Gourmet Detective (31 page)

“Is there something else?” I asked.

Hemingway looked negligent, as if he were trying to remember something. He didn't look the forgetful type.

“Oh, just one thing …” he murmured.

Was I right? Was he just a shade too casual?”

“The day after tomorrow, there's a special commemorative dinner for Per Larsson—acknowledging his exceptional services to the food and drink industry.”

I nodded. “I think I heard something about it.”

“I want you to be there,” said Hemingway.

My astonishment must have shown in my face. Hemingway went on smoothly.

“I said there were a few loose ends and they are all details that Circle of Careme members will be able to clarify. Sergeant Fletcher and her team have made sure that they will be present the day after tomorrow at the Lanchester Palace Hotel.”

“All of them?”

“All except for half a dozen overseas guests who were at Le Trouquet d'Or—yes, all of them. We have cleared those six, we'll ask a few questions of the others as soon as the dinner is over.”

My suspicions were justified.

“You're up to something, aren't you?”

Hemingway's eyebrows went up half a millimetre. Winnie's lips puckered in a half smile that disappeared just before Hemingway looked over at her.

“You're pulling a Nero Wolfe,” I challenged him. “Get all the suspects in one room—”

“No, no,” he said mildly. “Nothing like that.”

“Charlie Chan then. He was an Inspector of the Honolulu Police. A comparison with an official detective is better, isn't it?”

Hemingway seemed more suave and urbane than ever. He said:

“If I were ‘pulling anything'—as you put it—I would rather it be considered a Ronald Hemingway.”

“And just what are you going to do?”

“Get some answers. Clarify some unclear issues.”

“Uncover an accomplice?”

Hemingway shrugged.

“But the case is closed?” I persisted.

He pushed the file on his desk away from him in a dismissive gesture.

“As of this moment, the case is closed with Larry Leopold's suicide. I won't be working on it any more after Monday. I want it all to be neat and tidy when I hand this report in to the Commissioner.”

He gave me, what was for him, almost a smile.

“I'll see you on Monday at the Lanchester Palace. The sergeant will show you out.”

In the lift, I turned to Winnie.

“What's the cunning old fox up to?”

Winnie smiled.

“You're using that smile in place of answers,” I told her.

She chuckled. “I'm sorry our evening was disturbed. We'll have to make up for it.”

“Nothing would please me more. We'll do that. Now—what's he up to?”

We reached the lobby. It was quiet today except for four Africans who were engaged in an incomprehensible discussion.

“He doesn't tell me all,” said Winnie.

“But you can guess at the rest.”

She shook her head. “He's a very, very clever inspector. Besides, a lot depends on the forensic report he gets tomorrow.”

“You'll be there on Monday?”

“Of course.” She smiled again. “Wouldn't miss it for all the coffee in Brazil.”

T
HE GREAT ROOM AT
the Lanchester Palace had the reputation of being the biggest in Europe. Its original capacity was two thousand guests but in recent years the demand for such enormous functions had lessened. This led to the ingenious installation of removable partitions so that the room was divisible into three, each with all its own facilities and access to the kitchens.

For this occasion, the Circle of Careme had one of these rooms and already, it was nearly full. A hundred feet overhead, vaulted ceilings curved into ornate friezes while magnificent chandeliers illuminated the scene of splendour below. The panelled walls lent an old-world air which still blended with the crisp, modern efficiency of one of the world's finest restaurants. The Lanchester Palace had newer neighbours on Park Lane but none more prestigious.

I recognised many faces from the previous Circle of Careme occasion. At that time though, I had no way of knowing what a gruesome end the evening would have or I would have been much more alert to every face. I saw one character who must have been at the previous dinner but I hadn't noticed him. His laugh was as memorable as his face.

Eric Saunders owned a chain of shops known as “The Pastry Chef” and it was equally popular with caterers and with the retail public. Each of the shops operated as a small personal home-cooking unit but there were over twenty of them and Eric ran them with a firm hand.

