by Peter King
She might be cool but Hemingway’s temperature was comparable.
“I believe you,” he said.
I don’t know who else gasped but I did.
“I believe you,” he repeated. “You were not Leopold’s accomplice—he was yours. You were the instigator, the prime mover, the planner. You were the Lady Macbeth. I don’t know which of you put the botulin in Ivor Jenkinson’s drink before the Circle of Careme dinner but it was you who put it in Leopold’s. Was he getting cold feet? You probably hadn’t intended to kill IJ at first but then you found he knew too much. So it was very convenient to get Leopold out of the way and plant the entire guilt on him. That way, you could go through with the original plan alone.”
Paula was on her feet now. She looked splendid as with flashing brown eyes and heaving breasts she protested her innocence.
“This is absurd! I don’t know who his accomplice was but it’s preposterous to accuse me!”
Another person was standing now. It was Roger St Leger and he was angry.
“So that’s why you came to my house that day! To get me drunk! All those questions! It wasn’t me at all, was it? You wanted to find out if I’d seen those photos before I gave them to IJ. I hadn’t but you didn’t believe me at first. You probably had some of that poison with you in case I suspected you!”
Hemingway’s plan was working. This was just the kind of corroboration he wanted and it was clear that the whole room knew it. The look that Paula flashed him said all too plainly that St Leger had had a lucky escape. She carried it off beautifully though. The look was gone in a second and she was herself again, all charm and outraged innocence.
But I knew and reluctantly I began adding up the other corroborating factors that I could supply.
Apparently protective of her uncle, she had cleverly hinted that “accidents could happen—even in the best restaurants”, and leaving him to be suspected of either inefficient and unsanitary operation or involvement in the sabotage at Le Trouquet d’Or. She had continued to toss suspicion in all directions—at St Leger “I hear he may take over IJ’s programme”—and at Sally “her radical ideas—bad for the restaurant trade—may put us all out of business”.
And me! She had used me just as she had used St Leger—to find out what I knew. My vanity was bruised even worse than his for I realised why she had telephoned me from Larry Leopold’s house rather than the police—if there were any clues to be trampled then an amateur like me was more likely to do it. She had even disputed the concept of a feud because she wanted to maintain the image of two sloppily-run restaurants.
She was magnificent though. I had to admit it even now as she faced Hemingway, spreading out her hands in a supplicant gesture of unfair accusation.
“If you are going to arrest me, Inspector, you will be making a very grave mistake.”
“Arrest you!” Hemingway looked appalled at the suggestion. “Miss Jardine, I am Food Squad. I can’t even arrest people for selling broccoli with too much Vitamin K in it! I couldn’t arrest you—not if you were spraying oranges with DDE!”
For the first time, Paula looked taken aback. She had not expected this but she rallied instantly.
“In that case, I can sue you and Scotland Yard for making false and malicious accusations!”
“I am not making any accusations of any kind,” said Hemingway suavely. His “would I do such a horrible thing” look was very convincing.
“I have closed the case as far as the Food Squad is concerned. I sent the file to the Department of Public Prosecutions yesterday and I will be forwarding today’s additions in the morning.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this!” stormed Paula. She was about to rage on but the inspector stopped her with a raised hand.
“You haven’t heard the last of it either. There is one more request that will be made of you.”
“Request?” said Paula uncertainly.
“Yes. I have recommended that you be invited to a test for Tintilinum botulinum exposure.”
She said nothing, her body rigid.
“As most people know today, a simple test of a hand will determine if it has fired a gun within recent weeks—the gunpowder blowback remains in the skin. Similarly, anyone who has handled a botulin as virulent as Tintilinum retains traces of the bacteria for a similar length of time.”
Paula gave out a sound like a sob then quick as a flash, she kicked away her chair and ran for the nearest door. Winnie and the inspector started in her direction then stopped as she put a hand into her purse and came out with a small glass bottle.
“Keep back!” she shouted. She pulled out the stopper then fumbled behind her for the door handle. She wrenched the door open and slipped through it—only to re-emerge with the arm of a burly police constable around her waist.
She was still not finished. She turned her head aside and flung the contents of the bottle full in the policeman’s face. There were shrieks and cries as the policeman staggered back, releasing his grip. Paula disappeared.
The inspector and Winnie came running to the policeman’s side and I followed. He was clawing at the wall, unable to see and Hemingway pulled him away gently. Winnie’s reaction seemed strange. She stood sniffing then she bent and picked up the bottle that Paula had dropped. She sniffed it and held it out.
“The cunning bitch,” she said in tones befitting a sergeant but not a well brought-up young lady. “It’s Chanel Number 5.”
A second constable hurried in and Hemingway addressed him hurriedly. “See that this man gets attention. Let no one out.” To Winnie and me, he snapped, “Come on!”
We went pelting along the corridor and it led directly to one of the kitchens. We poured in through the swinging doors and there was no need to ask any questions. A young kitchen helper sat on the floor, bewildered. The liquid contents of a large pan were all over the floor.
The young man looked up at us in comic surprise.
