by Peter King
We had coffee, authentic black Italian coffee from a machine which could be heard faintly as it gurgled and spluttered in the kitchen. Luigi came over to make sure that we had enjoyed the meal. We complimented him and I paid the bill. Winnie protested that we should go Dutch. I insisted on paying it and Winnie shrugged.
“All right but the next one’s on me.”
“Does the Yard pick it up?”
She nodded. “Inspector Hemingway is very liberal regarding entertainment expenses.”
“He should be. After all, you are the Food Squad. Okay, I accept your offer. When and where?”
She pouted. “We’ll be in touch.”
We walked outside. “Where do you live, Winnie?”
“Not far. Just over the Albert Bridge, opposite Battersea Park.”
“We’ll take a cab—” and even as I said it, one came cruising past.
In the taxi, I said, “I’ve been so engrossed in all these details, I haven’t even had the chance to ask you about yourself.”
“There’ll be plenty of time.”
The cab lurched around Dolphin Square and on to Grosvenor Road where the lights of the Thames bridges glistened wetly in the evening mist. The turn threw her against me. She seemed to reach for the strap but must have missed it.
“Here we are,” she said what seemed like only seconds later.
We got out and Winnie held out a firm hand.
“We’ll do it again soon.” Then she was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
THE FIRST THING I did in the office next morning was to call Ben Beaumont, the president of the P.I.E.
“Remember the girl who gave us that talk on Quincy—how the medical examiner in real life compares with the one on TV?”
“Carol Dodson?”
“That’s her. Do you have her phone number?”
“Not your type, old chap. Now I’d recommend—”
“Ben, they’re all my type—but that’s another problem. What I’m calling for is to ask if you have Carol’s number.”
“Oh well,” he grumbled, “if you’ve made up your mind … just a minute.” He quickly produced two numbers and I thanked him and called the office number for Carol.
“Could you get me some non-confidential information?” I asked. “It’s probably readily available in your lab files.” I knew that the forensic laboratory she worked in did jobs for official bodies and so should be well-equipped with data.
She agreed at once and I told her that I was looking for all she could tell me about Tintilinum botulinum. It would be no problem, she assured me and would call back in a couple of hours. “Oh, do you have a fax?” she asked. “In case there’s quite a lot of it.” Helpful girl and I told her so.
“The IJ Case” as I found myself calling it might be occupying most of my thoughts but while I was in the office, I decided to catch up on some other business.
I skimmed through the fax’s from Michael. He had sent statistics on snails to help me make up my mind what I wanted to do with that particular query. There were figures on world-wide production and consumption plus figures for France and elsewhere—the UK still had a long way to go in both.
On the subject of cobalt, not a lot was known. It is one of the active minerals in the body and is part of Vitamin B-12. It is essential for red blood cells like iron and is not a normal food supplement. It occurs naturally in meat, kidney, liver, shellfish and milk. Vegetarians are most likely to suffer from a deficiency. Too much of it might enlarge the thyroid gland.
I could hardly charge for that scanty information so I made a note to send it to the enquirer with compliments. The data Michael had provided on aluminium was, however, a different matter. Numerous powerful bodies and a few multi-national corporations were locked in the struggle here and major issues were involved. I don’t mind the occasional participation in a good cause but it sounded as if I might emerge a loser in this one no matter what I decided. I drafted an answer declining.
Opening the post brought a few laughs. The first came from a letter which read:
“Could you please recommend a non-alcoholic wine for the wedding at St Richard-in-the-Marshes Church of our son, So-and-So and Miss Penelope Something. Both are ardent teetotallers.”
I drafted a reply for Mrs Shearer to send:
“I regret that I cannot recommend a non-alcoholic wine for consumption at a wedding.”
The next letter was interesting. I read:
“We are having a barbeque for two hundred people in the grounds of Graceworthy Manor. This will be a gala affair and all the guests are in or associated with the travel industry.
“We wish to serve wine and we are in a dilemma as to what this should be. If you will make suitable recommendations and if these meet with the majority approval of our guests, we will send you a case of one of those wines as token of our appreciation.”
A cheeky one—but I liked it!
The lazy drift of smoke, the sizzle of meat over hot coals and the satisfying sense of eating in the great outdoors … what a thrill!
Well, maybe to some people but not to me. My ancient tribal memories of eating around a blazing fire were apparently buried too deeply to be revived by the smell of charred pork, burned sausages or singed eyebrows.
Still, it was my opinion that was being sought not my participation. What could I tell them? It was a tricky question and depended on whether they intended grilling—which is fast or barbecuing—which is slow as well as the degree of smokiness to be induced by wood chips or water or fennel.
I would have to ask them about these points because they would affect the selection of the wines but in my mind, I was already turning over various possibilities. The frank taste of a Zinfandel would be good with beef, if it were to be grilled. A Brunello di Montalcino—an Italian wine becoming increasingly more popular—would be even better. A Gigondas or a Côtes du Rhone Villages or a Moulin à Vent would all go well with grilled meat.
