Death with Blue Ribbon (3 page)

‘Where do they come from?'

‘Dublin Bay,' said Rolland.

‘Then why call them
scampi?
They're frozen, of course?'

‘Kept in the deep-freeze.'

‘I see. And a customer got a wrong ‘un. It could be that he did, you know. It would only take one to do it.'

‘Impossible!' said Rolland.

‘Not quite impossible. I'm not jumping to any conclusions,
Mr Rolland, but it is possible that one of those wretched prawns was deliberately “placed”.'

‘Oh God! You mean that one of the staff may have done it?'

‘I only said it was possible.'

‘But why? You don't mean that one of my employees may be working with Rivers?'

‘How can we be sure? From what you tell me you're up against something pretty formidable.'

‘Does that mean that you want to keep out of it?'

‘Not necessarily. Look here, Rolland, I can't pretend I've got much sympathy for you. I don't like pretentious restaurants and phony French food. If I investigate this thing it won't be to save your bacon. But I happen to detest blackmail and I believe there is a whole organisation here dedicated to it. I shouldn't be surprised if half the smart restaurants in London were paying out to these people. That will never do, you know. It will mean more expensive food, for one thing. I'd like to know a great deal more about it.'

‘You will come then? Can you come at once?'

‘Why?'

‘Because, by a most unfortunate coincidence (or perhaps the bastards knew), Imogen Marvell is coming down on Thursday.'

‘Who is Imogen Marvell?'

Rolland goggled.

‘You
don't know
who Imogen Marvell is? It's impossible! She's the greatest power in the world of gastronomy today.'

‘Why?'

‘She's the proprietor of
The Gourmet's Vade Mecum to the British Isles,
by far the most powerful of the guides. She leaves
Ronay and Postgate and the rest of them
standing.
She's the author of three coffee-table cookery books which have outsold Elizabeth David and Larousse. She opened the
Ma Façon
Restaurant in Chelsea three years ago and already there's a
Ma Façon
in Shepherd Market, Hampstead, Cheltenham, Bath and Tunbridge Wells, and she's opening them in Torremolinos and Ibiza. She's never
out
of the newspapers.'

‘And what does she know about food?'

‘Nothing,' snapped Rolland. ‘But she writes about it, and broadcasts, and is photographed with it in colour. I hear she's making a full-length film of her gastronomic life. Last month she did her first programme on television and eight million people watched her cook Lobster Thermidor
à ma façon.
She's a tycoon.'

‘What is she coming to your place for?'

‘It's her annual visit for the
Gourmet's Vade Mecum.
She has to be treated like Royalty. If anything goes wrong while she is there it will be the end of the Haute Cuisine.'

‘And you think I can prevent it?'

‘You have said it. You're my one chance.'

‘I can't prevent it, Rolland. I won't even undertake to try. If these men have got something planned for that day there is nothing I can do about it. What I will do is to come and stay at your pub and find out what I can. I won't accept your offer of free accommodation. I will take no responsibility at all. But I will come as an ordinary guest and perhaps, I can only say perhaps, I may help to break this thing up.'

‘That's something,' said Rolland.

‘It may take time. I can't promise you anything at all before Thursday when your visitor arrives. But I will come tomorrow.
All I ask is your authority to put any questions I like to anyone in the place.'

‘Certainly. Certainly.'

‘But I must warn you again that blackmail often leads to murder.'

Carolus had not noticed the entrance of Mrs Stick who had evidently caught the last words. She stared at Rolland with grim hostility as she set down the tray of drinks she carried.

‘Will there be anything more, sir?' she asked Carolus as though she was a warder asking the last wishes of a man in the condemned cell.

‘Thank you, Mrs Stick.' He looked at Rolland as though to enquire what his movements might be. ‘A drink?' he asked.

‘No thanks. I shall have to be getting back in a minute,' said Rolland.

‘You must have a drink first.' He turned to Mrs Stick. ‘I shall be out to dinner,' he said.

It was a subterfuge to prevent Rolland from staying on too long but Mrs Stick was disappointed.

‘You didn't tell me, sir, and I was going to give you some nice foy dag no panny,' she said reproachfully, ‘with free tots den dives.'