“Which way did she go?” Hemingway growled.
The young man pointed and we raced out in that direction. It was another kitchen, empty this time. Hemingway pushed through the nearest door but Winnie stopped him.
“No. That only goes out into the back street. She’s more likely to head for the front where she can get a taxi.”
Winnie had evidently done her homework on the geography of the Lanchester Palace. Hemingway digested this then nodded. We raced out of the other door. A corridor led to a carpeted floor in a long room with glass display cabinets. Clothes, jewellery, handbags, shoes filled the cabinets and Winnie panted:
“This is the way—goes out to the front lobby—”
It did and despite the lateness of the hour the lobby was busy. We got a few alarmed looks as we dashed through then we were out in Park Lane.
“There she is!” cried Winnie.
Paula was getting into a taxi at the head of the rank and the vehicle started to pull out. I had visions of yet another “Follow that cab!” episode though this time surely the name of Scotland Yard would get some reaction.
Instead, the cab stopped abruptly as an elderly lady in furs and with a tiny dog on a long leash walked out in front of it. In a few long strides I reached the taxi and jerked open the door. The cabbie looked round, mouth open to protest and by then Paula had pushed open the other door and jumped out.
She stood hesitant for a couple of seconds, undecided whether to try for another cab or run. It was a fatal hesitation.
Hemingway came for her, she turned—and ran straight at Winnie.
The blonde sergeant had paid full attention to her tutors in unarmed combat instruction. The grip she put on Paula’s arm looked casual enough but Paula was unable to move and her face contorted with pain.
Back in the Great Room, Inspector Hemingway was assuring the guests that the case had been concluded satisfactorily and they could all leave. They were drifting out in small groups, excitedly discussing the events of the evening.
The guests continued to stream through th
e doors, all of them relieved that the case was over and that London’s eating scene could return to normal. But not quite all …
Two dejected figures shambled out together, one—a big bear of a man with a long sad countenance that looked as if it would never know happiness again, the other—once athletic and spry, now weary and prematurely aged, the battered boxer’s features creased and lined. They had each lost someone they loved and trusted. The picture of them going out of the door, the two deadly rivals with an arm around each other was one that I knew would stay with me for ever.
As the last guests left, the inspector and Winnie approached.
“So ends your first murder case,” said Hemingway.
“And my last,” I assured him. “I’ve had enough of murder. I’m sticking to mangoes and marjoram from now on.”
“You were very helpful,” said Hemingway.
“As a guesser of guilty parties, I was hopeless,” I admitted.
“It must be because you’re such a good gourmet detective,” said Winnie. “You can’t resist a red herring.”
“You were magnificent,” I told the inspector. “I underestimated you when I compared you with Charlie Chan. You were as impressive as Sir John Appleby in his finest hour.”
“Praise indeed.”
“Pity you’re such a good detective,” I said. “You would have made a great counsel for the prosecution. You’d have outdone Perry Mason and overcome Horace Rumpole.”
“One thing I want to ask, Inspector,” said Winnie. “I didn’t know that Tintilinum botulinum could be detected in the skin of anyone who’d handled it?”
Did I see the faintest twinkle in the inspector’s eye? Possibly not, though I thought I caught the trace of an admonishing smile on Winnie’s lips. Maybe I was mistaken on both counts but I had a question of my own.
“And as Food Squad, you really can’t arrest anyone?”
“I have to go and talk to the manager,” said Hemingway. “Thanks again for your help.” He strode off.
I looked at Winnie. “You really can’t?”
She smiled that adorable smile.
“I shall need some more details from you so that I can complete my dossier. Is Wednesday night convenient?”
“Perfect,” I said. “Scotland Yard?”
“Your apartment, I think.”
“I’ll take the phone off the hook this time. Dossiers should never be disturbed.”
“About eight?” I nodded and watched as she walked away.
Definitely champagne, I thought—cliché or not. To start, a shrimp bisque with sherry then perhaps a slice of salmon with a nugget of lobster buried in it and covered with shreds of fresh-cut julienne vegetables. Now, for the main course …
Turn the page to continue reading from the Gourmet Detective Mysteries
Chapter One
THE FOOD LOOKED APPETIZING enough. It was the Styrofoam and the plastic wrap that spoiled the visual impact.
I opened the little package containing a knife, fork and spoon, a paper napkin, salt and pepper. It wasn’t easy to open—why do they make the plastic so strong? Pulling out the fork, I broke one of the tines—why do they make the plastic so weak? But I wasn’t here to make a critical survey of the plastics industry so I turned my attention back to the food.
The small salad wasn’t too bad. The tomato slices were surprisingly tasty and the lettuce was reasonably crisp—not an easy achievement when it has been tightly wrapped for hours. The mustard greens and the endives were acceptable and the tiny croutons were crunchy. The dressing was too thick and too sweet for my preference but there was no pleasing every salad eater among the tens of thousands of airline passengers being served this same meal.
