My father stared at Joanna quizzically. “Are you saying that the receipt may somehow be connected to the cryptographer’s disappearance?”
“Only if my assumption is correct.”
“Which is what, pray tell?”
“That the receipt belonged to Alistair Ainsworth and not to the Germans.”
14
The Secret Companion
We arrived at François at the latest possible hour, having wished to be amongst the last to dine and thus the last to leave. Our intention was succeeding nicely, for as the clock struck ten there were only two other tables occupied in the upscale restaurant. Near the window was a young couple signaling for more coffee, while an elderly gentleman at an adjacent table studied his bill.
“How shall we determine which of the waiters served Alistair Ainsworth?” I asked quietly.
“It is not the waiters but the maître d’ we should concern ourselves with,” Joanna whispered back. “He will know the most.”
My father asked, “And what will be the topic of your conversation? Obviously you must be somewhat circumspect for the maître d’ will be reluctant to share information on an aristocratic patron.”
“We shall talk of the excellent food at François,” Joanna replied.
“Which requires no exaggeration,” I interjected.
The dishes we had ordered—both the chicken cordon bleu and the coq au vin—were truly superb in every aspect, particularly when topped off by a delicious but far too expensive Chablis. The restaurant itself had a definite French feel to it, with its quaint tables upon which rested long, elegant candles that gave off gentle illumination. The low lighting seemed perfect for the engravings by Renoir and Monet that decorated the walls. Despite the charming atmosphere, our collective minds remained focused on Alistair Ainsworth and the fate that awaited him.
I asked Joanna in a whisper, “Why are you so convinced that it was Ainsworth and not the Germans who visited François on the day of his disappearance?”
“Because foreign agents do not dine at expensive, popular restaurants,” she replied. “Nor do they hold on to receipts for days and days. They immediately destroy all items that might leave a trail behind.”
“But Ainsworth may have dined here for lunch, long before he vanished,” I argued mildly.
Joanna shook her head at the notion. “Recall that Mary Ellington saw him at lunch with Roger Marlowe and Lady Jane Hamilton on that very day.”
“The same Roger Marlowe who was said to have had dinner with Ainsworth at Simpson’s-in-the Strand that evening,” I commented.
“The very same.”
“Strange business here,” my father remarked.
“Or quite revealing, if we can determine who Ainsworth had dinner with on that fateful night,” said Joanna.
“What is the evidence that he had company?”
“The scorched receipt, which listed two separate entrées.”
Over by the window, the elderly gentleman had paid his bill and was preparing to leave, while the young couple watched their coffee cups being replenished before returning to their deep conversation. The waiters began dousing the candles on unoccupied tables.
“Now,” Joanna said in an undertone and signaled to the maître d’. The tall, thin man, with a perfectly trimmed moustache, hurried to our table.
“Yes, madam,” said he.
“I must tell you that your food far exceeded our expectations,” Joanna lauded.
“Thank you, madam.”
“The chicken cordon bleu was superb.”
“As was the coq au vin,” I interjected.
With a half bow, the maître d’ stated, “Those are the two dishes most favored by our patrons.”
“Our good friend Alistair Ainsworth did not overstate when he called François the best French restaurant in all London,” Joanna remarked.
“Oh, Mr. Ainsworth is a true connoisseur, whom I had the pleasure of serving this past week.”
“Was he accompanied by our mutual friend Mr. Roger Marlowe, who also happens to be a connoisseur of French cuisine?”
“Oh no, madam. He brought along the same charming woman he always dines with.”
“Then the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?”
“Indeed. As you may know, Alistair Ainsworth is a lifelong bachelor and his family has feared he will remain so. But, as of late, some say he is attached to a most charming lady, which gives the family hope.”
“They did seem to enjoy one another’s company,” the maître d’ said, then lowering his voice, added, “as evidenced by their gaiety and touching of the hands.”
Joanna nodded, with a smile. “So they appeared to be romantically involved.”
The maître d’ nodded back. “They made no effort to hide their affection for each other.”
“Good show!” Joanna said approvingly. “Perhaps there is a wedding in the offing after all.”
“Perhaps, madam,” the maître d’ agreed, but hesitatingly so. “You should know that there is an obvious age difference, with Mr. Ainsworth being her senior by a good twenty years.”
Joanna shrugged indifferently. “In these days and times, that does not matter as much as it once did.”
“Happily so.”
“Well, enough of such talk, let us now turn to dessert and indulge ourselves with your crème brûlée.”
“An excellent choice.”
“And please ask your chef to stop by our table, so we can praise his delicious dishes.”
“With pleasure, madam.”
My father waited until the maître d’ was out of earshot, but still spoke in a quiet voice. “Well done, Joanna!”
“But we require more information on the woman, which I hope to gain from the chef,” said Joanna. “She is the key here.”
“How can the chef who spends all of his time in the kitchen be of assistance?” my father asked.
“Keep in mind that Alistair Ainsworth is a gourmet cook and a connoisseur of fine foods,” Joanna replied. “I can assure you he had more than a few conversations with the chef that almost certainly took place in the presence of the woman.”
