Gourmet Detective

by Peter King

  “That’s not so,” said François hotly. “You broke my confidence after I had told you about the job.”

  “Nonsense,” scoffed Raymond. “Jean-Claude told me about the job so I would have applied anyway.”

  They glared at each other and the expression “daggers drawn” came into my mind. I looked around again but couldn’t see the knife. Then Raymond chuckled and François joined in.

  “Besides,” Raymond continued, “what about Le Calvet?”

  “That was different,” François countered immediately. He glanced at me. “All right, here’s what happened. Neither of us got the job we were talking about. We went our separate ways then—some, oh, two years later, I was working as sous-chef at Le Calvet on the Boulevard Saint Germain. I had developed a special dish that was very popular—Filets of Sole with Coquilles, Ginger and Garlic. It’s very tricky for the garlic and ginger can overwhelm.

  “One day, I heard that Chez Gramond, not far away in the sixth arrondisement, was serving the identical dish. I hurried over there and found Raymond. He was claiming credit for it! Can you believe that?”

  “And why not?” asked Raymond, waving his hands energetically. “No dish is completely original. I took the basic ingredients of your dish—ordinary as it was—and made a culinary success out of it.”

  “You stole it!” shouted François.

  “I made of it a real dish—not an everyday fish fry!”

  “You did not—you—”

  Once again they glowered at each other and I was glad there was no knife in sight, ten inch or any other size.

  Then they burst out laughing simultaneously.

  “This happened several times after that,” Raymond said. “He took my finest creations and tried to copy them.”

  “Me!” snorted François. “You—you stole from me!”

  “I never stole,” said Raymond. “The most I ever did was simplify. Your extravagant dishes always needed simplification so customers could enjoy them.”

  François shook his head firmly. “It was your peasant tastes that always cried out for a more imaginative touch.”

  They both chuckled. François went to the cabinet and came back with another bottle of champagne. While he was opening it, Raymond pointed to the other tray. I took one of the tempting nibbles on it—chicken liver pâté with paper-thin slices of pepperoni sausage.

  François poured. “When we were both full chefs,” he went on, “we continued our rivalry. When I came to London, Raymond followed me.”

  “Nothing of the kind. I had contracted to come here before you even thought about it. I had to work out my contract. At least, I chose to—you would probably have just broken yours.”

  François kept talking. “As chefs working in competitive restaurants, we kept up our rivalry. We criticised each other whenever an opportunity occurred and when a journalist came looking for a good story, I blew it up bigger than a balloon.”

  “That appeared in a major magazine and was re-printed in others,” said Raymond. “Just after that, I was on television and added more fuel. The media were full of stories about these two combatants in cookery, bitter enemies since some mysterious incident in the past.”

  “It was great for business,” said François. “Customers wanted to know what was our latest dish as if it were some new weapon in a tournament.”

  Raymond’s massive frame quivered and his usually doleful features eased into a smile.

  I drank some more champagne.

  “And Oiseau Royal was part of the duel,” I said, musing.

  François looked startled.

  “Oiseau Royal? What about it?”

  I looked invitingly at Raymond. He was avoiding my eye by reaching for another slice of smoked salmon and caviare. He ate it and then reached for his champagne glass. I suddenly realised that François didn’t know that his famous recipe could be duplicated—and by Raymond. I had put my foot in the ragout.

  François was eyeing Raymond suspiciously.

  “What about Oiseau Royal?” he demanded.

  Raymond put down his glass with a slow studied movement. He gave me a steely glance which meant “Keep your mouth shut”.

  “I told our Gourmet Detective friend here that I could cook Oiseau Royal,” he said. “If I wished,” he added carelessly.

  “Ha!” barked François. “You couldn’t even come close!”

  “If I wanted,” said Raymond, “I could cook it better than you.”

  François was sitting bolt upright.

  “Tell me,” he challenged.

  “Well,” said Raymond thoughtfully, “I’d use ortolans and I’d …” He was clever. He was a brilliant chef and as he talked, I could see his mind picking out the important parts of the preparation and the cooking. At the same time, he was skilfully discarding the items that he couldn’t possibly have learned without my information, items like the honey from Crete and the rocambole from Valencia.

  While Raymond expounded, François gradually relaxed, happy in the knowledge that his secret was secure. Some aspects of the cooking could be guessed by a good chef, he was thinking, but not even Raymond could reproduce authentic Oiseau Royal.

  When Raymond had finished, François shrugged.

  “I wouldn’t order a dish like that myself,” he said. “It would be terrible.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Raymond. “I would never cook it for you.”

  Their stares clashed like rapiers. Then they began to laugh.

  François reached to refill the three glasses. We watched the foam effervesce to the tops and subside.

  “Tell me about IJ,” I said brutally.

  François drank then took another of the tiny tarts.

  “It was one of the worst days of my life,” he said. He ate the tart, flicking away some crumbs. “The next worst was when I realised I was going to go out of business; There will be one more,” he added sadly. “That will be when I have to walk away from here.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said. I would start to feel sorry for him if I let him get away with this. “IJ’s dead—probably murdered. What’s the connection between his death and you losing your restaurant?”

