by Nan Lyons
He knew he would never find a taxi cruising. He would have to walk to Park Lane. No matter. No doubt the entire day would be filled with distasteful chores, not the least of which was the necessity for him to establish his alibi. He thought, as he turned the corner and walked to an empty taxi, that murder indeed had its negative aspects.
“Good morning, sir.” The red-faced driver smiled at Achille.
“Take me to Victoria Station. With dispatch!”
“Victoria? Twenty past eight. And with dispatch?” the driver repeated, nodding his head, and then turned around to smile again. “I guess it’s going to be the eight-forty-five to Brighton.”
“Incredible!” Achille said in genuine awe. “How could you tell such a thing?” he asked with a sudden tinge of fear.
“I ain’t been driving for forty years, thank you very much, with my eyes shut. Now the question is, why would a gent like yourself be going down to Brighton so early on a Sunday?”
“Surely you must know that as well.”
The driver laughed without turning around. “You’ve got a way with words,” he said. “Might be an actor. But I’ve never seen you,” he said looking back to study Achille, “and I never forget a face.”
Achille smiled broadly. Then he began to laugh.
“Well,” the driver said, “I can tell you this much, you weren’t laughing when you got in. Your mood has changed considerable. Must be, begging your pardon very much, that you’re going down for something you don’t like.”
“How cunning of you,” Achille said archly. “Indeed, how right you are. I am on my way to making a call of condolence.”
The driver formed his lips into a circle and inhaled loudly. “Ooooh, then excuse me very much, you certainly have my sympathies.”
“A dear friend of mine was baked.”
“Did you say baked?”
“I said, a dear friend of mine was baked.”
“You said a dear friend of yours was baked.”
“Scotland Yard say his stomach exploded.”
Another sharp intake of breath. “Exploded?”
“Yes. I found that rather unexpected.” There was a long pause. The driver narrowed his eyes involuntarily, aware that his palms were sweating. Achille, to his own great surprise, wanted very much to continue. “He died, actually, when the heat seared his lungs. Then his stomach exploded while his skin began to bum.” Achille was thrown forward slightly as the taxi came to an abrupt halt. “What’s wrong? Why have you stopped?”
“Begging your pardon, I don’t feel very well.” The driver leaned his head against the window.
“I’ll miss my train,” Achille yelled. “Get on with it. Start driving. I mustn’t miss my train.”
“If you’ll just excuse me, I need a minute. I’ll get you there, but you’ll have to wait a minute. Forty years I been driving.” A moment later the taxi began to move.
“Coincidentally, after my dear friend from Brighton was baked, another dear friend was drowned in a lobster tank and then split down his back.”
“God Almighty!”
“In a sense,” Achille mused.
“Baked? Then split? Sounds like someone was getting ready to eat them.”
“You should have seen …” Achille stopped suddenly.
“Seen what?” the driver asked.
“Your face. You should have seen your own face.”
“Well, begging your pardon very much, I ain’t never heard of people being carved up for supper.”
Achille smiled. “The last supper,” he said, thinking it for the first time.
When they reached Victoria Station, Achille gave the driver a five-pound note. “My name is Achille van Golk. I live on Hertford Street. Thank you for sharing my uncontrollable grief.”
Achille went to the ticket window and rapped sharply on the glass. The ticket clerk was reading his newspaper. “I doubt you are paid to read your newspaper rather than service the public.”
“I’d be happy to service you,” he said flatly and put down his paper.
“I wish to purchase a first-class round-trip ticket to Brighton. I will be leaving on the eight-forty-five and returning today on the two-forty-five.”
“It don’t matter to me when you come and go. I’m not your personal confidential secretary.”
“Indeed! And what is your name? I intend to report you for rudeness and a slovenly appearance.”
“You want a ticket or you don’t want a ticket?”
“Of course I want my ticket. I must have my ticket in order to get to Brighton on the eight-forty-five and return today on the two-forty-five. How much is it?” Achille handed the clerk a one-hundred-pound note. The clerk stared at it for a moment and then looked at Achille without speaking or moving. “Well?” Achille asked.