Many attributed Eric's success to his knack of selecting the right people to run them. Perhaps that was true for Eric's own personality startled most of those meeting him for the first time. “Eric the Joker” was what many called him as his sense of humour was, to say the least, well-developed.

He hailed Gus Stapleton, whose seafood restaurant had an enviable reputation.

“Hey, Gus, still serving the Plankton Thermidor?”

Gus was difficult to ruffle. He grinned amiably.

“Haven't considered it yet. Still wondering about cod and chips.”

“Let me know when you do,” Eric called loudly. “If it's not better than your turbot, I won't be a customer.”

“You don't like our turbot?” asked Gus who should have known better. “When did you eat it last?”

“1968,” guffawed Eric and moved on in search of another victim.

Benjamin Breakspear was there, never one to miss a good opportunity to eat. He was regaling a small group as usual.

“Rabbit pie,” he was saying and the famous jowls quivered with salivatory reminiscence. “Rabbit pie—that's what I miss most from my childhood. Rich, savoury, nourishing—there's never been a dish to touch it.”

“Goulash,” said Mike Spitalny of The Bohemian Girl restaurant and always fond of an argument. “The greatest food in the world. I wish my restaurant could make it half as good as my mother used to.”

“Eat up, master Benjamin.” Breakspear's decades of film experience had taught him never to be up-staged. He went on as if Mad Mike were not there. “Eat up, my nanny used to say. Eat every mouthful, there's a good boy. And I was a good boy—as far as eating goes anyway. Seldom left a morsel. I got tapioca pudding if I promised to wash behind my ears. I had the fullest stomach and the cleanest ears in the country.”

I resumed my patrol. Hemingway had not contacted me further and I knew nothing more than he had told me in his office. I decided that all I could do was keep my eyes and ears open. Of course, I had done that on the previous occasion of the Circle dinner and the results of my vigilance were not happy ones. Still, without further instructions from the inspector, I didn't know what else to do.

The next group was getting profound. A man with a shock of white hair was saying, “The greatest villainies of history have been perpetrated by sober men—usually teetotallers. On the other hand, all the finest creations of man from the Song of Songs to Beethoven's Symphonies to the plays of Shakespeare to Crêpes Suzette and champagne have been given to humanity by men who recognised the value of alcohol.”

Sally Aldridge was just joining the group and a statement like that was all the stimulant she needed.

“Men and women,” she corrected loudly. “A woman was responsible for Crêpes Suzette and Madame Pol Roger was more influential in making champagne famous than that monk. If it had been left to him, it would never have been seen outside the cloisters.”

“Still claiming equality, Sally?” laughed another man.

“Certainly not,” said Sally. “Equality is a myth. Women are superior.”

“Ah,” said the man, “if only Adam had been able to control his urge for a bite of that apple.”

There were titters at that.

“Some theologists” said the man, “think that God is a woman.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Sally swiftly. “That's not possible. If she were, she would never have created man.”

“Have you seen that woman with that new wine programme on television?” someone was asking nearby.

“Oh, the one with the name—what is it—?”

“Francesca Amelia Waddesdon-Sandringham,” supplied another. “By the time they've finished introducing her, you can hear the fade-out music starting.”

Not far away, Eric Saunders was taunting Frankie Orlando.

“Still hiring the singing waiters, Frankie?”

“Ask Eric if he's still doing the catering for Lord Greystoke,” whispered a trouble-maker.

I strolled on through the thickening crowds. Everything was normal and jolly. If there were memories of the last Circle dinner, all the guests were pushing them to the back of their minds.

Maggie McNulty came up to me, resplendent in a blue gown of a wrong colour and uncertain fit. Fashion was not Maggie's thing.

“It's all solved then!” she said breathlessly. The gown was tight in the wrong places.

“So I believe,” I said.

“I saw it on TV just before I came here.”

“Ah,” I said, still giving nothing away.

“I'm glad it's all settled,” said Maggie. “Tonight would have been under a cloud otherwise.”

