tumbler several times anti-clockwise and then once clockwise. There was a soft clicking sound and the door swung open. He reached in, took out a leather-bound notebook, and solemnly handed it to Ginger.
“Madame,” he said simply. Ginger carefully opened the notebook and leafed through the pages, each one containing meticulously handwritten instructions and lists, all in French. She noticed one was titled Ratatouille. Felicia leaned close also, to get a glimpse. After a moment more, Ginger closed the book and handed it back to Monsieur Arseneault, who then placed it back in the safe.
“Thank you, Monsieur Arseneault. I realise that not many people have the privilege of seeing that book. Now, do you recall anyone coming into your home at any time in the last few months carrying a camera?” Ginger asked
The chef thought for a moment. “Yes, a few months ago zere was a day organised by my publisher to welcome zee members of zee press. Zese men were from newspapers, or food critics for magazines. Many of zem had cameras. Zey arrived at ten o’clock and were finished by eleven. But I promise you, my notebook was in my safe zee whole time.”
On their way back to the kitchen, Ginger said, “You mentioned a maid earlier.”
“Yes, zat is correct. We have a part-time maid. A very capable young woman. Her name is Brigitte and she comes in every day for three hours to clean and has done so for nearly five years. She never, never comes into zee kitchen when I am cooking, although she does clean up afterwards. Of course she was zee first person we sought of and I suppose it ees possible she could have sneaked in here while I was taking a short break. She denies it, of course.”
Ginger asked Felicia to make note of the maid’s name. The only motive Ginger could conceive of was money. Would the chefs involved have used the recipes if they’d known they were stolen? Perhaps, out of spite. Would one of them have paid for the privilege? Anything was possible.
“Thank you for your time, Monsieur Arseneault,” Ginger said. “I think we have everything we need for now.”
Ginger found Boss engaged in a game of tug-of-war with François, an old piece of thick rope tied into a knot being the coveted item. François seemed to be coming out ahead in the contest due to his significant girth, but Boss remained attached to the toy despite being dragged across the floor, growling and straining. The affair was immensely amusing and Ginger couldn’t help but laugh. François let out one of his frequent sneezes thereby suddenly letting go of the toy, sending Boss sprawling. Mme Arseneault clapped with delight.
“Feel free to bring Boss around anytime,” Mme Arseneault said as Ginger and Felicia stepped out onto the street.
“That was an enjoyable visit,” Felicia remarked as they returned to the motorcar. “And now I have the feeling you are intent on the next phase of our plan.” She smiled at Ginger as the Crossley started moving forward. “I would imagine it involves visiting more kitchens.”
“Yes,” Ginger agreed. “It seems that there are perhaps a few unscrupulous chefs in our fair city, and I am curious to hear how creative they will be at denying it.”
6
Ginger drove the Crossley through Kensington Gardens at her usual frightening speed, which Felicia found terrifying, and Boss thrilling.
“Really, Ginger,” Felicia snapped. “You almost hit that cart!”
“Nonsense,” Ginger said with a flick of her gloved hand. “There was plenty of room.”
“The lad jumped out of the way to save his life!”
“Like I said, there was plenty of room.”
As they entered Soho, thoughts about the visit to the Arseneaults’ house ran through Ginger’s head. Monsieur Arseneault was indeed an enigmatic figure. On the one hand, he was rather arrogant and opinionated, but on the other he was a brilliant chef. Ginger imagined he could be hard to live or work with, though it appeared that the Arseneaults had enjoyed a long and seemingly successful marriage. Ginger’s first marriage had been cut short by tragedy and her second had only just begun. When she observed couples who had been together for decades she sometimes became wistful, wondering what that must be like. Ginger found Madame Arseneault to be a beautiful, kind, and open-hearted lady who seemed to be quite content. This meant certainly that Monsieur Arseneault possessed endearing qualities that were not apparent at first blush. Ginger wondered about the couple’s history, where they had met, and how the romance had first started—clearly sometime long before the war.
The first three chefs they visited that afternoon were very uncooperative and dismissive. Ginger grew increasingly frustrated, coming to the end of her patience with rude chefs who regarded two female investigators as beneath them. She couldn’t help but wonder if she and Felicia were indeed on a wild goose chase.
The fourth chef, a stout middle-aged man named Mr. Arthur who owned a restaurant on Marshall Street called The Bristol, was also defiant at first when they questioned him alone in his office.
“Mr. Arthur, your restaurant is known for English cuisine and yet you have one conspicuous dish that, according to your head waiter whom we have just questioned, has been recently added.”
The chef snorted. “What of it?”
“It is a French dish, Mr. Arthur, from the south-east of France I believe, called pieds paquets or stewed lambs’ feet. Your head waiter says it has been a huge success and that you plan on expanding your cuisine based on the success of this one item. Are you trained in French cookery, Mr. Arthur?”