“Who in hell are you kidding?”
Achille took back his hundred-pound note and replaced it with a five-pound note. “No one cares about the problems of the privileged these days.”
The clerk took a ticket, and then wrote something on a piece of paper. “Here you are, your lordship. Track 9. Your ticket, your change, and my name and number for you to report me. A very good day to you,” he said, smirking, and returned to his paper.
“You have not heard the last of Achille van Golk!” Achille turned and walked into the station. He looked at the clock. It was eight-forty. He passed waiting rooms filled with old men and old women with no place to go. He walked carefully around people as though they were contaminated.
Upon reaching the first-class cars, he selected one that was empty. He waited until the conductor shouted “All aboard.” When it was clear he would have the compartment to himself, he opened the door and stepped up into the train. Achille smiled as he folded the piece of paper with the ticket clerk’s name and put it into his wallet. He looked out the window as the train left Victoria Station. He sat back. It would take six minutes to reach Clapham Junction. While he waited, he took a large amount of change from his trouser pocket and put it into his jacket pocket.
At the Clapham station, Achille got off, made his way quickly through the station and over to a bank of pay telephones. He walked into one of the red booths and closed the door behind him. He picked up the receiver and dialed “0.”
“May I help you?”
“I wish to call Paris, France. The number is Odéon 6185.”
“Station to station, sir?”
“Yes.”
“That will be twenty-eight pence for the first minute.” Achille began dropping in coins. “Thank you, sir. I’m ringing.” He heard the phone ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Oui?”
“Jean-Claude, are you alone?”
“Oui. Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Achille.”
“Mon Dieu. I have been thinking all night about you.”
“And I about you, my dear friend. Jean-Claude, I am on my way to Paris. I must see you at noon today.”
“Today. Merveilleux. But is something wrong, my dear friend?”
“Jean-Claude, I am depending upon you. You must not tell anyone you have spoken with me. Or that you are meeting me.”
“But why? Natasha will want to see you and …”
“No! Jean-Claude, my dear friend, it is urgent that no one knows I am coming. It is Natasha I must see you about. I’m afraid there is distressing evidence that points to Natasha as the killer.”
“But no, I do not believe …”
“Listen to me. I have no time to argue. I am trying to save your life. No one must know you are meeting me.”
“Of course, my dear friend. Come to my house.”
“No.”
“The Louvre? We will meet at the Louvre.”
“No. I must be alone with you, my dear friend. The restaurant is closed today?”
“Oui.”
“Then I will meet you there. In the kitchen.”
“But…”
“But what? Jean-Claude, this is a matter of life and death.
”
“Of course. I will be there. I will leave the door open for you. Achille, I am very frightened.”
“Do not worry, dear friend. I promise to put an end to your fears.”
“May God bless you, my dear friend.”
“At noon,” Achille said.
“Au revoir, mon ami.”
Achille hung up the receiver. He took another coin from his pocket and dialed.
“Bonjour. Air France.”
“I wish to confirm my flight,” Achille said. “I will fly to Paris today on the ten-thirty and return this afternoon on the one-forty-five.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll check that. What is your name, please?”
“Thomas,” he said. “Hardy Thomas.”
Upon arrival at Orly, Hardy Thomas went through immigration and customs and then stepped out of the terminal to hail a cab. “Tour Eiffel, s’il vous plaît.”
“Merci.”
Achille reached into his pocket for his French franc notes. He sat back and thought of how hungry he was. At the Eiffel Tower, he got out of the taxi, paid, and waited for the driver to pull away. Then he hailed another cab to Place de la Madeleine. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes past twelve.
After waiting for the second cab to pull away, he crossed over to the rue Tronchet. When he reached the blue canopy of Le Canard Sauvage, he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. He put his gloved hand on the service door, turned the knob, and entered. He locked the door from the inside. Jean-Claude, hearing someone, ran into the hallway.