‘Sounds delicious. We must have that another time. By the way, I'm going away tomorrow, Mrs Stick. I shall be staying at Mr Rolland's hotel, the Fleur-de-Lys at Farringforth.'

Mrs Stick could repress her anxiety no longer.

‘I couldn't help but catch what you were saying when I came in,' she said.

‘What was that, Mrs Stick? Oh yes, murder. I was just telling Mr Rolland that circumstances sometimes lead to it.'

‘They do if
you
have anything to do with it,' said Mrs Stick
ferociously. ‘I knew as soon as this gentleman came to the door what it would mean.'

‘Really, Mrs Stick.'

‘Well so long as they don't start coming here.'

‘Who?'

‘Murderers and policemen and that. Mr Gorringer phoned to say he'd be over in a few minutes.' She went out.

This announcement seemed to stir Rolland. He stood up and said: ‘I shall see you tomorrow then?'

‘Yes. Before lunch.'

Rolland hesitated. Carolus thought he was going to make another reference to fees, but no, he wanted to ask a question.

‘What did she mean?' he queried thoughtfully.

‘Mrs Stick?'

‘Yes. That rigmarole of strange words. What on earth did she mean?'

‘Just what she said,' replied Carolus staunchly.
Foie d'agneau pané. Fritots d'endives.
She has her own method of pronunciation. Like Rolland for Rowlands. Or Antoine for Tony Brown. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Carolus, settled snugly into his favourite chair with his whisky-and-soda beside him, was resigned to the imminent arrival of his headmaster.

Mr Gorringer was a large man with vast ears like hairy flappers and protuberant eyes. He enjoyed the pomp of headmastership, the weighty pronouncements in cliché-ridden prose, the awe in which he believed he was held by his assistants. His life was passed to the band music of his own illusions. He believed he was a figure of consequence in the world, that his wife was a woman of wit, that his school was a famous institution. Only Carolus with his easy flippancy sometimes disturbed his ponderous self-satisfaction. Yet the two men, for different reasons, enjoyed one another's company; Carolus because the headmaster's dialogue and passion for drama delighted him, Mr Gorringer because he secretly enjoyed his occasional part in Carolus's investigations.

He entered, wearing an enormous greatcoat with a fur collar of which Mrs Stick had failed to relieve him in the hall.

‘Ah, Deene!' he greeted Carolus heartily. ‘January has certainly come in with a cold blast. Mrs Gorringer with one of her happier witticisms, yesterday wished me a
frappé
New Year.'

‘Hullo, headmaster. Chuck your coat down there and have a drink.'

With a reproachful glance at Carolus, Mr Gorringer carefully laid his coat across a chair.

‘I shall not refuse a little, the merest
soupçon
of whisky,' he announced. Then more solemnly added, ‘I had intended to consult you on another matter connected with our syllabus for next term but as I entered, your excellent Mrs Stick whispered in my ear what appeared to be a warning. I gather you are contemplating or already engaged in some activity connected with your unfortunate
penchant
for criminal investigation.'

‘What on earth did she say?'

‘Her actual words, well meant, no doubt, were scarcely well-chosen. Forgetting my position as your headmaster she spoke as though there was a kind of conspiracy between us. “He's up to something” was what she whispered. I made no reply of course, but I could not but conclude that she alluded to one of these unfortunate criminological diversions of yours.'

‘Quite right, headmaster. I leave tomorrow for Farringforth.'

‘Indeed? Not murder, I trust?'

‘Not yet,' said Carolus. ‘Blackmail. The protection racket.'

Mr Gorringer joined the tips of his fingers.

‘I am not so ignorant of the world beyond the confines of our educational backwater that I have failed to see films, originating in the United States of America, which portray those engaged in such activities. But in England, Deene? In this later half of the twentieth century? You can scarcely be serious.'

‘Why not? There's plenty of scope in the affluent society.'

‘You surely don't intend to involve yourself in anything so
squalid? The investigation of murder I have come, most unwillingly, to accept as a form of recreation in which you indulge during your spare time. But blackmail! It is a most unsuitable preoccupation for a scholar and a gentleman.'