“I have some training,” he said defensively. “In fact I was quite good at French cookery when I was younger… Well, that was a long time ago.”
“Where did you get this recipe?”
Mr. Arthur’s bulbous eyes blinked rapidly, and he refused to look Ginger in the eye.
“I urge you to tell me the truth,” Ginger said. “You are a respected chef!”
“I have not broken any laws!” he said finally. “Yes… the recipe was given to me.” He let out a long sigh, and then continued, “A young man walked into my restaurant kitchen a few weeks ago, and without introducing himself simply handed me the written recipe. He told me
that this recipe was sure to be a big success to the point that it could revolutionise our cuisine here. That’s all he said. Can you imagine such a thing?”
“Go on,” Ginger said.
“He turned and walked away, simple as you please, without another word. You can imagine I was inclined to throw the thing away, but then I read the recipe…”
“…and?” Felicia asked.
“I knew right away this could not have come from such a young man. This was the work of a seasoned chef. The combination of ingredients for the sauce was unusual and bold. The recipe was very detailed to the point of the year and origin of the white wine used to cook it. Even the province the tomatoes for the sauce were to be grown in was specified. I knew immediately that either this dish would taste terrible or it would be a true masterpiece. It took me a while to gather the ingredients exactly to specification. Some of the food markets that carried these particular items were new to me. Then, when I was ready, I came in early one morning and cooked a single portion of the dish myself, not trusting any of my chefs with such a thing.” The man took off his chef’s hat and wiped his forehead, “My God, I felt like Mozart’s Salieri. My own work paling in comparison to this divinely inspired triumph. I could never contrive such a tour de force. As soon as the food touched my tongue I was instantly jealous, may God forgive me. The dish tasted like something served in the very banqueting halls of heaven by blessed angels on winged feet!” The chef sat staring straight ahead as if he were at that moment having a vision.
Oh mercy. What a most unusual confession! There was no longer any doubt that Monsieur Arseneault was right; someone had indeed been stealing his recipes.
“Can you give me a description of the young man?” Ginger asked.
Mr. Arthur lifted a thick shoulder then said, “He was tall, decent enough looking, with a lanky frame and dark hair… a moustache, I think. He had a long, slender nose, but the most memorable feature was a prominent Adam’s apple.”
7
How serendipitous that Jean Claude Arseneault had invited Felicia to see him play at his club, the Lonely Street Cabaret.
“I have been in here before,” Felicia said, “but it’s been a while.”
Ginger and Felicia stepped into the candle-lit, smoke-filled interior. The satin tangerine day dress with buttoned sleeves and a narrow, pleated, low-waisted skirt that Ginger wore was a little understated for the environment. She wasn’t there to be entertained, and for business her outfit was perfectly suited.
The walls of the club were covered in gold-printed wallpaper, while the beams and doorframes were of rich, dark oak wood. The round, candle-lit tables were covered with white tablecloths, and surrounded by wicker chairs. It was still early evening, so the place was only about half full with clientele, the women all dressed in flapper-style outfits and the men in lounge suits, enjoying a drink or a cigarette over quiet conversation. Behind the bar was a huge assortment of whisky, brandy, vodka, and other spirits all placed on several large, mirrored shelves. A barman behind the counter prepared the drinks.
At the back of the room stood a wooden stage with an upright piano, a small three-piece drum set, and a double bass.
“Oh look,” Ginger said as Jean Claude Arseneault, along with two young black musicians, came onto the stage from the left and took their places at the instruments. “It seems we have come just at the right moment.”
Before long, the room was filled with soft, smooth music of the style that Ginger had heard being played occasionally on BBC radio. She also recognised it from her years living in Boston just before her return to London. The American music genre was becoming increasingly popular in London along with its livelier forms, and Ginger guessed that it was all part of the transatlantic exchange that was still happening in the wake of war.
The world had somehow become smaller in the last ten years, Ginger mused as she listened to the soft, swinging rhythms and beautiful, complicated melodies that the younger Mr. Arseneault seemed to play so effortlessly. Was it possible this talented young man carried such vindictiveness towards his father?
“He is rather smashing,” Felicia said, gazing dreamily at the stage.
After ordering a Brandy Alexander for herself and a Grasshopper for Felicia, Ginger sat and quietly listened to the music. Her intention was to confront Jean Claude Arseneault, perhaps during one of the music breaks, before she went to Monsieur Arseneault with the sad news that his own son was against him.
Ginger made note of everyone in the room, and a particular young man sitting at a corner table nursing a drink caught her eye. He looked familiar, but it was difficult to clearly see his face due to the dim lighting and the fog of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
“Isn’t that Mr. Kendrick, Monsieur Arseneault’s former student?”
