by King, Peter
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 …
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1994 by Peter King
cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7793-5 (Mobi)
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