If they were planning chicken then I would suggest a Chardonnay, a Pinot Gris or a Vernaccia, preferably one from San Gimignano. With lamb, red Bordeaux or a Cabernet Sauvignon whereas with pork … but I was getting carried away. And with a feast I wouldn’t even be enjoying. All for a case of wine! Ah, well, it was fun and I made notes to ask several questions.
The rest were routine and not nearly as interesting. I took the notes to drop off with Mrs Shearer on the way out and ran into her outside the door.
“Off detecting again?” she asked with a conspiratorial wink. Since I had put her on twenty-four hour call, she had acted like … no, I couldn’t call to mind a parallel. Hardly Dr Watson, certainly not Harriet Vane … Tuppence to my Tommy … or maybe Nipper or number one son from Honolulu? I gave up, handed her the notes.
“Not a word to anyone about this strange business, Mrs Shearer,” I said in a low voice and exited before she could reply.
I took the tube to Tottenham Court Road Station, walked down Charing Cross Road then turned before reaching Cambridge Circus. Even as in Dr Johnson’s day, all human life was there. I managed to ignore some of it and went along Pagnell Street where the atmosphere improved as I came nearer to Raymond’s Restaurant.
My arrival time was 11.15. I had planned that so it would be before opening time and I would have the opportunity to talk to him before the restaurant went to full action stations. I rattled the front door. A waiter just inside was moving chairs. He put one down long enough to wave negatively at me. I rattled again. He came to the door and through the glass made mouthing signs. I shook my head, pointed to myself then pointed inside.
The waiter made waving-off gestures with both hands as if he were on the deck of a carrier and I was an approaching aircraft coming in too low. I shook my head again and made meaningless motions but they held his attention. Finally, he unlocked the door and opened it almost two inches.
“We don’t open until—”
“I know. I don’t want to eat.”
That statement really grabbed
his attention. He stared at me as if I had said I had just arrived from another planet.
“You don’t want to eat at Raymond’s?”
“No. I just want to talk to him.”
“Oh.” He pulled open the door and I went in.
“His office is at the end of the corridor, top of the stairs.”
Raymond’s Restaurant was a sort of Paris idyll without making any overstatement that might contradict its location in London. It was decorated in the shades of turquoise always linked with Paris and consisted of a set of rooms, interconnected at irregular angles, their dimensions made uncertain due to the subtle use of trees and plants and carefully placed mirrors.
It was grand but not opulent, luxurious but not ostentatious and everything in it was a tempting invitation to dine at what was clearly an exceptional restaurant. Top class was obvious from the glint of silver to the sparkle of crystal glass.
Raymond’s office was impressive too in its way. An old desk, carved from dark wood stood in one corner. A brass lamp cast a pool of orange light on to the tooled leather desk top. Raymond’s large, face looked out at me through the cone of light. The expression changed on recognition but he rose, greeted me and led me across the room to a long low mahogany table with some carved ivory figures on it. Three large leather couches were spaced around it and Raymond motioned me to sit.
“I saw you at the Circle of Careme dinner on that terrible night,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “It was a terrible night.”
He waited for me to tell him what I was doing there but I didn’t oblige. I wasn’t even sure why I was suspicious of him—or what I suspected him of doing. Perhaps it was just a private eye’s hunch—or perhaps it was because my introduction to this entire affair had been through him, if indeed his commission had been part of it.
“Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I’m making some inquiries,” I told him.
“Inquiring into what?” he asked politely. “The death of Ivor Jenkinson?”
I’d better tread carefully here, I thought. Don’t want this reaching the ubiquitous ear of Inspector Hemingway.
“There may be some related matters,” I said. He didn’t ask what that meant fortunately.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“You didn’t talk to François Duquesne at the Circle of Careme dinner, did you?” That broke the ice as effectively as dropping a steamroller into it. His eyebrows shot up.
“Talk to him! I haven’t talked to him since—don’t you know we—” he spluttered to a stop then went on more calmly.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t talk to him.”
“I’ve heard about the feud between you and François. I suppose everybody has. What exactly caused it?”
His eyebrows went up again at my audacity. “What does this have to do with—”
“I don’t know yet,” I said, watching him carefully. The private eyes in fiction always seemed able to pick up all kinds of clues from people’s faces but I had never really believed it was that easy. None the less, a flicker passed across Raymond’s features. I was still trying to analyse it when he went on:
“It was a long time ago. Yet it wasn’t so long that either of us has forgotten it. It was a bad business—very bad—unpardonable.” He sighed. “The details don’t matter now.”
“They might matter,” I pressed.
“No,” he said decisively. “They don’t.”
“And if they do, you’re not going to tell me.”
“They don’t concern you—or anyone.”
“A man has died,” I reminded him.
“There is no connection.”
One more try at this subject, I thought. “You’re both very bitter about it still, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Bitter?” He gave a short barking laugh though there wasn’t any mirth in it.
