Gourmet Detective 01 - The Gourmet Detective

by King, Peter

  There was the usual number of requests and invitations that I didn’t want to accept and several offers that I couldn’t refuse. I refused them. Mrs Shearer answered at once when I called and she said she would come down and collect my typing. Usually, she sent one of the girls but she was burning with curiosity about my new status.

  She bustled in and I handed her the folder.

  “Is everything going all right?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “It’s a very perplexing affair,” I said solemnly. “But have no fear—we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Not dangerous, is it?” she breathed.

  “There are always risks involved in this kind of work.”

  As we went to the door, she asked in a hushed voice:

  “Have you ever been shot?”

  I regarded her briefly. “Do flesh wounds count?” I asked.

  We went out and I locked the door and headed for the stairs, leaving her standing there with the folder in her hand and an awed expression.

  I took the bus to Streatham and walked to Bookery Cooks. It was mid-morning and too early for the pretty and enthusiastic young cooks to be offering any food but they were at work, chopping and preparing. Michael took me into the office and called to Marita for a pot of coffee.

  “How’s the Great Detective today?”

  I outlined what had happened so far. He pushed his glasses back up into place every time they slid down.

  “Sounds like murder to me,” he commented when I finished. “And probably tied up with all those other events,” he said.

  “I’m beginning to think so too. The Yard are at the point of conceding that such a high level of poison—and in IJ only—is not very likely.”

  Michael nodded agreement.

  “An unpopular man—our TV star,” he said. “Nobody liked him but who disliked him enough to kill him? And why?”

  “You’re not the first with that observation. If he was killed though—then the comments he made while affected by the botulin may have a direct bearing on something he had found out.”

  “Something which someone at that dinner wanted kept silent,” added Michael. “But those other people absorbed some poison too. How does that fit in with IJ getting a deadly dose?”

  I took out my diary. “There may—just may—be a clue or two here.”

  Michael glowed. “I say, Holmes, this is exciting!”

  “Keep your smock on, doctor. Let’s see what any of this might mean—we’ll go through the Musgrave Ritual.”

  I copied from my diary on to a sheet of paper the inscriptions I had taken from the board at NTV studios. On further viewing, they didn’t look that promising but Michael’s ingenuity knows no limits and I watched as he studied the sheet.

  “Where did you find these?” he asked.

  I told him where and how. “So IJ did write them—we can be sure of that.”

  He read out the items, one by one.

  “Dr F—BF CC. VDZH St Armand—12, 9.30.”

  He read them out again, more slowly.

  “One of the fellows at the studio—knew IJ a little—said the last one was probably a payment to one of IJ’s informers.”

  “Whose initials are A.S.?”

  “Possibly.”

  Michael moved his finger to the first item.

  “Dr F? Who’s he?”

  “A mystery man so far. The doctor at the studios doesn’t have those initials nor does IJ’s private doctor.”

  “H’m, not much to follow up there.” Michael moved to the second item. “Maybe this is more promising.”

  “Go ahead, Mr Enigma, decipher.”

  “Nine thirty—sounds like a time. If it is, 12 may refer to a date.” He pulled a desk calendar closer. “Four days before IJ died!”

  “Good, Michael. And the rest? Is there a hospital called St Armand’s? Maybe that’s where our Dr F is!”

  He was already reaching for a hefty volume from his shelves of reference books. He thumbed through it. “No,” he said in disappointment. “No such hospital. It does sound like one though. Funny thing it seems vaguely familiar. Wonder where I’ve heard it?”

  “Heard what?” asked Molly coming in to the office with an arm-load of new books.

  “St Armand,” said Michael and spelled it.

  Molly shook her head. “No, I don’t—wait a minute! That insurance company …”

  “What insurance company?”

  “That real expensive one. Wanted to sell us a policy covering all our book shipments.”

  Michael frowned. “They weren’t called St Armand.”

  “They were on Armand Street.”

  Michael snapped his fingers. “You’re right!” He turned to the reference book shelf again and took down an Inner London Street Register. After a moment of page turning, he chortled with glee. “Here it is! St Armand Street—let’s see who’s on it…” and when he yelled “Aha!” it was so loud that Dorothy came from the kitchen to see what catastrophe had befallen.

  “Number 21!” Michael was beside himself with excitement. “VDZH Bank!” Before I could ask the obvious question, he was grabbing another mighty tome. “Here they are!” he announced triumphantly. “They’re a financial institution rather than a bank. Dutch—originally founded by a Van Der Zwet and a Henningsen. They furnish venture capital, offer investment advice to corporations and arrange mergers and acquisitions.” He looked up and his glasses slid all the way down his nose. “And—and they specialise in the food and drink industry!”

  “Well done!” I congratulated him.

  He scribbled down the address and phone number and handed them to me. I looked at the paper. “No time like the present,” I said. “May I use your phone?”

  A polite but distant female voice: “VDZH.”

  I gave my name. There was a frost-edged silence which said very plainly that she’d never heard of me.

  “I want to make an appointment with Mr Van Der Zwet or Mr Henningsen,” I told her.

