Gourmet Detective

by Peter King

  A youth of about eighteen with a thin Cockney face put down his knife and walked across. “Tommy is responsible for the cleaning and storage of these cupboards. Tommy, you remember the mouse incident? Tell this gentleman about it.”

  Tommy scratched his ear, mildly embarrassed by the attention.

  “I cleaned out them cupboards just the day before the inspector was due,” he said in a strong East End accent.

  “How often do you do that?” I asked.

  “Once a month. I ’appened to do it that day because we was changing things around—the way they was stored, I mean. So before puttin’ all the new stuff in, I cleaned the cupboard out, cleaned it real good, I did.”

  “And you saw no signs of any mice? Not even any droppings?”

  His young face creased in a grin. “Mister, I know signs of mice when I see ’em. Lived in Barking, I did when I was a youngster.”

  “West Ham supporter?” I hazarded.

  He glowed. “Right! ’ow about last Saturday, eh? Four-one!” He caught Klaus Klingermann’s eye then with cheerful Cockney cheek said, “The boss is an Arsenal supporter … yeh, well, I can tell you there was no signs of mice in that cupboard. None whatsoever.”

  He sounded sincere but I had to push it a little further.

  “Couldn’t they have come through from another cupboard? A hole in the wall?”

  Klaus cut in at once. “After the mice were discovered, I had that cupboard examined very carefully. It is not possible, no. Thank you, Tommy,” he said to the boy who went back to his counter. Klaus turned to me. “There is only one way mice could have been in that cupboard. Someone put them there.”

  It was understandable that any chef, and particularly one of Klingermann’s reputation, would want to distance himself from such a suggestion. On the other hand, there were the other incidents. Accusations against other restaurants had not put them out of business although one hotel’s kitchens had been shut down for a while. Nevertheless, it was the general feeling in the trade that a one hundred per cent spotless kitchen was impossible.

  One other point bothered me. “It’s my understanding that inspectors don’t announce visits in advance,” I said. “I can see that if someone wanted to show Le Trouquet d’Or in a bad light, they might plant mice when they knew an inspector was due. But how could they know?”

  “It is usual for inspectors to turn up unannounced,” agreed Klaus. “The inspector for our area does not advise us when he is coming but he is a man of rigid schedule.” He smiled, back to his happy beam. “We mark him on our calendar and we know to within two or three days. One of the tricks, you might say.”

  “So only a person familiar with the restaurant and its operation could have known of the visit?”

  Klaus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of it that way but yes I suppose so.”

  “Do you think a competitor is behind all this?”

  Klaus looked alarmed. “A competitor?”

  “Yes. You are in a very competitive business.”

  “But we are not gladiators in an arena!” Klaus was shocked. “We do not fight each other. Chefs, owners, proprietors—we are like a brotherly community, we help each other—”

  “You have an enemy,” I said sternly, “who hates you. He isn’t acting in a brotherly manner.”

  Klaus shook his head sadly. “I wish I could say you are wrong but—” he sighed. “Alas not, you may be right.”

  I decided to press home the advantage. “Can you suggest any competitors who might be this ruthless?”

  “No.” Klaus was firm. “No, I cannot.”

  “Isn’t there anyone—anyone at all—with a grudge against François?”

  “I am sure not,” he said emphatically.

  “Isn’t it true that he and Raymond have bitter feelings towards each other?”

  “Raymond? Raymond Lefebvre?” Klaus looked alarmed at the idea. “They were friends once,” he admitted slowly. “I believe they worked together as young men. They had an argument—”

  “About what?”

  Klaus grinned. “A woman, I suppose—I mean, I have always assumed that. What else is important enough at that age to break up a friendship?”

  I could think of other things but obviously Klaus had been brought up in a Gallic atmosphere of cooking despite his German-Swiss name and saw life through Latin eyes.

  “Could that break-up have been so acrimonious that Raymond might want to ruin François?”

  Klaus looked horrified. “After so many years?”

  I could understand his scepticism, I felt the same way. But was that all? Had there been just an argument? What could it have been about?

  “Perhaps there’s more to it than just an argument over a woman.”

  “What could there be?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “You can’t suggest anything?”

  “I work for François,” Klaus said proudly. “I am his head chef. You would expect me to be loyal—and I am. But I tell you I know nothing more. François never refers to Raymond, never.”

  “Raymond is his closest competitor, isn’t he?”

  “One of three or four close competitors, I would say.”

  “Does François ever refer to the others?”

  “Well, of course …” His voice trailed away.

  “But never Raymond?”

  “Well, no.”

  Miss Marple would probably have been able to make all kinds of deductions from that but I couldn’t discern much that I didn’t already know.

  More staff had now come into the kitchen. One came up to Klaus and held out a dish. “Try this galantine,” he invited. Klaus tasted, savouring it. “Stuffing for a piece of sirloin,” he told me in an aside and tasted it again.

  “Needs more salt,” he ordered. “M’m and maybe some fresh truffle peelings—but certainly more salt.”

  “What’s a Swiss chef doing in England?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you rather be in France?”