“But, for the most part, they would have spoken of food.”
“As did I with the maître d’,” said Joanna, before uttering in a whisper, “Shhh! The chef approaches.”
The middle-aged man looked the part. Short and stout, he had a round, pleasant face that was accentuated by a traditional chef’s hat that rested low on his forehead.
“You wished to see me, madam?” he greeted.
“What I wish to do is inform you that your chicken cordon bleu was quite simply the best I have ever eaten. It was beyond superb.”
“Merci beaucoup, madame,” the chef said, with a half bow.
“Now as I have some knowledge of the makings of a chicken cordon bleu, one must ask if it is the type of cheese you use that allows for such a distinctive taste?”
“You are correct, madam,” the chef answered, with another half bow. “In most kitchens, the chicken is wrapped around Swiss cheese. We use a tasty, complex cheese that gives the bird a richer flavor.”
“But I would think one has to be careful here, for according to Alistair Ainsworth, if the cheese is too strong, it may dampen the flavor of the ham.”
“Not to worry, madam. If one uses a salty prosciutto, it will hold its own against any of the cheeses.”
“As I recall, I believe Alistair preferred a nicely smoked Polish ham.”
“Many gourmet cooks do, in that it blends so well with the cheese.”
“Particularly when a touch of Dijon mustard is added.”
“Aha! So Alistair shared the secret ingredient with you,” the chef said happily. “He is truly a gourmet cook, with whom I am delighted to trade recipes.”
“I am told that his female companion is also a connoisseur of French food.”
The chef uttered a dismissive sound. “She is not so well informed, madam. She dared to compare my v
eal cordon bleu to that of a restaurant in Heidelberg. Heidelberg, mind you!”
Joanna’s brow went up. “Is she German?”
“I do not think so,” the chef said, after a moment’s thought. “Her English is very good, and the restaurant in Heidelberg was one she had visited as a student some years ago. Perhaps it was there she acquired the bad habit of ordering a Riesling to go with the veal cordon bleu.”
“A poor match,” said Joanna.
“Indeed. A hearty Bordeaux Sauvignon is much preferred by most.”
“When we return then, we shall have the veal, with a fine Bordeaux that I trust you will help us select.”
“It would be my pleasure, madam,” the chef said, stepping away as the crème brûlée arrived.
We rode back to Baker Street in a motor taxi, for another storm was under way, with strong winds and a heavy downpour that threatened to flood the streets. No mention was made of our journey to François and our new but tantalizing clues, for we wished not to be overheard by our driver. Upon reaching our rooms, we changed into more comfortable attire and settled in front of a blazing fire to enjoy snifters of Napoleon brandy.
“I had no idea you were so familiar with French recipes,” my father remarked to Joanna.
“I had little such knowledge until this afternoon when I read several texts on the subject,” she replied. “When in a foreign land, you do well to speak their language. And in an upscale French restaurant, food is the singular, sacred language spoken.”
“But how did you determine they would be so familiar with Alistair Ainsworth?” I asked.
“That was fairly simple,” Joanna answered. “We learned from several sources that he is a gourmet cook, who even went to the bother of selecting his own birds for the oven. When such an individual visits a fine restaurant, you can bank on him visiting with the chef. You see, they both feel they belong to a rather select group, and are more than happy to chat with one another.”
“So you had to walk the fine line of knowing some but not too much about French recipes.”
“Everyone loves to converse about their particular area of expertise, and the chef at François was no exception. Of course he readily recognized his knowledge was superior to mine, which made him even more eager to discuss his dishes.” Joanna swirled the brandy in her snifter before taking another silent swallow. “But one must be careful and always cloak your questions with inquiries about food. Thus, when asked about Ainsworth’s companion’s knowledge of various French dishes, the chef was only too happy to tell us of her lack thereof, and the apparent German influence on her choice of wines.”
“Do you believe her to be German?” I asked at once.
“It was not possible to tell with certainty,” Joanna replied. “But I doubt very much that she was a visiting student who spent only a brief time in Germany. Such students have a limited income and do not frequent expensive restaurants in Heidelberg, nor do they order veal cordon bleu, which is always a high-priced item on the menu. And preferring a Riesling to go with the veal is a German taste and not an English one.”
“If she is German, how do we connect her to Ainsworth’s disappearance?” my father queried. “Could she in fact be a German spy?”
“Why not?” Joanna asked in return. “Spies come in all shapes, sizes, and genders. Moreover, I am always a bit suspicious when I see a match between a man and woman with a wide difference in their ages. Of course she could be attracted to older men or to his wealth and social status. But this does not explain his reluctance to introduce her to his sister and friends. He lies to his sister and informs her that he will be having dinner with Roger Marlowe, all the while sharing a clandestine dinner with the woman at François. Even Roger Marlowe lies for him.”
“Could it be that Ainsworth is ashamed of the age difference between the woman and himself?” I wondered.
“Unlikely,” Joanna said. “Most middle-aged men are delighted to be seen with much younger women. They consider it a sign of virility and charm.”
