Death with Blue Ribbon (5 page)

He disappeared and Imogen approached Davy Paton.

‘Do you enjoy your work?' she asked.

Davy Paton, a cheerful-looking youth with a sprinkle of humorous freckles, grinned.

‘Enjoy it? Good Lord no. It's a frightful bind.'

‘You're not
interested
in cooking?'

‘I'm giving it a try. If it suits me, I'll go on. If not I'll take something else. D'you like it?'

Imogen Marvell smiled gaily and turned to two reporters.

‘An original, evidently. He has just asked
me
if I like cooking!'

She glanced towards Tom Bridger but seemed unwilling to chance her luck further.

Then Antoine returned in a white uniform and under the eye of a television camera the ceremony took place which would enchant several million viewers.

Carolus escaped to the Georgian Lounge and found Gloria Gee at her station.

‘Make it a double, Gloria,' he said.

‘Isn't she a scream?' said Gloria.

‘Your term is more apt than you know. A scream of sheer horror. I wonder where she comes from.'

‘Same as me, I shouldn't be surprised. Only she's Got On, hasn't she?'

‘She certainly has.'

‘Her chauffeur was in just now. I thought he was ever so nice. Dicky Biskett his name is. He says she's an old B.'

‘I don't think he exaggerates.'

‘He says she's married but hadn't seen her husband for years till he turned up about three months ago. He says he's a funny little man—nothing at all to look at. Well, that's often the way, isn't it? There's a sister, too, he says. She's very nice from what he told me. Not a bit the same style as Her.'

‘No?'

‘Not by what he says. She's a little dumpy woman who really does know about food and that. It seems She learned it all from her, to start with. Now her sister just manages one of the restaurants.'

‘You seem to have had quite a chat.'

‘Oh we did. Dicky was telling me…'

‘Dicky?'

‘Dicky Biskett. Her chauffeur. I was telling you about.'

‘Oh yes. And what was he telling you?'

‘About some of the stars she knows…'

They were interrupted by Rolland.

‘I want to speak to you,' he said in an urgent low voice. ‘I daren't ask you into the office. They would know I'd told you.'

‘Come up to my room, Number 8, in five minutes' time,' said Carolus, looking at his grey-tinted skin and agonised eyes.

Rolland went out.

‘Whatever's the matter with Mr Rolland?' asked Gloria. ‘I expect it's having Her here. She's enough to upset anyone, isn't she?'

Entering Carolus's room with a backward glance as though to see if he were followed, Rolland looked as though he was about to collapse.

‘They've come,' he said. ‘Rivers and the man he calls Razor Gray.'

‘You've seen them?'

‘Yes. They came in a big Jaguar.'

‘Did you get the registration number this time?'

‘Yes,' said Rolland and repeated it. ‘They're in the bar now. I know they going to make a scene at dinner.'

‘Surely that
is
a matter for the police? If you tell them what they've threatened? At least you can get support if you ask them to leave.'

‘I daren't!' said Rolland, a note of hysteria in his voice. ‘They'd kill me afterwards. What
am
I to do?'

‘Can you rely on your staff?'

‘No. You saw this afternoon how Antoine let me down. They're all like that.'

‘If you won't call the police and you can't get the help of your staff in ejecting them I don't see what you can do except let things take their course.'

‘There is one thing. I could pay.'

‘Yes. There is that.'

‘Do you advise me to?'

‘I can't advise you, Rolland. You must decide for yourself.'

‘I won't!' Rolland cried in a high-pitched voice. ‘I won't! They would want more and more till everything was gone.'

Carolus shrugged.

‘I see your point,' he admitted.

‘Can't
you
do anything?' asked Rolland, rounding on Carolus. ‘I came to you for help.'

‘I warned you that I could do nothing in this situation. I need time in which to observe these people.'

‘Oh God!' said Rolland and made for the door. But even now he remembered to be cautious in leaving the room.