  “Murdered!” said François in a low voice.

  “You’re surprised?” I asked.

  “It couldn’t have been the lamprey. We were careful—we’re always careful,” François said, half to himself.

  “If it wasn’t an accident or carelessness then it had to be murder,” I insisted. I looked from one to the other. “Who and why?”

  François shook his head, said nothing.

  I turned to Raymond.

  “Then you must know about it.”

  Raymond looked more melancholy than ever.

  “Me?” he said, puzzled. “I know nothing. I have problems in my restaurant too.” He sighed and drank more champagne.

  “A fine pair, you two,” I said, my voice rising. “You’re both being put out of business—you say. A man’s murdered by poisoned fish and you too are guzzling champagne and eating caviare. What are you celebrating?”

  “We do this once a month,” François said.

  “François told me when he hired you,” said Raymond. “I admit I was surprised—” He gave me a warning look. I didn’t doubt he was surprised—he probably thought as I did at the time, that François had found out about my investigation into the preparation of Oiseau Royal.

  Raymond was continuing “—but then when similar incidents started occurring in my restaurant, well, that’s when I asked you to look into the matter for me.”

  “Raymond told you that?” I asked François quickly.

  François nodded. “Oh, yes, he told me.”

  It was further confirmation that the two of them really were on good terms but did I need any more confirmation after the food, the champagne and the laughter?

  They didn’t tell each other everything though—François didn’t know that Raymond had secured his secret recipe.

  “What pro
gress have you made?” Raymond asked me.

  I could hardly tell him that I had cleverly figured out that he was the number one suspect.

  “I expect it all to be cleared up in the next few days,” I said, trying to sound confident.

  François’ head jerked in my direction. Raymond didn’t move a muscle.

  “Really?” said François. “I hadn’t expected to hear that.”

  Raymond murmured something in agreement then leaned forward to ask me:

  “Is there any information you can give us now?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “In fact, I must be going, I’ve got to get on with the investigation…”

  “At this time of night?” said François.

  “Crime never sleeps.” Dashiell Hammett had said that once.

  “Where are you going now?” Raymond asked curiously.

  “We’ll all know everything very soon,” I said evasively.

  I rose. François and Raymond remained seated. I walked to the locked door.

  “By the way,” I said, being as off-hand as I could. “There’s a knife missing from the rack in the kitchen.”

  There was silence.

  “A knife?” François sounded perplexed.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” François’ brow cleared. “Yes, it was broken yesterday.”

  Raymond didn’t look interested.

  I stood there. François got up, came and unlocked the door.

  “I can find my own way out,” I said, anxious to do so. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  IN THE PEACE AND quiet of the office next morning, I started to list all the reasons why Raymond was still suspect no. 1. There weren’t enough to even convince me. I tried François on the same basis. I had to acquit him too.

  They couldn’t be sabotaging each other’s restaurants in a continuing feud because the feud didn’t exist. Could each be sabotaging his own restaurant? I was getting so far out in my theorising, I considered even that but it was too absurd.

  And if Raymond and François were not sabotaging each other’s restaurant then there appeared to be no connection with IJ that could have led to murder.

  I needed a new suspect.

  Roger St Leger moved to the head of the list.

  He had a clear motive. He wanted IJ’s programme and if the current rumours were correct, he was about to get it. Could he have poisoned the lamprey? He had visited the restaurant. True, he looked clean-cut and innocent but I was disregarding that.

  The only other clues I had were the furtive way he handed that envelope to IJ at the Circle dinner and his denial of any knowledge as to what the envelope contained. I had also found him dead drunk and thought he was dead but I couldn’t really hold that against him.

  A fresh viewpoint was what I wanted. I read the post, tossed it all in the waste basket and went to Bookery Cooks.

  An enticing smell of baking was in the air.

  “Coffee cake with chopped apricots,” Molly said, greeting me. “Beats anything from Vienna. I’ll bring you a slice with your coffee.”

  Michael was on his knees. He had cleared a whole shelf corner and was re-stocking it.

  “Throwing out all the diet books?” I asked.

  “Good Lor’ no—they sell too well. No, we’re starting a new section of food for pets.”

  “Putting them on the bottom shelf where the pets can see them?”

  “Lots of new books coming out on feeding pets. They need vitamins and minerals the same as we do but sometimes they’re different ones.”

  He was placing books in alphabetical order on the shelves. He handed one to me. It was The K-9 Cook Book. It was full of good advice and I wondered if animals could become gourmets too.

  In Michael’s office, he listened attentively while I brought him up to date on Paula, Sally, Nelda, St Leger, Scarponi and finally last night’s encounter with Raymond and François.

  “What an exciting life you’re leading!” he said admiringly. “Better than tracking down a new source for Birds’ Nest Soup!”

  I pointed to the cork board over his desk. On it, on three separate sheets, were the three inscriptions I had found on the board at NTV studios. Red lines ran through two of them. The inscription remaining read: “Dr F B4 CC”.