There was sufficient vinegar in the dressing—despite its sweetness—that I waited to finish before pouring the red Bordeaux into the plastic cup. Plastic is a terrible surrounding for any wine, especially a wine which is already struggling vainly against the disadvantaged background of being without a vintage—the vinous equivalent of being illegitimate.
Chapter Two
I HAD FIRST MET Don Renshaw some years ago. I was living and working in London and he was visiting from his native Cornwall where he had a small boat-building business. His customers were mostly fishermen, who had been coming to him with increasing frequency asking how to get rid of their extra catches of lobster, crab, mussels and fish. A mutual acquaintance put us in touch with each other and I suggested that he start a soup cannery. I helped him do this and as the business prospered, Don sold the boat business and concentrated on canning.
My own business had been in existence for only a short period then. I sought out rare food ingredients, advised on the use of little-known food specialties, recommended new possibilities and marketing opportunities and put sellers in touch with buyers of exotic food products.
I had called myself a food-finder at first; then someone had dubbed me the “Gourmet Detective” and the name had stuck. I thought the title more suited to the flamboyancy of the advertising world than my humble enterprise but it was an aid in bringing in customers. The only disadvantage was that I had to keep explaining that I wasn’t a detective at all in the usual sense of the word.
Some time passed before our paths crossed again. Don was in London and looked me up, enlisting my help in locating new markets for hawthorn, which was widely used in the Middle Ages for heart and blood problems. He told me that he had added an herb and spice operation and was planning on specializing in this area as the business was really thriving. When we had our concluding conversation, he told me that his wife, Peggy, had a brother who had emigrated to the States at an early age and done very well with a trucking business. At his instigation, Don had been persuaded to consider opening an American outlet.
Don called me once after that. He was back in England briefly after deciding to move permanently to the States. In New York, his Spice Warehouse, catering to a rapidly expanding demand for herbs and spices, was doing phenomenally well. I had not heard from him then for some years. Then came the phone call …
After we had exchanged greetings, statements of health, interchanges of how long it had been and so on, Don asked, “How busy are you?”
“Things are ticking over,” I told him.
“Quiet, huh?”
“I have been busier,” I admitted. “You know how it is—up and down.”
“How about helping me out with a small job?”
“I probably could,” I said, not wanting to sound too anxious.
“You’d have to come over here.”
“For how long? I have to give evidence in Scotland next week. Some poaching is going on in the trout streams—”
“I prefer them grilled myself.”
“This is the other kind. I have to give evidence on whether I consider that the trout that were caught are the property of a certain laird or whether they are free souls, blithely independent, owing allegiance to no one.”
“Like the poacher.”
“He’s innocent until caught with a rod in his hand and a trout on the line.”
“Well,” Don said, “this job won’t interfere with that. It’ll only take a couple of days, three at the most. Besides, it’s one you won’t be able to resist.”
I knew Don well enough to know that if he said that, it must be something out of the ordinary.
“How long since you were over here last?” he went on.
“Some years,” I admitted.
“And I recall you saying that New York was one of your favorite cities?”
“Don—your sales pitch has worked. What’s the job?”
He chuckled. “I managed to get a contract to authenticate a shipment coming into New York from Asia. I did a job for this outfit once before and he threw this one my way. The thing is—” He hesitated.
“Go on,” I urged. “What is the thing?”
“Because of the importance of this shipment, the buyer insists on having two referees. He’s prepared to accept my re
commendation on the second referee and I thought of you.”
“Authenticate a shipment, you say?”
“Right.”
“Like in examine it, smell it, test it, taste it, whatever else?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Our choice on methods?”
“Yes.”
“Then declare that to the best of our knowledge, et cetera, et cetera …”
“Right.”
“Or not—as the case may be.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well,” I said, “sounds straightforward enough to me. And—Don, you’re right, I would like to see the Big Apple again.”
“It has been some years since you were here, hasn’t it? We call it the Big Bagel now. I can count you in, then?”
“What’s the fee?”
“Five hundred a day—dollars, that is. First-class travel and accommodation. Two days, maybe three. You’ll be back in time for your fish.”
“Sounds good. What’s the shipment?”
There was a couple of seconds hesitation, which should have given me some kind of a clue …
“You know about my Spice Warehouse, don’t you?” he asked.
“You mentioned that’s what you were going into when I talked to you last.”
“Yes, well, I’ve disposed of all the other activities and am really building this business up.”
“Fine. How’s it going?”
“Tremendous. Planning on expanding again. In fact”—he paused and there was a flatness in his tone that sounded peculiar—“after this job, I’ll be able to really expand.”
“And this is a spice shipment that’s coming in? They’re usually pretty easy, emphasis on aroma and taste, difficult to substitute—”
“This one won’t be that easy.”
He paused.
“Go on,” I urged. “What’s the problem? Which spice?”
“It’s Ko Feng,” he said and I almost dropped the phone.
Chapter Three
THAT CONVERSATION HAD TAKEN place thirty-six hours earlier. I finished the salad and cut into the steak, which was reasonably succulent, and poured some more Bordeaux. The pepper on the steak activated the tannin in the wine and gave its powers of self-assertion a much-needed boost.
