by Nan Lyons
Yesterday, following Auguste’s suggestion, they went to Bertrand’s for lunch and spent hours, at Max’s insistence and to Bertrand’s amusement, over a cheese fondue, a beef fondue, and a chocolate fondue. They drank a white Nuits-Saint-Georges, a red Nuits-Saint-Georges, and Turkish coffee laced with Grand Marnier. Bertrand had been a waiter at the Dolder in Zurich when Max was the maître there. They were the same age and had become good friends. They shared a house and they even shared their women. Bertrand’s desire for fame, to see his name in lights, was all-consuming. He overcame his middle-class waiter’s morality and allowed himself to become corrupt by succumbing to a quality kitchen. Although his restaurant in Paris was a gourmet success, he was secretly writing a book on the lives of the great waiters.
Bertrand agreed with Auguste’s premise that the killer would now attempt to murder the greatest chef in Paris, and, with the fervor of a true convert, proposed a survival conference with the eight chefs recognized as the best. While she and Max spent hours over their fondues, Bertrand made the phone calls. Max suggested they all meet for lunch at La Norma, but the chefs refused. In fact, they could not agree upon a single restaurant in which they would eat. Bertrand suggested they meet in the Tuileries, at noon on Saturday. Each chef would bring his own lunch.
“When I grow up,” Max began slowly, “I want to be rich and wake up in the best suite at the Plaza with my hand cupped on the breast of a beautiful princess, after having spent the best night of my life.” Natasha reached over and put her hand to his lips. He kissed her fingers. “Then, the beautiful princess will give me a kiss and say, ‘Good morning, darling, you’re the best fucker in the whole goddamn kingdom.’”
“Good morning, darling,” she said, kissing him on the lips, “you’re the best fucker in the whole goddamn kingdom.”
Max propped himself up on his elbow and looked at her. “Do you think, when I grow up, such a thing will happen to me?”
“No, darling, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she said, putting her arms around him, “there is not the slightest chance you will ever grow up. Besides, if you’re the best fucker, what does that make me?”
“The best fuckee.”
“Why?”
“Because The Man always fucks The Woman.”
“Says who? We did it together.”
“Right. But I was the fucker, and you were the fuckee. I have the thing to fuck you with.”
“No, you son of a bitch. We participated equally in a joint activity. You know it was my idea to be Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker.”
“Yeah,” he said, “except next time I want to be Duncan Hines.”
“What next time?” she said coolly, getting up and going into the bathroom.
Max followed her and stood outside the bathroom door. “All right. You win. But you play dirty. This is no way to begin our next divorce.” He took his penis in his hand and began to shake it as he murmured, “So you’re the fuckee?”
It was ten to twelve when they left the Plaza. Max complained about not having any breakfast, while Natasha pushed him along the street. They turned right at the Champs Elysées, into the Rond Point, and down the few blocks to the Place de la Concorde. It was windy, a gray day but without threat of rain.
“I should have had breakfast,” Max said.
“Don’t you ever stop thinking of your stomach?”
“Yes, I do. Sometimes I think about your stomach. Did I ever tell you how much I liked your stomach?”
“Darling,” she said, squeezing his hand, “there’s nothing you haven’t told me.”
“Harder,” he said. She pressed his fingers tightly.
They crossed against the traffic, dodged taxis around the obelisk, and ran across to the Concorde entrance to the Tuileries. As they walked through the gate, Bertrand began waving at them. A number of people were sitting around the large circular fountain: two little boys holding a broken sailboat, a uniformed nanny with a carriage, two old women arguing, and eight silent men. None of the chefs were within speaking range of one another. They each held a small paper bag. Bertrand and Auguste walked toward them.
“I’m sorry we’re late.” Natasha kissed Bertrand.
“They would not sit together,” Bertrand said, motioning his head to the chefs seated around the pool like numbers on a clock. “But you are here now, so perhaps they will move closer.”
Auguste tugged Max’s sleeve. “The check. I have not yet received it.”
“You will, mon ami,” Max said, putting his hand on Auguste’s shoulder. “Trust me.”
“Of course I trust you. I know you would never cheat me. An old man. I am sure it will be here Monday.”
Max felt something bulky on Auguste’s shoulder. “What have you got under your jacket?” Auguste smiled broadly, and as swiftly as a flasher, opened his jacket so that Max alone could see his shoulder holster and gun. “Are you serious?”
“Sacré bleu,” Auguste exclaimed, clutching Max’s jacket sleeve. “Do you think I want to be dead? I know. You think I will be murdered before the check comes. No, no. Not Auguste. I will be alive. I will be alive to cash the check.”
Natasha and Bertrand walked away from Max and toward Henri Foullepret, who rose as they approached. “Henri,” Natasha said, kissing him.
“Natasha,” he said, “I am so sorry about Louis. Did he write down his Pigeonneaux recipe?”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry. Bertrand asked him to please sit with Max. Then they went to Marcel Massenet. She extended her hand, and they embraced. “Do not eat anyone else’s food,” he whispered in her ear. “I have made something special for you.”
