Gourmet Detective (28 page)

Raymond picked up his glass.

“Your very good health,” he toasted.

François did likewise.

“Long may it continue,” he murmured.

It was all very civilised—but macabre.

Even under those circumstances, I couldn't pass up the chance to drink one of the great champagnes though.

“Try one of these,” said François, pushing one of the trays towards me. It was piled with small delicate sandwiches of thin brown bread, slices of smoked salmon and heaped with caviare. I took one. It was delicious. The room was silent.

“You two seem to be getting along well,” I said as breezily as I was able. There was another silence then Raymond said:

“You probably think we've misled you—François and I.”

“Oh, not much,” I said, being as sarcastic as I could. “You're obviously two deadly rivals.” I waved a hand to the champagne, the trays of food and the mellow ambiance of the room.

François reached for another tray containing tiny open tarts of what looked like avocado and bacon. He took one, bit into it daintily and nudged the tray in my direction.

“Please,” he said. “Help yourself. These are very good.”

He settled back in the couch, wriggled to get comfortable and started to talk.

“Raymond and I worked together as apprentices in Paris. We were friends—not close—but we went out in the same groups and got to know each other. When the time came for us to get jobs, our apprenticeship over, I heard about one in a good Paris restaurant. I confided to Raymond that I was going to apply for it the next day. When I arrived, Raymond was already there in line ahead of me.”

Raymond did not look in the least perturbed. He sighed heavily and changed his position a little. He poured more champagne for all of us.

“I heard about the job from someone else after François had told me he was going for it,” Raymond said. “There was no reason why I should not apply too. There was only one vacancy in any case. The restaurant would hire who they wanted.”

“That's not so,” said François hotly. “You broke my confidence after I had told you about the job.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Raymond. “Jean-Claude told me about the job so I would have applied anyway.”

They glared at each other and the expression “daggers drawn” came into my mind. I looked around again but couldn't see the knife. Then Raymond chuckled and François joined in.

“Besides,” Raymond continued, “what about Le Calvet?”

“That was different,” François countered immediately. He glanced at me. “All right, here's what happened. Neither of us got the job we were talking about. We went our separate ways then—some, oh, two years later, I was working as sous-chef at Le Calvet on the Boulevard Saint Germain. I had developed a special dish that was very popular—Filets of Sole with Coquilles, Ginger and Garlic. It's very tricky for the garlic and ginger can overwhelm.

“One day, I heard that Chez Gramond, not far away in the sixth arrondisement, was serving the identical dish. I hurried over there and found Raymond. He was claiming credit for it! Can you believe that?”

“And why not?” asked Raymond, waving his hands energetically. “No dish is completely original. I took the basic ingredients of your dish—ordinary as it was—and made a culinary success out of it.”

“You stole it!” shouted François.

“I made of it a real dish—not an everyday fish fry!”

“You did not—you—”

Once again they glowered at each other and I was glad there was no knife in sight, ten inch or any other size.

Then they burst out laughing simultaneously.

“This happened several times after that,” Raymond said. “He took my finest creations and tried to copy them.”

“Me!” snorted François. “You—you stole from me!”

“I never stole,” said Raymond. “The most I ever did was simplify. Your extravagant dishes always needed simplification so customers could enjoy them.”

François shook his head firmly. “It was your peasant tastes that always cried out for a more imaginative touch.”

They both chuckled. François went to the cabinet and came back with another bottle of champagne. While he was opening it, Raymond pointed to the other tray. I took one of the tempting nibbles on it—chicken liver pâté with paper-thin slices of pepperoni sausage.

François poured. “When we were both full chefs,” he went on, “we continued our rivalry. When I came to London, Raymond followed me.”

“Nothing of the kind. I had contracted to come here before you even thought about it. I had to work out my contract. At least, I chose to—you would probably have just broken yours.”

François kept talking. “As chefs working in competitive restaurants, we kept up our rivalry. We criticised each other whenever an opportunity occurred and when a journalist came looking for a good story, I blew it up bigger than a balloon.”

“That appeared in a major magazine and was re-printed in others,” said Raymond. “Just after that, I was on television and added more fuel. The media were full of stories about these two combatants in cookery, bitter enemies since some mysterious incident in the past.”

“It was great for business,” said François. “Customers wanted to know what was our latest dish as if it were some new weapon in a tournament.”

Raymond's massive frame quivered and his usually doleful features eased into a smile.

I drank some more champagne.

“And Oiseau Royal was part of the duel,” I said, musing.

François looked startled.

“Oiseau Royal? What about it?”

I looked invitingly at Raymond. He was avoiding my eye by reaching for another slice of smoked salmon and caviare. He ate it and then reached for his champagne glass. I suddenly realised that François didn't know that his famous recipe could be duplicated—and by Raymond. I had put my foot in the ragout.

François was eyeing Raymond suspiciously.

“What about Oiseau Royal?” he demanded.

Raymond put down his glass with a slow studied movement. He gave me a steely glance which meant “Keep your mouth shut”.

“I told our Gourmet Detective friend here that I could cook Oiseau Royal,” he said. “If I wished,” he added carelessly.

“Ha!” barked François. “You couldn't even come close!”

“If I wanted,” said Raymond, “I could cook it better than you.”

François was sitting bolt upright.

“Tell me,” he challenged.

“Well,” said Raymond thoughtfully, “I'd use ortolans and I'd …” He was clever. He was a brilliant chef and as he talked, I could see his mind picking out the important parts of the preparation and the cooking. At the same time, he was skilfully discarding the items that he couldn't possibly have learned without my information, items like the honey from Crete and the rocambole from Valencia.