“Thank God it is you. They told us not to be alone in the kitchen and here I am sitting alone with the door open. I am so relieved you are here. I was afraid to be late, so I have been here early. I have plucked the feathers from six ducks already waiting for you.”
“I am sorry.”
“Achille, is it true? What you said about Natasha? I cannot believe it. How do you know?”
“I have friends at Scotland Yard.”
“Mon Dieu. I cannot believe it. I was talking to her only yesterday about the night she and Louis and Nutti were sitting here while I made for you my brilliant pressed duck.”
“I remember,” he said, looking around at the pans. “You know, Jean-Claude, your caneton is my very favorite.”
“Thank you, Achille, I know. I wish I could make it for you now. Would you like that? While we talk, I could make it for you.”
“No. There is not enough time. Besides, I am on a diet.”
“But that is impossible. How can you live without eating?”
“I have been told that all the food I have eaten is killing me.”
“Mon Dieu.” He dropped the duck he was holding. “What is the world coming to?” he asked as he bent down to pick it up.
Achille took a frying pan and, stepping behind Jean-Claude, raised his arms and hit him on the head. Jean-Claude screamed as he fell to the floor. Achille stepped back and took off his jacket. He put on a white coat so that his shirt would be covered, and then tied an apron around his waist to shield his trousers. He took a heavy steel mallet and bent over Jean-Claude. With two blows from the mallet he crushed Jean-Claude’s skull. He moved away quickly so that his shoes would not be touched by the spreading pool of blood on the floor. The huge chrome duck press that Jean-Claude had designed to hold up to four ducks sat on top of a butcher-block table. Achille put both his arms under the duck press and lowered it to the floor. Slowly he began pushing the duck press across the floor to where Jean-Claude lay. He turned the wheel so that the steel cover would be raised as high as possible. Breathing heavily, he bent down to place Jean-Claude’s head into the bucket of the duck press. He became nauseated at the sight of splintered skull, hair matted with blood, and the exposed pinkish-gray brain. When he had the body propped against the duck press, and the head in position, he began to turn the wheel so that the flat steel disk would press down on Jean-Claude’s battered head. Once the disk reached the face, Achille had to turn with great force. He could hear the cracking of bone and then saw the slow outpouring of Jean-Claude’s blood from the spout. Finally, Achille could turn the wheel no more.
He took off his apron, folded it carefully, and placed it on the table. Then he took off the white jacket. Still careful not to get his footprints in the blood, he walked to the stove, turned it on, and set the jacket and apron on fire. He dropped them into the sink, where they continued to bum. He turned on the water to douse the flames. Then he took off his gloves and put on his jacket. He put one glove in his pocket, and put the other on to shut off the water. He stepped around the body, turned off the light, and walked to the door. With the glove on his hand, he unlocked the door, put the safety latch on, and after poking his head out to be sure no one was watching, stepped out of the doorway and walked down the street toward Boulevard Haussmann.
At the comer he stepped into a phone booth. “Mademoiselle, donnez-moi London, England, s’il vous plai. Je voudrais trois sept cinq vingt-neuf, trente-neuf.”
“Quel est votre numéro?” she asked.
“Vingt-deux, treize.”
“Très bien, merci.”
Achille waited a moment, readying his change. He deposited the coins immediately after she requested them.
“Hello?” Rudolph asked.
“I don’t care what you’re doing. I have taken ill on my way to Brighton. I will rest awhile and arrive back at Victoria Station at three-forty-five. Bring the car. Meet me without fail.” He hung up before Rudolph could answer.
Achille stepped off the curb and hailed a taxi. “Orly, s’il vous plaît.”
CANETON À LA PRESSE “LUCULLUS”
1 Rouen duckling (6 weeks old, from Yvetot only. Buy from Gaspar or Figo. Notify 2 weeks ahead for special feeding. Can be up to 8 weeks old if special fed.)