Pierre Legrame kissed her on both cheeks. “Where did you eat last night? I thought for certain you would come to me.”
“We had chinois. I wanted to, but the others would have been so insulted.”
“Ha! I do not know why you have asked them all here. It is clear I am the next one the killer wants.”
“Please, Pierre,” she said, moving him gently toward the others, “I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”
“But it will,” he said, without turning back.
Francois Vibanque sat in his chair as Natasha approached. “Francois,” she said. He looked up.
“You are looking at a dead man. There is no way to save me.”
Natasha kneeled down and kissed him on the cheek. “Francois, nothing must happen to you. Please, go with the others.”
“Do not eat anything they have brought. I have something special for you.”
Jacques Piagrette stood up and opened his arms. They embraced. He took hold of her shoulders, and shook his head. “What garbage have you been eating? How long have you been in Paris? Why have you not let me cook for you? Who knows how much time there is left? I could be killed at any moment.”
“Nothing will happen, Jacques. We’re all going to help each other.”
He looked around at the others. “Help? From them? I would get more help from an escargot.”
Paul Simone stood abruptly as Natasha approached. They held hands for a long moment. “First Louis. Then Nutti. And next, me. Who is doing this? Do you think it is the Russians?”
“I don’t know who’s doing it. It might be coincidence. We don’t know for certain it was even the same person.”
“But I know. In my heart, I know. And I know I am the next one. It is very clear. Where did you eat last night?”
“Chinese.”
“Very diplomatic. But today, I have prepared lunch for you. Do not risk being poisoned by the others.”
Roger Comise stood up and began to cry. “So this is how it ends? I have thought only of you since I heard about Louis. For myself, I do not care if I die. But you, my poor darling, you must go to funeral after funeral.”
“Roger, darling. You won’t be killed.”
“Why not? Who deserves it more than me? Have you brought me here to insult me?”
&
nbsp; Jean-Claude Moulineaux hugged her tearfully. “I remember the night when you and Louis and Nutti sat in my kitchen while I prepared the duck for Achille.”
“We were all so drunk.”
He smiled. “We laughed so hard that night. I do not know how we cooked the dinner.”
“And now, you and I are the only ones left.” He began sobbing.
“Please, Jean-Claude.”
“I am sorry. But we are the only ones left and who knows which one of us will be next?”
Natasha stood frozen as Jean-Claude turned away. His words “which one of us will be next” rang in her ears. Until that moment, she had been merely a suspect. Jean-Claude had suddenly changed her role to that of victim.
Max had arranged the chairs in a circle. Natasha sat down next to him and held on to his arm. She leaned over and whispered, “Big M, I think I’m going to die.”
“You should have eaten breakfast,” Max whispered.
“No. I mean really going to die. Jean-Claude thinks I’m on the hit parade.”
“Jean-Claude is a frog-frying fag, not Ellery Queen.” Max turned to the group with a smile. “Well, you may wonder why I’ve asked you all here.” No one smiled back. “Yes,” he continued seriously, “we’re here to see if you have any idea who’s responsible for what’s happened.”
The chefs looked at one another. They raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders, and shook their heads.
“I have already told you,” Auguste shouted, getting up from his chair. “It is a waiter.”
There was a murmur of disapproval from the others. “There is no waiter smart enough,” Henri said.
“There are some smart enough not to work for you,” said Roger.
“Waiters do not have money to go from London to Rome to Paris.”
“They have more money than you think.”
“That’s right From what they steal.”
Bertrand got up angrily. “I was a waiter. I did not steal. And I was smart.”
“You were smart enough to stop being a waiter.”
“But you were stupid enough to open your own restaurant.”
“So now they steal from you.”
“You call that a restaurant?”
“If he is so smart, why does he overcook his carrots?”
“How would you know if I overcook my carrots? You have never eaten my food.”
“I sent my cousin.”
“Who would have killed Nutti?” Max asked. “Do you have any ideas?”
“If he was killed like a lobster, then perhaps someone did not like the fact that Nutti killed lobsters.”
“What kind of maniac would that be?”
“A vegetarian?”
“Perhaps Jacques Cousteau?”
“Does your cousin like lobster?”
“It’s a shame you will not be next.”
“You think you will?”
“Ask your cousin.”
“Please,” Natasha began, “two of your friends have been murdered. There is the possibility the killer may try to murder one of you.” Then she slowly corrected herself. “One of us.”
“Not one of me,” Max said to her. “I can’t even boil a pizza.”
“Maybe he will not kill a French chef next,” Roger said.
“Maybe he will kill a Swiss chef.”
“Maybe,” Natasha whispered to Max, “he will kill an American chef.”
“Then let’s cable Colonel Sanders.”
She pinched his arm. “Louis, Nutti, Jean-Claude, and I once cooked dinner together.”
“Which one of you got pregnant?”
“Two of them are dead,” she said.
“I always knew you were a lousy cook,” Max answered.
“Maybe Klaus Hoerbner?” Paul asked.
“Klaus Hoerbner died two years ago,” Pierre reported.
“No!”
“I was at the funeral. They served petits fours.”