  “That won’t be possible,” she said flatly.

  “In that case, who can I make an appointment with?”

  There was another silence but I could hear far-away clicks. When she came back, it was “May I ask what this is in connection with?”

  “Investment or possibly venture capital.”

  I hoped that was enough. I could add merger or acquisition if I was pushed.

  “Mr Broodman could see you a week from Monday—”

  “This is VDZH, isn’t it?” I asked, sounding incredulous.

  “Yes—”

  “This is an urgent matter. It won’t wait till a week from Monday.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t—”

  “Oh, I see. Maybe this is bigger than you wish to handle—well, that’s okay. Could you recommend a larger organisation? This really is too hot to wait.”

  Michael was grinning, listening to every word.

  “Just a moment,” said the girl and returned in seconds.

  “Mr Broodman could spare you a little time tomorrow afternoon.”

  I knew that one. She meant that if what I had to offer was worthwhile, I could stay for hours but if it wasn’t, the “little time” would be down to five minutes. Well, Mr Broodman wasn’t going to be overjoyed when he learned the real reason for my visit but that was tomorrow’s problem.

  “Two o’clock,” I suggested.

  “Two thirty,” said the girl, evidently used to having the last word.

  Michael grinned widely as I hung up.

  “And so, once again, our fearless investigator goes out into the world of petro-dollars and pro-forma invoices,” he said in his best Pathe newsreel voice. Then he became serious. “I wonder what their angle is? They sound snobby enough to be genuine.”

  “That’s what’s puzzling me too,” I admitted.

  “Think they’ll tell you anything? Banking people don’t top the list when it comes to being informative.”

  “I don’t know but I’m going to give it a try.�
�� I mentioned the request for data on the dinner given by The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo and told him I would be grateful for anything he had. I also asked him to keep working on the snail project.

  “At a hare’s pace,” he assured me.

  As we reached the door, he had another thought.

  “The mysterious Dr F couldn’t be one of the guests at the Circle of Careme dinner by any chance, could he?”

  I hadn’t considered that but I told Michael I would check the guest list.

  “There are some people who have a doctorate but don’t use the title especially if it’s not a medical degree,” he reminded me.

  “I’ll look into that,” I promised and headed for Raymond’s and lunch with Paula Jardine.

  The restaurant was almost full when I arrived. A table for two had been squeezed in though the neighbouring tables had been cleverly re-arranged to avoid crowding.

  The waiter brought me a Punt e Mes after I had declined offers of something stronger. More diners were coming in and the place was full when Paula joined me.

  She looked ravishing in a cream-coloured linen suit with chocolate piping at the collar and cuffs and it fitted her tall shapely figure perfectly. Three bangles that looked like antique gold clattered on one wrist but she wore no rings.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. Problems in the kitchen.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?” I said.

  “No, no. Some late deliveries but everything’s fine now.”

  Her lustrous coppery-red hair shone and the warm brown eyes were inviting. The waiter put down a glass of what appeared to be sherry. She raised it and looked at me over the rim.

  “Nice to have this opportunity to get to know you,” she said softly.

  “Delighted to be here,” I said and we clinked glasses.

  “I told Louis—Louis Deneuve, our head chef—what to bring us.” She flashed me a dazzling smile. “I hope that’s all right?”

  “Certainly,” I said. She was obviously a bossy lady but she would have to be to hold down such a responsible job at one of London’s finest restaurants.

  “Some men object to a woman ordering for them.”

  “Not me,” I told her. “Not when it’s a woman who knows the restaurant business as well as you obviously do.”

  “I’ve learned most of it from Raymond.”

  “An excellent teacher, I’m sure,” I said. “You didn’t have ambitions to follow him as a chef though?”

  She sipped her sherry appreciatively.

  “I graduated in Business Administration,” she said. “The business that interested me most was eating. Have you ever thought—it’s the one enjoyable activity that you can do three times a day?”

  “Well, perhaps there are others that—”

  “Every day?” she asked with a tiny smile.

  I drank some Punt e Mes. “You’re right.”

  “So food and drink had to be the business I wanted to go into. Think about it—growing in proportion with the population, getting more sophisticated and more demanding. Prodded by merchandising, expanded by the media, aided and abetted by technology. What a wonderful business!”

  “I like your enthusiasm,” I said. “So you joined your uncle.

  “No. I wanted to get started on my own—no nepotism. I worked for Branford Bakeries in sales and marketing then went on to restaurant administration. Raymond offered me a job as assistant general manager and when the general manager retired, I took his place.”

  “And you like the job,” I said. “That’s clear.”

  “Love it—but to come back to your question, it is strange that there aren’t more women chefs, don’t you think?”

  “I agree. Women are natural cooks—there should be more of them.”

  “Why do you think there aren’t?” she asked me.

  “Male prejudice,” I suggested.

  She tilted her head in a charming gesture of surprise.

  “I didn’t expect you to say that.”

  “Would you hire a woman chef?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Would Raymond? Or Louis?”

  She considered then said, “No, probably not.”