When Carolus went down for dinner he was given a table next to that prepared for Imogen Marvell and her secretary. On the other side of it was a table already occupied by two men whom he easily recognised by description as Jimmie Rivers and Razor Gray; the one a beefy brute in a slick expensive suit, the other a taciturn individual less dressy but more dangerous in appearance.

Stefan came for his order. He was an immaculately dressed rather handsome man in his late forties and, in spite of his professional urbanity, Carolus saw that he was drunk. However he began to take his order with automatic politeness.

Carolus ordered an omelette and this produced a blurred protest from Stefan.

‘Arent'u go have the
scampi,
sir? Speshalty of the house.'

‘No, thank you.'

‘Don't blame you,' said Stefan unexpectedly. ‘Sick of the bloody things myself.' He pulled himself together. ‘I'll send the wine waiter, sir.'

He went away with the deliberate walk of a man controlling himself while intoxicated.

Molt the wine waiter was businesslike and brisk. Also approaching fifty he had greying hair and a plain English face. He took Carolus's order without comment.

Then Imogen Marvell made her entry. It was very splendid, more operatic than theatrical. She advanced to her allotted place with only one indicative gesture from Stefan as though she could not be mistaken about her table, or about anything else. Miss Trudge scurried after her and although Imogen
seemed to move with slow deliberation one had the impression that the secretary had to run to keep up with her.

Imogen Marvell sat down and gazed critically around her, examining the other diners as though they were film extras surrounding a star.

Stefan stood slightly behind her while she examined the menu so that she could not see his glazed eyes. But Miss Trudge could and they doubtless added to her anxieties. As Carolus watched he was startled to see Stefan give the secretary a smiling wink which threw Miss Trudge into a turmoil. She flushed to the colour of raw meat and nervously rearranged the silver in front of her.

‘Don't fidget, Maud,' said Imogen crisply. Then half turning to Stefan without looking up, she said, ‘I …' it was an emphatic and long-held monosyllable, ‘shall have the
Scampi à la Rolland.'

‘Yes, Miss Marvell,' said Stefan, writing or pretending to write.

‘And …' She paused before naming the other pretentious dish. ‘The
Canard au pamplemousse.'

‘And, madame?' said Stefan as though he had been waiting impatiently for the pleasure of taking Miss Trudge's order.

Miss Trudge flushed again.

‘Oh, anything for me.'

‘How many times have I told you, Maud, that is no way to treat good food? Or a good
maître d'hôtel,'
she added with a backward smile for Stefan. ‘Make up your mind, dear. We haven't got very much time.'

Miss Trudge fumbled wildly with the menu.

‘Sole?' she whispered.

‘Certainly, madame,' said Stefan. ‘Sole Royale Montceau. And perhaps
Cailles flambées aux raisins
to follow?'

Miss Trudge nodded hurriedly without realising that she had ordered an elaborate dish of quail which would bring Stefan to the table with a trolley. Perhaps Imogen Marvell did not either, for she made no comment.

But Miss Trudge never ate that quail for after swallowing several of her
scampi,
apparently with relish, Imogen Marvell turned a greenish white and rose uncertainly to her feet.

‘Trudge!' she cried. ‘Quick! I have been poisoned!'

The diners who were already aware of her identity now stared in wonder. Miss Marvell swayed for a moment then with no attempt at grace or even concealment was violently sick on the floor.

‘Call a doctor. Call the police,' she said in a strangled voice. ‘Call the proprietor! Disgraceful! I shall sue …'

She sat down violently and vomited again. Rolland hurried into the room, Stefan watched blearily and several customers made a hurried exit.

‘Scandalous! Abominable!' screeched Imogen Marvell, while Miss Trudge tried to hold her forehead.

Then the most horrifying comment of all was heard for Jimmie Rivers laughed, heartily and long, while Imogen Marvell was carried from the room.

Carolus had been more interested in Rivers and Razor Gray than in the scene at the next table. He had studied the faces of the men as though he meant never to forget a detail of them and followed their reaction to Imogen Marvell's distress. Carolus decided that this had been anticipated by the two, their curiosity aroused only by the form it might take. Perhaps if the famous gastronome had left the room without attracting any attention to herself they were prepared for another kind of action. But the melodrama of Imogen Marvell's departure had exceeded all their expectations.