  “Any luck?” I asked Michael.

  He shook his head. “No—although just a minute ago, something struck a chord … it was just as you came in.” He paused in thought. “Just a minute.” He hurried out of the office.

  He came back in with The K-9 Cook Book.

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Something … ah, yes—K-9 and B4. Do they seem to have anything in common?”

  “Identification numbers?”

  “Not only that. Both are abbreviations. K-9 means ‘canine’ so could B4 mean ‘before’?”

  “I suppose but—”

  Michael was excited now. “What could CC mean that is relevant? What else but Circle of Careme!”

  “It’s possible. And Dr F? He doesn’t seem to fit. We can’t find any trace of any Dr F.”

  “Because he doesn’t exist? Maybe there is no Dr F—maybe it means something completely different.”

  I was getting into the codebreaking spirit now. “You mean Dr might not mean Doctor?”

  “Exactly! So what else could it mean?”

  “Well, if the two don’t go together—what about ‘F’? That could stand for François—”

  “And Dr in that case …—something François before the Circle of Careme.”

  Michael snapped his fingers. “Drinks? ‘Drinks with François before the Circle of Careme’?”

  “Makes more sense than whatever else we’ve got.” I looked at the wall clock. It was 11.30. Molly came in with a slice of an airy looking cake still steaming slightly and with a cup of coffee. I tasted the cake. “Fantastic.” I reached for the phone and called François.

  “Before the Circle of Careme dinner …”

  “Yes?”

  “Where were you?”

  “Where was I?” François sounded incredulous. “In the kitchen, of course, where else?”

  “You went to your office?”

  “No, I told you. The kitchen.”

  “The whole time?”

  “Certainly. An occasion like that! I had to be in the kitchen all day.”

  “Did you entertain anyone there?”

  “Of course not. I was much too busy.”

  “Did you entertain anyone in the dining room before the dinner?”

  François was getting exasperated. “Entertain! One of the most important dinners I have ever put on—how would I be entertaining?”

  “Thanks.” I hung up.

  “Perhaps we’re on the wrong track,” I said to Michael.

  “M’m,” he said. “Or François is not telling the truth.”

  I enjoyed the cake and the coffee, declined seconds on both. We discussed the case further but nothing useful emerged. Michael kept coming back to last night, unwilling to accept that the famous feud didn’t exist.

  “Maybe your suspicion was right—but you had the wrong man. Maybe you should be suspecting François and not Raymond.”

  “You mean François hired me to find out who was sabotaging his restaurant when he was doing it himself?”

  Michael grinned. “Didn’t they often do that in your private eye stories?”

  “I believed it then. I don’t now.”

  “Fact is stranger than fiction.”

  “If it’s maxim time, I’m going.”

  I did. I went back to the office and spent most of the afternoon in non-productive speculation. I went home early to make preparations for receiving Winnie.

  One of the most important things was to avoid clichés. No peanuts, no crisps, no pâté, no bits of quiche or pizza and no pretzels. Other no-no’s were champagne, kir and sherry. All of these have their place and time but not here or now.

  On the CD
, I discarded Claire de Lune, Scheherazade and Richard Clayderman. I chose Le Coq d’Or to start. It’s romantically Oriental but not cloying. Rimsky-Korsakov used the lyrics as a criticism of petty bureaucracy but that doesn’t show in the music.

  When Winnie arrived, she was avoiding clichés too. She wore a simple but stunning black two-piece suit with a thin gold necklace.

  I brought her a glass of Lillet, the wine-based aperitif from Bordeaux. It is light and dry and its herb content perks up the appetite like few other drinks.

  “Business first,” I said after we had toasted and sipped.

  Her blue eyes sparkled. “More progress?”

  “You may not think so after I’ve told you.” I related last night’s excitement and when I had finished; she put down her glass.

  “Scary at the time,” she admitted. “You don’t carry a gun, I suppose?”

  “Certainly not!” I said indignantly. “Like I keep saying, I’m not really a—”

  She laughed and waved a hand. “I know you insist you’re not a real private eye. But go on.”

  “That’s all there is. François let me out—and it was a relief to get out of there, I can tell you.”

  “So what does that do to your theory about Raymond?”

  “It would seem to blow it out of the window. I thought about François as a replacement but I don’t see how he could be guilty either. By the way,” I added, “what did your experts make of the inscription on the board at NTV—‘Dr F B4 CC’?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  I told her of Michael’s construction without mentioning him.

  She thought for a moment. “Plausible. But you say François denied it?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “At least that fits in with what he told us. He said he was in the kitchen the whole day before the Circle dinner.”

  “Speaking of dinner,” I said. “I must check.”

  I did so quickly. One of the tricky things about entertaining a charming lady is that you want to spend the minimum time in the kitchen. On the other hand, you want the meal to be memorable. Pre-preparation is vital but it can’t be allowed to affect the quality of the meal.

  “I have some news too,” said Winnie. “We’ve found Scarponi.”

  “That’s great! What did you get out of him?”