While Raymond expounded, François gradually relaxed, happy in the knowledge that his secret was secure. Some aspects of the cooking could be guessed by a good chef, he was thinking, but not even Raymond could reproduce authentic Oiseau Royal.

When Raymond had finished, François shrugged.

“I wouldn't order a dish like that myself,” he said. “It would be terrible.”

“Don't worry,” said Raymond. “I would never cook it for you.”

Their stares clashed like rapiers. Then they began to laugh.

François reached to refill the three glasses. We watched the foam effervesce to the tops and subside.

“Tell me about IJ,” I said brutally.

François drank then took another of the tiny tarts.

“It was one of the worst days of my life,” he said. He ate the tart, flicking away some crumbs. “The next worst was when I realised I was going to go out of business; There will be one more,” he added sadly. “That will be when I have to walk away from here.”

“That's not what I meant,” I said. I would start to feel sorry for him if I let him get away with this. “IJ's dead—probably murdered. What's the connection between his death and you losing your restaurant?”

“Murdered!” said François in a low voice.

“You're surprised?” I asked.

“It couldn't have been the lamprey. We were careful—we're always careful,” François said, half to himself.

“If it wasn't an accident or carelessness then it had to be murder,” I insisted. I looked from one to the other. “Who and why?”

François shook his head, said nothing.

I turned to Raymond.

“Then you must know about it.”

Raymond looked more melancholy than ever.

“Me?” he said, puzzled. “I know nothing. I have problems in my restaurant too.” He sighed and drank more champagne.

“A fine pair, you two,” I said, my voice rising. “You're both being put out of business—you say. A man's murdered by poisoned fish and you too are guzzling champagne and eating caviare. What are you celebrating?”

“We do this once a month,” François said.

“François told me when he hired you,” said Raymond. “I admit I was surprised—” He gave me a warning look. I didn't doubt he was surprised—he probably thought as I did at the time, that François had found out about my investigation into the preparation of Oiseau Royal.

Raymond was continuing “—but then when similar incidents started occurring in my restaurant, well, that's when I asked you to look into the matter for me.”

“Raymond told you that?” I asked François quickly.

François nodded. “Oh, yes, he told me.”

It was further confirmation that the two of them really were on good terms but did I need any more confirmation after the food, the champagne and the laughter?

They didn't tell each other everything though—François didn't know that Raymond had secured his secret recipe.

“What progress have you made?” Raymond asked me.

I could hardly tell him that I had cleverly figured out that he was the number one suspect.

“I expect it all to be cleared up in the next few days,” I said, trying to sound confident.

François' head jerked in my direction. Raymond didn't move a muscle.

“Really?” said François. “I hadn't expected to hear that.”

Raymond murmured something in agreement then leaned forward to ask me:

“Is there any information you can give us now?”

“No,” I said firmly. “In fact, I must be going, I've got to get on with the investigation…”

“At this time of night?” said François.

“Crime never sleeps.” Dashiell Hammett had said that once.

“Where are you going now?” Raymond asked curiously.

“We'll all know everything very soon,” I said evasively.

I rose. François and Raymond remained seated. I walked to the locked door.

“By the way,” I said, being as off-hand as I could. “There's a knife missing from the rack in the kitchen.”

There was silence.

“A knife?” François sounded perplexed.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” François' brow cleared. “Yes, it was broken yesterday.”

Raymond didn't look interested.

I stood there. François got up, came and unlocked the door.

“I can find my own way out,” I said, anxious to do so. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

I
N THE PEACE AND
quiet of the office next morning, I started to list all the reasons why Raymond was still suspect no. 1. There weren't enough to even convince me. I tried François on the same basis. I had to acquit him too.

They couldn't be sabotaging each other's restaurants in a continuing feud because the feud didn't exist. Could each be sabotaging his own restaurant? I was getting so far out in my theorising, I considered even that but it was too absurd.

And if Raymond and François were not sabotaging each other's restaurant then there appeared to be no connection with IJ that could have led to murder.

I needed a new suspect.

Roger St Leger moved to the head of the list.

He had a clear motive. He wanted IJ's programme and if the current rumours were correct, he was about to get it. Could he have poisoned the lamprey? He had visited the restaurant. True, he looked clean-cut and innocent but I was disregarding that.

The only other clues I had were the furtive way he handed that envelope to IJ at the Circle dinner and his denial of any knowledge as to what the envelope contained. I had also found him dead drunk and thought he was dead but I couldn't really hold that against him.

A fresh viewpoint was what I wanted. I read the post, tossed it all in the waste basket and went to Bookery Cooks.

An enticing smell of baking was in the air.

“Coffee cake with chopped apricots,” Molly said, greeting me. “Beats anything from Vienna. I'll bring you a slice with your coffee.”

Michael was on his knees. He had cleared a whole shelf corner and was re-stocking it.

“Throwing out all the diet books?” I asked.

“Good Lor' no—they sell too well. No, we're starting a new section of food for pets.”

“Putting them on the bottom shelf where the pets can see them?”

“Lots of new books coming out on feeding pets. They need vitamins and minerals the same as we do but sometimes they're different ones.”

He was placing books in alphabetical order on the shelves. He handed one to me. It was
The K-9 Cook Book.
It was full of good advice and I wondered if animals could become gourmets too.

In Michael's office, he listened attentively while I brought him up to date on Paula, Sally, Nelda, St Leger, Scarponi and finally last night's encounter with Raymond and François.

“What an exciting life you're leading!” he said admiringly. “Better than tracking down a new source for Birds' Nest Soup!”

I pointed to the cork board over his desk. On it, on three separate sheets, were the three inscriptions I had found on the board at NTV studios. Red lines ran through two of them. The inscription remaining read: “Dr F B4 CC”.