‘I have never claimed to be either.'

‘You are,' pronounced Mr Gorringer, ‘the senior history master at the Queen's School, Newminster. That surely is sufficient.'

Carolus longed to voice a pluralised monosyllable popular during his service in the army, but said only, ‘Oh rubbish. I'm a very inquisitive man, that's all.'

Mr Gorringer rose.

‘You offend me, Deene. If your position in the school which I have the honour to direct means so little to you that you describe it as “rubbish” I feel I should take my leave.' As though anticipating a protest from Carolus he continued: ‘No. No. I am in earnest. The syllabus shall wait until you are in a state of mind to realise its importance.'

Carolus stood up to help him on with his coat, which was not what Mr Gorringer intended.

He turned in the doorway.

‘I leave you with some misgivings, Deene. I trust that before we reassemble for the Michaelmas term I shall find you with a better appreciation of the importance of your scholastic duties and free, at least temporarily, of your obsession—yes, sir, obsession—with matters far better left to our excellent police force.'

He strode out and Carolus smiling gently poured himself another drink.

Next day he arrived at the Fleur-de-Lys at Farringforth just as Gloria Gee had taken up her position behind the bar of the
Georgian Lounge. Without seeking Rolland he had entered this carpeted room at once.

Gloria exhibited an expanse of bosom as smooth and tempting as a pink silk cushion. Her hair had an artificial gold sheen, her eyelashes were too long and her ear-rings too heavy—she seemed to have a deplorable tendency to overdo things.

‘Goo-ood mor
-ning,'
she called musically, giving Carolus her wide professional smile. ‘You're early, aren't you?'

‘Used to getting up early in my job,' said Carolus.

‘Are you?' She leaned over the bar. ‘Let me guess what that is. Meelk Marketing Board? No? News agency? Press, perhaps? Or could it be feelms?'

‘Something of that sort,' said Carolus briefly, and realised that the idea of films had a magical effect on Gloria.

He ordered a whisky-and-soda and offered her a drink. Her movements had suddenly taken on an exaggerated gracefulness. She pivoted round to the bottles behind her and held a glass under the bottle measure with fingers delicately extended. Her smile was in slow-motion.

‘I'm sure I've seen your face. I expect I ought to know it at once,' she said roguishly to Carolus.

‘Not very likely. I'm not a star.'

‘Really? Perhaps you direct. I adore the films.'

‘You wouldn't if you had to work in them.'

‘Oh, but I should. It's what I've always wanted. I have been told…'

‘What's wrong with your job here?'

Gloria looked petulant.

‘It's all right, I suppose. I
do
meet some interesting people. Tony Curtis came in the other day. But I
don't
think it's what I'm cut out for. Doo yew?'

Carolus appeared to examine her carefully.

‘Perhaps not.'

Through the door behind the bar a jolly red-faced man in a chef's white cap emerged, beaming.

‘Give us a Guinness, Glor,' he said.

Gloria became very dignified.

‘You're not supposed to come into the bar,' she said haughtily.

‘What's up with you this morning, sweetheart?'

‘Don't call me sweetheart. You can take your Guinness and go back to the kitchen, if you don't mind.'

‘Hark at you, Brigitte Bardot.'

Gloria flushed.

‘Will you
please
get out?'

The man seemed to realise for the first time that he was interrupting something. His smile faded.

‘No need to be nasty,' he said.

‘Well, then.'

‘I'll see you later. When you've got over it.'

He disappeared and Gloria turned to Carolus.

‘You see? They're so
common.'

‘Who was that?' asked Carolus.

‘Tom Bridger. He's the assistant
chef.
He's all right, I suppose. But I hate anyone talking like that. It's so silly. That's why I want to get out of here.' She looked fixedly at Carolus. ‘I shouldn't care what I did,' she added ambiguously.

‘He seemed a nice enough chap,' said Carolus.

‘Tom? He's not bad, I suppose, but he shouldn't presume.'

‘What's the
chef
like?'

This was not the sort of question Gloria wanted to encourage but she could not avoid answering.