“True.”

“Are the drinks over here?” asked Maggie, getting back to essentials.

I pointed. As she left, I caught a snatch of conversation from a vociferous group. I moved that way to listen.

Ted Wells, the distinguished general manager of Stapleton's Seafood Restaurant, was engaged in defending himself. His attackers were led by Milton Marston, an occasional food-writer for
Private Eye
and renowned arguer. Also in the ring around him were Louis Deneuve, the head chef of Raymond's who gave me a nod of recognition and Tarquin Warrington who looked at me as if he thought I should be outside emptying the garbage.

“So why aren't you serving Orange Roughy?” demanded Tarquin Warrington.

“It's a designer fish. Quite out of keeping with the quality standards we have always maintained,” said Ted stoutly.

“Why do you say that?” asked another in the group.

“Every once in a while, some new fish comes along. If it didn't, someone would invent one. There was the monkfish, then there was St Pierre then Hoki—and now it's Orange Roughy.”

“You should jump at it,” said Marston. “It's all things to all diners. You can bake it, boil it, fry it, poach it, barbecue it—”

“But that's exactly what we don't want!” Ted Wells' voice rose half an octave. “Those attributes are fine for the home cook but they're not attractive to the restaurant. People eating out want to order dishes they can't get at home.”

“Awful looking thing too,” said a lady with bluish hair and very large glasses. “All those nasty teeth and those orange scales.”

Tarquin Warrington came back into the discussion.

“It doesn't bother people to see scorpion fish—we sell tons of them in our markets. Call them by other names, of course.”

“Why do you call it new?” asked the lady. “How can a fish be new?”

“It comes from New Zealand,” explained Ted Wells. “It was introduced into California and became very popular then it spread through the rest of the States. It's always existed but the marketing people in New Zealand didn't start to push it until recently.”

“You could sell it as bass,” suggested Tarquin Warrington. “It tastes like it and it's cheaper.”

Ted Wells turned a withering look in his direction.

“We have a reputation to uphold.”

“Tastes more like cod to me,” said Marston. “But then, like I said, it's all things to all diners.”

Across the room, I espied François. I made my way through the throng towards him.

His face was grim but he was putting on a good front.

“I can't believe it,” he said. “I would never have thought that Larry would betray me like that. Such treachery … ah ambition is a terrible force, is it not?”

“What about Le Trouquet d'Or?” I wanted to know. “You were concerned about being driven out of business but now the threat has been removed with Leopold's suicide. You must feel great relief—you can carry on.”

François gave a Gallic shrug.

“I don't know. This has all been so shocking. I am drained. Do I really want to go on in this business, I ask myself?”

“You shouldn't be influenced by what's happened,” I told him. “You have a fine restaurant, a strong following—”

“Alas, no longer so strong.”

“You can get it back.”

“Perhaps, I don't know. Anyway, we will see. Now then, you and I have a financial matter to settle…”

“Why don't we talk about it in a day or two?” I was even more uncertain about the outcome of tonight's proceedings than François was about his future.

He managed a weak smile and shook my hand.

A few of the Circle members, the upper circle so to speak, were unobtrusively shepherding the assembly towards seats. I found my nameplate—I was between Klaus Klingermann and a restaurateur from New Orleans, Sam Beauregard. Opposite were Leila Garrison from the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Fisheries, popularly known as MAFF; Vito Volcanini, the owner of Trevi and Nelda Darvey off to my right.

At a distant table, I could see Paula Jardine's coppery-red hair shimmering in the light of the chandeliers. I had caught a glimpse of Roger St Leger approaching a table not far away but I couldn't see him now. Craning my neck, I noticed Raymond—the saddest countenance in the room. Benjamin Breakspear's unmistakeable baritone was regaling his neighbours with a tale of eating strange foods while on location for one of his films made in Africa. I couldn't see him for he was somewhere behind me but from the scraps of his conversation, he was not improving their appetite.