  The waiter came with the first course and terminated that discussion. It was one of the classic omelettes, Bourguignonne, with chopped snails, garlic and walnut. The wine waiter brought a glass of Meursault, not normally one of my favourite white wines. I find it occasionally thin and steely but this was a Domaine des Comtes Lafon, one of the best wines of the apellation. It was fresh and light but still assertively ripe and balanced. The garlic in the omelette was undetectable as a separate taste so there was no conflict with the wine.

  I congratulated her and she smiled delightfully. “I’ll tell Louis—he’ll be pleased.”

  As we finished the omelette, I asked her casually, “Have you been bombarded with questions from reporters these last few days?”

  She shook her head and the coppery hair shimmered. “We’ve had two or three but we haven’t been bombarded, no.” She regarded me seriously. “Why do you ask?”

  “I would have suspected the press would be reviving those tales about the feud.”

  As our plates were taken away, Paula reached for a roll. She hadn’t demonstrated any interest in bread until now and I wondered if it was to cover her hesitation in answering.

  “Feud?” She paused but continued, “the feud between Raymond and François, you mean?”

  “Yes. It’s bound to be revived by the media. It makes such a good story. It always did but now especially with the focus on Le Trouquet d’Or and the death of Ivor Jenkinson—the press must be about to trot it out again.”

  She pulled the bread roll apart with long fingers and exquisitely manicured finger-nails in a hot pink colour. She didn’t eat any though.

  “Surely there are other aspects of that awful business that should interest the press more than that old story.”

  “They’ll be digging out all they can. You can expect to have them here asking about it.” I wasn’t as convinced of that as I sounded but I was determined to get some details out of her.

  “It was a long time ago…” she said.

  “Some men have waited twenty years for revenge.”

  “Revenge!” Her brown eyes widened in alarm at the word. Then she shook her head and went on more calmly, “The media have their uses but if they try to develop a theory out of that, they’re wasting their time.”

  “You don’t believe François could be responsible for the incidents here?”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t think so. Why would he do such things?”

  “Retaliation maybe?”

  As soon as I had said it, I realised it was a mistake. I wasn’t supposed to be privy to any knowledge of what was happening at Le Trouquet d’Or. The careless question put me in a position that was going to be difficult to defend. Even Columbo wouldn’t have said that, dumb as he was.

  “Retaliation?” Paula said. “Retaliation for what?”

  I tried to look cool and calculating when all I was doing was searching for a good answer. Apparently it worked.

  “Ah,” said Paula, understanding. “The gossip about sloppiness at Le Trouquet d’Or.”

  “You know about it?” I changed my tone just in time from surprise to casual.

  “Stories of that kind spread fast in the restaurant business.”

  She eyed me carefully. “What have you heard?”

  “Same as you probably,” I said cheerfully. “So you think it’s sloppy housekeeping?”

  “Of course. All restaurants—even the very best—have to battle constantly to maintain standards. Why, even the—” She stopped and said gently, “you’re actually suggesting that it wasn’t sloppy housekeeping? Surely you don’t think that Raymond would—” Her eyes almost flashed sparks. “That’s absurd—I know him too well—he would never do anything like that!”

  The timely arrival of the waiter with the main course defused th
e situation. Paula sat silent. The wine waiter came and reverently displayed a bottle. She glanced at the label and nodded abstractedly. He uncorked the bottle, poured, she tasted and nodded again.

  By the time the waiters had departed, her mood had changed completely and she was her enchanting self again. She said brightly:

  “Beef en croute. We don’t often serve it but it’s one of Louis’ favourite creations. He loves to cook it.”

  “I can understand that. It’s a challenge to any chef.”

  The waiter had carved it at the table. Paula put slices on my plate then on her own. A potato dish I didn’t recognise was one which we served ourselves and there were tiny browned cèpes and baby carrots. The beef was succulent and fork-tender, the crust crisp but not too flakey. Layered pâté de foie gras and slivered truffles on top of the beef added to the exquisite flavour.

  “More congratulations to Louis,” I said. “He has set a new landmark in beef en croûte.”

  Paula smiled. “I’ll tell him. He loves compliments.”

  We ate in silence while the wine waiter poured a Romanee-Conti, one of the most brilliantly intense red wines of France. I strained to catch a glimpse of the label. It was a 1985, probably the best year of the decade.

  We both savoured the food and we were on the last few mouthfuls when Paula returned to the unfinished topic.

  “Raymond couldn’t have had anything to do with it. It’s ridiculous. You’ve met him—don’t you agree?”

  “From the little I know him, it’s unlikely, yes. But then you know him better, he’s your uncle.”

  “By marriage, as a matter of fact. But he’s still my uncle,” she said.

  “Then if Raymond isn’t responsible for the happenings at Le Trouquet d’Or—if the feud isn’t being carried to those lengths—who’s responsible for your cancelled order of tenderloin, the switching of the labels and the disappearance of the reservations book?”

  Her attention was being diverted even before I had finished. A few tables away, voices were being raised and a waiter appeared to be involved. Paula crumpled her napkin, threw it on the table and rose hurriedly.