“Let us return to the premise that she may be a German spy,” I proposed. “What role could she play?”
“A guide as to what Ainsworth was doing at a given time,” Joanna answered. “Allow me to give you an example. On the evening of his disappearance, there was no certainty he would be visiting Ah Sing’s. Since they were dining together, one might assume they would be spending the entire evening together. But if the woman learned he was to later visit Ah Sing’s, she could have well notified the Germans once she left Ainsworth and the restaurant.”
“The agents could have been in a carriage a block away and never be seen.”
“Indeed.”
“But does that role not seem somewhat unlikely, with the obvious feelings of affection they had for one another?”
“I suspect their relationship was quite platonic.”
“Why so?”
“Because Alistair Ainsworth came home to his sister at night without fail.”
“So we are faced with yet another riddle within a riddle.”
“Which can only be unraveled if we know who the woman truly is,” my father remarked.
“And how do we accomplish that feat?” asked I.
“By learning why Alistair Ainsworth went to such lengths to hide their attachment,” Joanna said and, after finishing her brandy, retired for the evening.
15
A Coded Message
There was a mood of gloom at the Admiralty Club the following morning. It was now evident that Alistair Ainsworth had been broken and at least one of the deciphering mechanisms revealed.
“We must redouble our efforts,” Dunn beseeched all those gathered. “For it appears that our decoding system will shortly be entirely compromised, and at that point Ainsworth’s life will be ended and the fate of England put at great risk. The former would be unfortunate, the latter a disaster.”
“May I ask how you came to know that a deciphering mechanism had been broken?” Joanna asked.
Dunn hesitated at length before saying, “We intercepted a wire from German Naval Intelligence instructing their submarines to vacate their positions immediately. I shall leave it at that.”
“You must give me the details, Lieutenant,” Joanna insisted. “I need to know what the Germans know.”
“That information is so sensitive I cannot—”
“Oh, Bloody Christ!” Marlowe interrupted. “Tubby’s life is at stake here, and we have no time for your silly games. Either you provide her with the information or I shall.”
Dunn gave Marlowe a stern look as his face closed. It took a moment for him to regain his composure, and only then did he turn to Joanna. “You should keep in mind that what I am about to reveal is highly classified.”
“Get on with it,” Marlowe demanded.
“Last month,” Dunn began, “a coded message was sent to our fleet, warning that a number of German U-boats were spotted in the waters off Scotland’s Orkney Islands. We have a major naval installation in that area, and ships moving in and out would be prime targets for submerged U-boats.”
“I require the entire message,” Joanna said.
“Oh, I remember that one,” Montclair recalled. “There was a group of U-boats roaming about the innermost of the islands, which placed them near one of our critical harbors.”
“Was the particular island named?” Joanna asked.
Montclair closed his eyes, as if thinking back. “That was not mentioned. However, that would not be unusual since the Orkneys are an archipelago consisting of seventy islands, most of which are uninhabited and unnamed.”
“So now,” Dunn concluded, “our destroyers, which have been endlessly scouring these waters to hunt down the U-boats, will have been sent out on a meaningless mission. And those same U-boats are no doubt currently at an undisclosed location, waiting to inflict damage and death on us.”
“But no harm has been done yet,” Joanna said. “There were no ships sunk and no lives lost. Furthermore, the communiq
ué caused the Germans to withdraw their U-boats and now your critical harbor is safe.”
“Are you suggesting Ainsworth did us a favor?” Dunn asked sharply.
“I am suggesting that Alistair Ainsworth purposely selected this message for us to decipher,” Joanna replied.
“To what end?”
“The message was not of great strategic importance, but it gave the German agents a taste of things to come, thus ensuring that Ainsworth will be kept alive. In essence, I believe Ainsworth is simply buying time and hoping we will eventually come to his rescue.”
“That is a possibility,” Dunn agreed.
“Allow me to present another possibility,” Joanna continued. “Remember, Ainsworth is an accomplished chess master who thinks two or three steps ahead of his opponent. With this in mind, perhaps he is doing much more than simply buying time.”
A smile came to Mary Ellington’s face. “Tubby may be sending us a message within a message!”
“Precisely,” Joanna said. “That is why the exact wordage of the intercepted dispatch is so important.”
Dunn reached into his attaché case for a thick file and opened it. “The German communiqué reads as follows: ‘Three U-boats off innermost Orkney Islands discovered. Vacate area immediately.’”
All in the room went silent as we gave the matter long, concentrated thought and tried to decipher a code within a code. Marlowe and Mary Ellington jotted down the message, while Montclair closed his eyes and appeared to be summoning his memory bank. I wondered if we should consult with Sir David Shaw, the renowned codebreaker who might be of assistance here. But it was a certainty Dunn would not allow any further outsiders into the group.
“If it’s there, it is well hidden.” Mary Ellington broke the silence.
“Tubby would have it no other way,” Marlowe said. “He had to design a code that was impossible for the Germans to notice, which in turn makes it difficult for us to decipher.”
The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth Page 15