“I want to know why the killer did not kill a French chef first. In all due respect to Louis and Nutti, if someone is killing chefs, you should certainly first kill a French chef.”
“That is true.”
“It is a national insult.”
“It proves the killer is crazy.”
“Or he is very clever. He is leaving the French chef for the last. I see it all. He is building to a crescendo.”
“What do you know?”
“I know I do not freeze my veal.”
There was shocked silence. Roger stood up. “Are you accusing me, here, in front of everyone, of freezing my veal?”
Henri stood up, facing Roger. “Mais oui.”
Roger pointed his finger at Henri. “There is your killer.”
“Roger, please,” Natasha said.
“I demand an apology,” Roger yelled. “He is lying. He is lying. I do not freeze my veal.”
“One of my waiters said he does.”
Everyone shrugged and told Roger to forget about it. It was obviously a lie if it came from the mouth of a waiter.
“I will never forgive you for this,” Roger said.
Henri sat down. “I will try to live without your forgiveness.”
“I am beginning to think this whole meeting was a mistake,” Bertrand said. “You cannot think of anything but pettiness. You cannot even stop bickering long enough to have thoughts of the danger you are in. Well, if you do not care, I do not care.”
“He’s right,” Max said. “Let’s try to think of some clue as to who the killer might be.”
Marcel got up and gave Natasha his bag. “This is for you. I have made it specially.”
Francois came over. “This is better. You will eat my lunch instead.”
One by one they came to Natasha, giving her their lunches.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take them back to the hotel with me.”
“But how will you know which is mine?” Marcel asked.
“It will be the one that makes her sick,” Francois said.
Jean-Claude stood up. “Louis is dead. Nutti is dead. I do not want to die. I do not care about your cousin, or your veal, or your carrots. If there is not something we can do, then I wish to leave.” He sat down. Everyone was quiet.
“I think we should tell the police.”
“Tell them what? That we each think we will be killed by someone we don’t know for a reason we don’t know? The police will not help us.”
“Then let us have our own police. We know when the killer strikes. The murders have taken place in kitchens when the chefs are alone.”
“You see,” Max whispered to Natasha, “you don’t even fit the pattern. No kitchen. No alone. Besides, we have to wait.”
“For what?”
“To see who gets murdered next. If it’s anyone but Jean-Claude, you’re safe. If it’s Jean-Claude, we’ll begin to worry.”
“And what the hell do I do in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I’ve decided to donate all my semen to helping you forget.”
“Millie, you goddamn fool, what if I’m killed before Jean-Claude?”
He thought a minute. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Then I guess I’ll donate it to a sperm bank.”
Bertrand stood up. “We have a plan.”
“I will get a bodyguard.”
“I will get my cousin.”
“I will bring my dog.”
“The dog will steal your recipes.”
“He would know enough not to eat your food.”
“Gentlemen,” Max said. “I think we’ve made some progress. Go back to your kitchens, but be sure you’re never left alone. Keep someone with you at all times. Tomorrow is Sunday. All your kitchens will be closed.”
“Not mine,” Pierre said. “The hotel kitchen is open and I am working.”
“You have nothing to worry about. I do not even know how you got invited to this meeting.”
“Pierre,” Natasha said, “just keep someone with you.”
“It
is me!” Pierre yelled. “It is me he is after. You see how it fits in place? I am the only one who will be working tomorrow.”
“Then we will all have dinner at your restaurant tomorrow and die with you.”
Natasha took the bags and stood up. “My friends, be careful. Please. And thank you for these. I will know who has made each one. But now you must excuse me. I am not feeling well.” She walked around the circle to kiss them good-bye. They each leaned over to whisper in her ear.
“Mine is the pâté.”
“Mine is the pâté.”
“Mine is the pâté.”
“Mine is the pâté.”
“Mine is the pâté.”
“Mine is the pâté.”
“Mine is the pâté.”
“Mine is the pâté.”
Dearest Mami:
Years ago, when I was alone and frightened, you took me into your home and into your heart. I need you again. I am alone and frightened again.
I am also ashamed to be writing this letter after you said you didn’t want to hear from me. But there is something I must tell you while there is still time.
When I asked you to come with me, I thought I wanted to help you. But I wanted you to help me. I thought I was the stronger of the two, but you were. You didn’t need me as much as I needed you.
I’m frightened, Mami, because I’m suddenly aware that life is not a forever thing. And I feel so guilty because I’ve wasted time that never belonged to me. I keep wondering if Louis would have done the same things if he had known how little time was left. I don’t think he would have. He would have been with you, not with me. If he were to have lived forever, he might have allowed the time with me. Perhaps.
Louis never loved anyone but you, Mami. That’s true. As true as the fact that no one ever loved Louis but you. You were the only person strong enough and gentle enough to love him. I think you know that.
I’m writing this, Mami, because I love you dearly. I am so very sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you.
Tasha
Chapter 12
Mayfair was still asleep as Achille left his flat and walked into the empty street. It was eight-fifteen Sunday morning. It was cool. Sunny. A very pleasant lemon sun. A pleasant enough day on which to kill Jean-Claude.