  “Not today. Ah, back in the thirties, yes. I would have given a lot to have been in Paris then. It was the time and place when food was most appreciated—paradise for a chef.” He laughed. “Why am I here, you ask? I am old-fashioned. I like the way people take their time here. It is essential for food—whether cooking it or eating it. I spent a year at ‘The Fenestre’ in New York City.” He shivered. “Twenty-four clerks just to take reservations! Can you imagine! Purgatory—maybe worse. François rescued me and brought me here.”

  “No wonder you’re loyal,” I told him.

  A tray of pastry went by on its way to an oven. Klaus stopped the man carrying it, scrutinised the load then nodded approval.

  “Thanks, Klaus. I’ll let you go back to work.”

  “You wish to return to François’ office?”

  “I’d like to talk to Mr Leopold. Think he’s in yet?”

  “Possibly. He comes in about this time.”

  He led me to Leopold’s office, knocked and went in. Leopold was there, behind a tidy desk with neat stacks of folders, papers and bills. Klaus introduced me and left.

  Larry Leopold was one of the most dynamic individuals I had met in a long time. Lithe and wiry, he moved with a quick nervous energy like an electrified marionette. In his early forties, he had an angular face with short reddish-brown hair and darting eyes. His outstanding feature was a well-trimmed reddish-brown Van Dyke beard which jutted out from his chin in a way which gave him a distinctly piratical look.

  He paced up and down as he talked, despite having seated me. Bookshelves stuffed with files and folders covered one wall and on another were diplomas, certificates and framed photographs. It was a working office and had an energetic, efficient air that matched its occupant.

  “Any progress in finding out what’s going on around here?” he asked in a staccato voice that delivered words in machine-gun like bursts. “No, of course not. Haven’t had time yet, have you? François told me he was hiring you.” He viewed me critically. I wondered if I
passed the inspection. “Damn funny business. Any ideas?”

  “Not so far,” I said. “I need more information. What can you tell me?”

  He was still pacing. I wished he would sit.

  “Klaus told you what he knows, did he?”

  “He told me about the mice.”

  He paused for a moment, eyed me then went on pacing.

  “Ah, yes, the mice. Good man, Klaus. Fine chef. We’re lucky to have him.”

  “He seems quite certain that the mice were put there—and if so, it must have been by a person who knew that the food inspector was coming that day.”

  “And you’re thinking that’s what he would say—”

  “Am I?” I asked.

  Larry Leopold rubbed the sharp point of his beard against the back of his hand reflectively. “No chef would accept that he runs a dirty kitchen, would he?”

  “You think Klaus does?”

  “Of course not.” His voice was sharp.

  “What about the other incidents?”

  “I can tell you about the missing VAT files. That’s in my area.”

  “Missing? Files do get mislaid.”

  “These were missing. One day they were here, the next they couldn’t be found.”

  “They never turned up?”

  “No.”

  “What happened then?”

  “There was a hell of an argument with the VAT people naturally. We estimated the VAT payments as best we could but they weren’t happy about it. They’ve been breathing down our necks ever since.”

  “François mentioned foodstuffs, supplies, going astray. What can you tell me about those?”

  His pacing increased in tempo. He was a very nervous individual. “The worst incident was the last one. We were doing a big banquet for one of the Scotch whisky groups. They had asked for lamb chops—we’d had a big write-up in the Evening Standard a few weeks earlier. Perhaps you saw it?”

  I said I thought I had but I didn’t remember.

  “The write-up was so good that the whisky people wanted the same meal. We had to order the chops specially. They didn’t arrive.”

  “Did you find out what had happened to them?” I asked.

  “The supplier insisted he had sent them to us. We said they hadn’t arrived. We had to give the whisky people a different meal. They were furious, I can tell you.”

  “You both looked into it further, I suppose?”

  “Sure,” said Leopold. “All we could find out was that the driver of the delivery van had been told by someone here that the order had been cancelled. We never found out who.”

  “You said that was the last incident. There were others?”

  “Yes, earlier. Of course, we thought it was human error then. The kind of mistakes that can happen anywhere.”

  “For instance…?”

  He was still pacing. He rubbed his chin again.

  “We use a special honey for one of our dishes—”

  Now, I was rubbing my chin. It was to cover a slight smile I had not been able to suppress. I knew which dish used that kind of honey and I knew how it was used. I concentrated on Leopold. “—It comes from abroad by air. One complete shipment arrived with every jar broken.”

  “Accident?”

  Leopold stopped in mid-stride. “Never happened before.” He resumed his patrol. “Another time, we had ordered a shipment of oysters. We received mussels.”

  “Readily replaceable, surely?”

  “Certainly not,” Leopold said irritably. “Ours are on special order from Turenne. We can’t just substitute them with a boxful from the local fishmonger!”

  It would make anyone irritable, I thought. In fact, there seemed to be a pattern all through this—all these items were not readily replaceable. Whoever was behind this knew a lot about the restaurant.

  “Can you give me the dates of all these?”

  “Of course.” I nodded wisely. I had no idea what I’d do with this data but it sounded competent to ask for it.