Kill by asphyxiation. Do not lose any blood. Save liver.
Stuff duckling with mousseline:
Sauté chopped onion in 125 gr. chopped bacon fat. Do not let onions color. Add 3 duck livers, 125 gr. chopped mushrooms, 2 truffles, 100 gr. foie gras, 50 gr. boiled chestnuts, chopped parsley, one lump of sugar, mace, salt, pepper. Sauté. Add red wine. Cool. Pound in mortar. Rub through sieve.
1. Roast stuffed duckling for 18-20 minutes. Carve in thin slices. Remove legs, make incisions, season with salt, pepper, pounded clove. Grill legs.
2. Chop duckling liver. Cook with port and cognac over high heat.
3. Remove mousseline mixture from duckling and place in center of platter.
4. Crush carcass in duck press, collect all blood. Add consommé from carcass of another duckling, then add to liver mixture. Beat until thick. Warm duckling slices in sauce. Arrange on platter. Pour remaining sauce over slices.
Serve with pommes soufflées en nids.
Serve legs with the salade.
Serve only with a Chambertin.
Chapter 13
When the telephone rang on Monday morning, they were asleep at the foot of the bed. Max crawled over Natasha and picked up the receiver. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Jean-Claude has been murdered.” It was Bertrand.
Max leaned back against the headboard. “Jesus.”
Natasha sat up and faced Max. He avoided her eyes as Bertrand continued. “It was the worst of them all. His head was crushed in the duck press. He was found this morning. It must have happened yesterday. The police will come to you soon.”
“The duck press,” Max repeated, looking at Natasha for the first time.
“I am sorry, but I thought you should know right away.”
“Terrific.” Max hung up the receiver. Natasha was sitting bolt upright, her breasts heaving with each breath. Max cleared his throat “We’d better get dressed,” he said calmly. “I think I’ll wear my camel’s hair. Why don’t you put on something incredibly inappropriate?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Ask not for whom the quenelle tolls,” she said softly.
They met in the living room and sat down on the so
fa, like guests at a cocktail party.
“Did you know her well?” she asked Max.
“Know who?”
“Natasha. Natasha O’Brien Ogden O’Brien. The darling departed.”
“Did Jekyll know Hyde?”
“Aside from her tits,” she asked, “what did you like best about her?” she asked.
Max looked at her seriously. “I loved her because she never said die.”
“That’s not the story I heard. I heard she finally gave up.”
He took hold of her hand. “Darling, I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Darling, I’ve never been murdered before.”
“You’re not going to be murdered,” he said angrily. “I’m too young to be a widower. Ex-husband is as far as I’m willing to go.”
“Millie, I’m the only one of the four of us left. Louis, Nutti, Jean-Claude, and I each made one course that night. They were each killed in the order of the courses. I made the dessert.”
“The Bombe Richelieu?”
She shook her head yes. “I’m next on the menu.” He turned away from her. He knew it was the truth.
“Well, maybe not,” he said after a moment.
“Why not?” she asked, anxiously leaning toward him. “For God’s sake, tell me why not!”
“Maybe the killer doesn’t want dessert. Maybe he’s on a diet”
Natasha and Max rode in separate squad cars at the insistence of the police. The cars raced through the morning streets, their hiccupping sirens reassuring citizens that the Republic had caught its prey. When they reached the Sûreté, a paddy wagon was being filled with prisoners. Natasha and Max held each other’s hands. They walked inside with two policemen in front and two behind.
“When I was arrested in London, there was none of this fanfare,” Max said.
“When I was arrested in Rome they didn’t even take me to the station house.” Natasha pressed his fingers tightly.
“Actually, I think this is one of your classier arrests. It’s the snazzy uniforms.”
“I’ll bet the holsters are from Dior.” They were led into a small waiting room. There was a worn oak bench, two straight-backed wooden chairs, and a standing ashtray that was overfilled with cigarette butts. “Maison et Jardin all the way,” Natasha said, sitting down.