Felicia turned to look. “Yes, I think it is.”
“How interesting that he should turn up here,” Ginger said. “He must be a friend of Mr. Arseneault’s.”
“He did spend a good deal of time at the Arseneaults’ house,” Felicia said, “and they’re roughly the same age.”
Felicia was right, thought Ginger. The two could have struck up a friendship, perhaps even based on mutual grievances against Monsieur Arseneault, if there were indeed such feelings on the part of Jean Claude for unknown reasons.
“Shall we?” Ginger said. Felicia nodded, and they picked up their drinks and headed towards Mr. Kendrick’s table.
“May we join you?” Felicia asked. She and Ginger didn’t wait for an answer as they slid into the chairs opposite William Kendrick.
“Oh, this is just dashed awkward, isn’t it? You two again.” Mr. Kendrick’s slurred speech and red eyes confirmed that he was already deeply in his cups.
Felicia shared a look with Ginger, then pressed on. “So, fancy meeting you here, Mr. Kendrick. Are you a friend of Monsieur Arseneault’s son?”
“Which one?” Mr. Kendrick let out a sardonic chuckle. “It’s bloody hard to tell them apart sometimes.”
Ginger and Felicia shared another look. How drunk was he?
“Blimey.” Mr. Kendrick’s smile disappeared and he stared at them with a wild look in his pickled eyes, as if he had let something important slip. “I’m not talking to you two anymore!” He lifted his glass to his mouth.
Ginger suddenly remembered what Mr. Kendrick’s landlord had said about a young Frenchman sharing a flat with him.
“Mr. Kendrick,” Ginger began, “does Jean Claude have a brother?”
The man glared at them before sliding out of his seat and standing up shakily. He opened his mouth to say something more, but thought better of it and headed for the exit, shooting a glance across the room to the stage where the young Mr. Arseneault was focused on smooth jazz.
8
The next afternoon, Ginger and Felicia, with Boss in the backseat, drove around the corner onto East Road in Edgware. A police constable walked his beat, while another could be seen on horseback a distance down the road. Ginger had no idea if the French flatmate would be home, but she knew that Mr. Kendrick would be on his way to The Guillotine. There was no way of knowing what would happen when they spoke to the flatmate, so it was good to know there were police in the area.
The two-storey red-brick building was the last one on the cobblestoned street and Ginger parked in front of it. Large hedges acted as a visual barrier to the next street, giving the appearance of isolation. Ginger put Boss on a leash, then with Felicia entered the main entrance, which opened to a common concrete passageway.
They passed the landlord’s flat, from which they could hear recorded music playing loudly.
“Ethel Waters… ‘I Found a New Baby’,” said Felicia, bobbing her head and moving her shoulders slightly to the beat. “I love this song.”
Ginger smiled at the sight of her flapper sister-in-law. “This is no time for the foxtrot,” she teased.
Ginger knocked on Mr. Kendrick’s door, and when she received no answer, they just stood in
the dingy corridor considering what to do next. From inside the flat they heard a very soft ‘meow’.
“It’s a cat,” Ginger said. “Hmm, it sounds like it’s in deep distress, don’t you think?”
Felicia blinked once, then caught her meaning. “Oh, yes, it sounds like it’s at death’s door. Obviously half-starved and lying on the floor, close to breathing its last.”
“I think someone may need to rescue it.” Ginger tried the doorknob—it was unlocked.
“You have no fear!” exclaimed Felicia in a loud whisper. She was, of course, totally unaware of Ginger’s wartime activities working for the British Secret Service. This would not be the first time Ginger had covertly searched someone’s home.
“This flat faces directly onto the street,” Ginger said in a hushed voice. “You and Boss can sit in the Crossley. If you see someone walking up this street who resembles Jean Claude, just sound the horn with two blasts. That will be the signal. Just pretend you are waiting impatiently for a friend on the other side of the street when you do it.”
“Boo,” Felicia said. “Why do you get all the fun?”
Ginger raised a brow and Felicia wiggled her fingers. “Come along, Boss.”
Ginger stepped into the flat and was met by a young tabby cat who meowed softly while brushing Ginger’s legs and purring loudly. “There you are. Glad to see you are all right after all.” Ginger reached down and stroked it lightly while glancing around the room. The flat had a tiny kitchen area with unwashed dishes in the sink and a coal-burning stove. An adjoining sitting area had a grimy window looking onto the road. A narrow passage led to one large bedroom with unmade single beds along opposite walls.
At the end of the passage was a closed door and coming closer, Ginger recognised the acidic smell of chemicals used in darkrooms to develop photographs. She opened the door and felt for a light switch. The room was instantly bathed in a red, muted light. A table had several photograph developing trays lying on it, and hanging above were six photographs fastened with wooden clips to a string that stretched from wall to wall like a washing line.