“Had you met IJ previously?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to him that night?”
“No.”
The best private eyes knew when to keep silent. They often did it after the person being interrogated had been unforthcoming. The idea was that the guilty wanted to explain how they weren’t guilty and the innocent had nothing to hide. To my surprise, it worked perfectly.
“We’ve had other media persons at the restaurant but never Jenkinson.”
Something in his tone prompted me to ask, “Have any of them come for other reasons than to enjoy the food?”
“Yes, sometimes.” He seemed more willing to talk now. Was it relief that we had got away from the one subject he wanted to avoid?
“Who else has been here?”
“Sally Aldridge, Roger St Leger …”
“You don’t mean together?” I was half joking but he answered seriously enough.
“No, no,” he said, “separately.”
“These visits were recent?”
“Sally Aldridge … about three weeks ago. St Leger—a week, no, ten days ago.”
“Why did they come to your restaurant if not to eat?”
“I knew St Leger. He had me cook a meal on his programme—oh, last year some time. You know, explaining each step, that sort of thing. Perhaps you saw it?” he suggested.
“I think I did.” A little prevarication might help. “What did he want to talk to you about?”
“He wants to get back on television. He’s trying to get a new series. He had a few ideas and wanted me to comment.”
“And did you?”
“Yes but he was vague. None of his ideas had been thought through very far. He struck me as being desperate to get back on television but not having a clear plan of how he wanted to do it.”
“What about Sally?” I asked.
“She said she was planning a new book. She wanted to know if I would contribute some recipes.”
“Are visits like these unusual at all?”
“Oh, no. Within limits, we like to get all the publicity we can. It’s good for business to keep our name in front of people. Nelda Darvey was here too. She’s writing a series of articles on London restaurants. She’s always given us a good press.”
I wasn’t much further along in my thinking. Raymond didn’t seem to be hiding anything—so why was I still suspicious of him? Was this a man who would stoop to foul means of putting a hated rival out of business? He didn’t look like he was but then Charles Crippen had looked like a respected doctor, Billy the Kid was angel-faced and Dion O’Bannion had been a choir-boy before he had gathered together a gang to battle Al Capone and kill dozens of Chicago citizens.
The visits of St Leger and Sally Aldridge to Raymond’s—both within the last three weeks—were another big question mark. The reasons sounded innocent enough but neither seemed to have achieved much. Was one of them a cover to mask some other purpose?
“You did an excellent job for me on—on that matter recently,” Raymond said.
I inclined my head to acknowledge his words.
“I have been trying to decide whether I should come to you again.”
I waited for him to continue. He was looking for the right way to express it. He did so, slowly.
“I suspect that someone is trying to put me out of business.”
Chapter Sixteen
IT WAS BECOMING AS prevalent as the common cold. How many other London restaurants were catching the same virus? I eyed Raymond cautiously. Or was it a tit-for-tat conflict with Raymond hitting back? Had the famous feud now grown to a bitter battle?
The cause of that feud seemed to be lurking behind these questions and looming in importance. If I could find out what had caused it, I might be a lot closer to several answers. For the moment though, I needed to know what Raymond’s statement meant.
“Simple things,” he said in reply to my query. “Simple to do but with severe effects on the operation of the restaurant. Labels on spice jars switched, for instance. Cinnamon with ginger, basil with tarragon.”
“Similar
in appearance so the changes wouldn’t be noticed. Devastating in result though—especially if a dish reached the table—”
“One did. It could have been much worse but the chefs were very careful about aromas during cooking after that.”
“What else?”
“Cancellation by phone of an order of beef tenderloin. It was for dinner for a large and influential group of a dozen people. By the time we found out about it, there was no time to go elsewhere. We had to substitute. The group said they wouldn’t come back. Then our reservations book disappeared. That caused confusion and we inadvertently double-booked some tables. The reservations book reappeared.”
“Carelessness? Accidents? Human errors?”
Raymond shook his head vehemently. “My staff are too efficient, no—I don’t believe it.”
That led me into my big question though I wasn’t too hopeful for its success in bringing any revelations.
“Is there anyone you suspect?”
“No. I can’t imagine who would do this.”
“Would François?”
He didn’t reply right away. He sighed.
“We’re back to that, are we?”
“Of course we are,” I said flatly. “Any list of suspects would have François’ name at the top, wouldn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. I was getting a little peeved.
“If I’m suspicious of him, you have to be more so. Unless there is someone else…”
“I told you—I can’t imagine anyone else doing this.”
I changed tactics. “Are you so concerned about these events in your restaurant?”
His eyes widened. “Of course I am. Shouldn’t I be concerned?”
“Have you told the police?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t approach me. I came here to talk to you.”
“I had thought of it—but I was still trying to find other explanations. It’s so preposterous, not only who would do these things but why.”
It wasn’t as preposterous as he thought. It was already happening in a similar manner to his hated rival but I couldn’t tell him that.