  “Here’s my phone number,” I told him, handing him a card. He had to stop moving long enough to take it. “My answering service can get in touch with me twenty-four hours a day—” I must tell Mrs Shearer about that. She’d be astonished and want more money.

  He didn’t look impressed but I was. Just like a Continental Op.

  “If there are any more incidents—call me at once,” I admonished him. He nodded and we shook hands and I left. With all those papers on his desk, he’d have to sit down now.

  François was on the phone. I waited till he was finished.

  “I’d like to pop in from time to time,” I told him. “No schedule, just at random.”

  “Of course.” He rummaged in his desk drawer and pulled out a key. “This is to the back door.” I hadn’t meant out of hours but I took it anyway.

  “Did you get what you need from Klaus and Larry?”

  “Very interesting,” I said sagely.

  He fixed me with his piercing look again. “I’m very worried about this situation, very worried,” he said. “I hope you’re going to get to the bottom of it.”

  “I will,” I said confidently. François looked less confident but he nodded, “Good.”

  I was about to take my leave when he said:

  “One other thing—”

  “Yes?”

  “There is a banquet on Friday night for the Circle of Careme. We are hosting it here. You’d better be on hand.”

  I could hardly believe my luck. “Of course.”

  “Call me the day before and I’ll give you whatever details you need.”

  When I left Le Trouquet d’Or and stepped out into a blustery wet wind, I was in a euphoric daze. I had just completed my first day as a real private eye … it hadn’t gone too badly and I thought I had asked most of the right questions. Had I made any progress? I’d have to think about that.

  Then a real bonus! The Circle of Careme! And I was going to be there.

  Chapter Seven

  THE CIRCLE OF CAREME.

  The banquet room at Le Trouquet d’Or glittered under countless butter-gold candles. There was already a steady hum of conversation, growing louder as more and more members arrived. There was the occasional clink of a glass or a plate as the waiters put the finishing touches to the huge circular table. Seating was both inside and out, with gaps for access to the inner sections.

  The Circle of Careme.

  The most prestigious, the most celebrated of all gourmet organisations in the country. I felt quite privileged to be there, even under these circumstances. It would also be intriguing to learn something of the Circle for it was an enigma.

  It had no known president, no identifiable secretary and no registered address. At various times, its periodic banquets would get a mention in the press, mainly because of the luminaries who attended. Guests were often invited it seemed but the membership was as nebulous as the panel of officers. One read that so-and-so or what’s-his-name had been present but it was impossible to establish who were members and who were guests.

  The Circle did not make obvious efforts to remain secret but it certainly maintained a cloak of anonymity that would have made Howard Hughes envious. It never sought publicity and probably exercised influence to avoid more than a minimum amount.

  The purposes of the Circle were apparently two in number—the enjoyment of the very best of superb food and an opportunity to meet and talk with friends, colleagues, peers, rivals and competitors.

  That was all I knew about the Circle and it was perhaps more than most. So now I was listening and watching with all the enthusiasm of a child paying his first visit to the circus.

  François had phoned me the day before as promised and we had discussed how to handle this surveillance. I suggested going as a waiter but François thought it would provoke too many questions. Due to the clandestine nature of the group, he considered it better that anyone who wanted to do any wondering about my presence could speculate on whether I was a guest or a new
member. Several others present would be the subject of speculation, he said, so one more wasn’t reason to raise any eyebrows. I didn’t know what strings François had pulled to get me invited and I didn’t ask.

  I began identifying those present. I saw Ellsburg Warrington first of all. He was the easiest to see, towering above everyone else. Very tall and very old, grey in hair and face, he was still active as the founder and owner of Warrington’s Markets. “Cheaper than Tesco, better stocked than Sainsbury’s and higher quality than Marks and Spencer” was their slogan and it annoyed many—those three especially.

  Near him was his son, Tarquin, thin-faced, thin-lipped, the creator of the slogan and known to be influencing his father into more abrasive techniques of advertising and selling. He was deep in conversation with Johnny Chang, urbane and smiling as usual. I had done a job for Chang not too long ago, locating a European source of lotus leaves, the indispensable wrapping of the famous “Beggars’ Chicken” dish which was one of the outstanding offerings at Chang’s restaurant.

  The conversation was thickening. I moved a few steps, partly to hear better and partly to look less statuesque and noticeable. Glasses were clinking and I was wondering if an aperitif in my hand would make me look more like I belonged.

  “Well, don’t tell me the Circle has admitted you! If I’d known about it, I would have blackballed you without any hesitation!”

  Maggie McNulty was not what you could call a sophisticated dresser. Her clothes always looked as if they had been thrown on to her with a pitchfork and no matter what she wore, she looked as if she had just come in from riding a horse. Not unattractive in a jolly hockey-sticks outdoor way, she could be a stunner if she dressed better, learned something about make-up and lost a stone and a half. As long as she belonged to such conclaves as the Circle of Careme though, there wasn’t much likelihood of the latter.

  “Hello, Maggie. I didn’t realise that this was the sort of organisation that would admit people like you or I’d have stayed home and curled up with a good cook book.”