Carolus left his table inconspicuously and went up to his room. If there had been observers they might have been surprised by the movements of one whom they supposed to be a respectable schoolmaster. He opened his suitcase and took out two souvenirs of the last war, one an American airman's windbreaker designed to give freedom of movement and warmth at the same time, and the other a Nazi souvenir, a genuine rubber truncheon which could render a man insensible without cracking his skull. He put on the windbreaker and concealed the truncheon in it before he left the room.

He went out to the car park and picked out the Jaguar designated by Rolland. He tried the handle and found it was unlocked. Nothing had been left on the seat.

Returning to the hotel he found Rolland.

‘Switch off the outside lights and keep them off,' he said.

Rolland looked at him tragically.

‘What does it matter now?' he asked.

‘It matters to me. And to you. Will you make sure the car park lights are left off?'

Rolland nodded and Carolus left him. Then quite unhurriedly he went out to the Jaguar and made himself as comfortable as possible on the floor behind the front seats.

It was not as foolhardy as it appeared. Carolus had noticed how infrequently anyone getting into a car bothers to examine the rear interior, especially when anxious to drive away quickly, and it would need quite careful scrutiny to discover him. He assumed that the car would make for London, a mere thirty miles away. It would be awkward, he owned, if it was to start on an all-night journey to Scotland or Cornwall for even if the two men left the car for a drink or anything else Carolus was determined to remain with it to its destination. This was the only way at present possible to discover more about them.

He calculated his chances of success at something like sixty per cent and knew that failure would be highly dangerous. But there it was. For his own satisfaction he had to do something.

The two men came out of the hotel sooner than Carolus anticipated. Perhaps they felt that their work had been so effectively done for them that they could make for home at once. As they approached the car Carolus heard Razor Gray say curtly ‘I'll drive' and knew what he had already suspected—that Gray was, between the two of them, the boss.

They did not speak as they opened doors on both sides and
got in simultaneously without, Carolus could safely deduce, a glance at the back seat of the car. The engine started and Carolus could no longer hear any conversation that may have passed between them.

They seemed to be an eternity in transit and the movements of the car, from where Carolus crouched, were nauseating. He guessed from the growing frequency with which they stopped at traffic lights that they were approaching London. Then there was a halt in which the engine was switched off and Carolus felt sure they had arrived.

‘Want me to come up?' asked Rivers.

‘No. I'll go. I shan't be long,' Razor replied, and the door slammed.

It was time for action and this would be brief. Carolus pulled out his truncheon. There was a sudden jerk of movement from Rivers—it was evident that he had seen something in the driving mirror—but before he could even turn his head Carolus brought the truncheon down on it and he slumped in his seat.

Carolus felt the pulse and it was beating, though Rivers was unconscious. He had time to dive into the man's breast pocket and remove his wallet. He had planned this because he believed it might contain information or some means of identifying Rivers under his own name. Then he followed the man Razor into the block of flats before which the car was standing. He was amused to think that people had been passing the car throughout this operation.

He saw the name Gaitskell Mansions as he entered the showy entrance hall. He was baffled. There was no sign of Razor Gray and the dial by the door of the lift showed that it was motionless on this floor. He made for the staircase.

‘Now, then, now then, where might you be going?'

Carolus turned to see a tall heavy individual with a large well-trained moustache. He was emerging from the concierge's cubby-hole and wore full uniform. Carolus crossed to him.

‘Did a man in a grey suit come in just now?'

The concierge whose name was Humbledon had learned in a life dedicated to the collection of gratuities that eager questions led to a sure source of revenue.

‘He might have,' he replied.

‘Do you know him?'

‘I might do,' said Mr Humbledon.

Carolus passed him a fiver.

‘What is his name?'

‘Ah, I don't know his
name,'
replied the porter, suggesting by his tone that he knew everything else. ‘Not his
name
I don't know. But I know him all right. Seen him often.'