Gourmet Detective (33 page)

A murmur ran around the room. Every member of the Circle felt themselves affected.

“What else did the man say?”

“He described mice being found in the kitchen, failure to order supplies properly, not keeping records…”

The murmurs grew louder.

“What did you do, Mr St Leger?” The inspector's sharp tone reduced the murmurs to silence.

“I asked why the person was calling me. He said the public should know they were being taken advantage of—he said they should be made aware of unreasonable profits, unsanitary kitchens, callous practices. He said he had always admired my television programmes and thought I was the right person to do something about it.”

“And what did you do?”

St Leger rubbed his chin in what would have been embarrassment if he hadn't been a television performer.

“I—er, talked to one or two people at the studio but they said that scheduling pressures meant they couldn't give me another show just then.”

“So what did you do?” prompted Hemingway.

“I talked to IJ. It sounded like the kind of thing he might be interested in developing.”

“Was he interested?”

“He said he had programmes lined up for six months—suggested I talk to him again then.”

“You accepted that?”

“I said that the story might be in other hands by that time. This was an immediate issue.”

“His reply?”

“He said there was nothing he could do.”

“And then?”

“The next thing I knew was that he was asking questions about the restaurant business, hiring people—freelances, to dig around.”

“You approached him again?”

“Yes. He said he'd changed his mind, was going to give it a top priority. From what he said, I was sure that the same man had phoned him—he seemed to know even more than I did.”

Over to my left, François half-rose to his feet then changed his mind and sat down again. Hemingway's strategy was clear—he wanted to get the opinions of all in the room on the statements they had all made to the police. Which of them would be in a position to contradict?

“What happened then?”

“He asked me if I wanted to help him.”

St Leger was clearly having a difficult time explaining what most of the room knew—that NTV wouldn't give him a programme of his own and he was forced to accept a demeaning and probably subservient role to the demanding IJ.

To his credit, the inspector didn't pursue the point. He switched his line of questioning.

“You agreed?”

Relieved, St Leger hurried to answer. “It was a good opportunity for me to get into the investigative side of television journalism.”

“So that you might eventually have the opportunity of replacing IJ?”

Aha, I thought. Now he's zero'ing in.

“Yes.” St Leger's relief tapered off as he realised the implications of what he was saying. “No, I didn't mean that … all my recent experience has been in TV, naturally I wanted to explore other styles—”

“Quite so.” The inspector was urbane. “You were also looking into other career opportunities, I believe?”

“Well, yes.” St Leger was less buoyant now. He sounded reluctant to go on but the inspector's silence was projected at him like a pressurising beam.

“I was approached by Larry Leopold—” St Leger's mention of the name seized everyone's attention immediately. “—it was concerning a chain of cooking schools. I had taught cooking on TV and Leopold said Le Trouquet d'Or wanted to sponsor a chain of schools all over the world, Europe, the U.S.A., Japan, Australia—”

François was really on his feet this time, shouting.

“I know nothing of this! I have never even considered cooking schools. This is not true!”

“It
is
true,” insisted St Leger.

“Then Leopold was acting entirely without my authority,” snapped François. “What proof do you have of this? A proposal? A contract? A business plan?”

“It—it was all verbal,” said St Leger weakly.

François sat down with a “I rest my case” gesture.

The inspector continued smoothly as if there had been no interruption.

“You had no suspicion at any time that Leopold was your anonymous caller?”

“No,” said St Leger defiantly. “None at all.”

“Thank you,” said the inspector. “You have been very helpful.”

I was disappointed. He was letting St Leger off the hook for the time being. But he was cunning—he would be back at him, I felt sure.

Benjamin Breakspear stood, his portly figure pushing his chair back.

“Inspector, is this getting us anywhere? You said you only had a few points to clear up. I trust that you have almost done so?”

“Almost,” nodded Hemingway. “Almost, Mr Breakspear.”

I would have bet a six course meal that he didn't think so at all. He went on, smooth as double cream.

“Mr Ellsburg Warrington. Can you help us now?”

A rumble of surprise. Heads turned.

The very tall, very lean figure rose and the grey head towered as he faced Hemingway.

“What can I tell you, Inspector?” Surprise showed in his voice.

“Sergeant Fletcher—” Hemingway called and Winsome Winnie rose, delectable as chocolate fudge cake with Chantilly cream.

“I have a statement here,” she said in a clear, almost girlish voice, “which, summarised, states that an agreement was prepared whereby Le Trouquet d'Or would supply an extensive range of gourmet foods to the Warrington chain of supermarkets.”

She sat demurely.

“Absurd!” boomed Ellsburg Warrington. He might be old but there was nothing aged about his voice. It reverberated through the room. “Absolutely absurd! We have agreed no such thing.”

A few rows from him, François was on his feet too.

“Inspector, this is nonsense! I know nothing about any such plan either!”

Both were ready to go on. Both were glaring at each other but the inspector calmed them down.

“Please, gentlemen … we're making excellent progress here. May I ask you both to sit down so that we can conclude?”

The two glowered at each other a moment longer then they both sat reluctantly.

“Thank you,” said the inspector politely. “Perhaps Mr Tarquin Warrington can clear up this question?”

A few sharp intakes of breath punctuated the quiet of the banquet room. Heads turned to look at Tarquin Warrington, sitting some distance from his father. The quiet persisted, an uneasy interval which awaited the first voice to break it.

“We had a couple of casual conversations.” The words seemed squeezed out of him. His voice was hoarse. He drank some water, didn't stand up. “There appeared to be some advantages in such an idea that we wanted to assess before going further—”

François was on his feet again. “I didn't take part in any such talks! I know nothing about such a plan!”

“Mr Warrington—?” The inspector's silky voice was inviting but had a needle point to it.

“The talks were with Larry Leopold,” Tarquin Warrington said.

“Without my knowledge!” snapped François.

“I didn't know that,” Warrington insisted.

“It's easy to blame a dead man,” retorted François.

“Now that we've clarified that matter,” went on Hemingway, “we can move on.”

No wonder he was almost cheerful. He was getting all kinds of help, even if much of it was unwilling. He looked around the room. Who was he going to settle on?

“Miss Sally Aldridge,” he called out. “How can you help our investigation?”

Sally remained seated. She toyed with her wine glass. She looked up at Hemingway then back at her wine glass.

“You were approached too, weren't you, Miss Aldridge?”

She glanced up at him finally.

“This may affect my work in a way that—”

The inspector didn't let her finish.

“I don't believe so. If it did happen, I would regret it. Nevertheless, I still intend to follow up this point. Let me remind you that two men are dead, both under abnormal circumstances—” his tone was hardening “—and I intend to continue this investigation until we have a full explanation.”

He eased up, playing the game like an expert fisherman.

“Now please tell us what happened.”

Sally gave a small sigh of resignation. “I began a book which I planned on calling
Secrets of the Great London Chefs.”
She glanced in the direction of Nelda Darvey. “Then I heard that a certain female journalist was preparing a newspaper series on the same subject—”

“Nothing of the kind!” called Nelda loudly. “Besides, my work isn't so flimsy that it's that easily affected.”

A few chuckles sounded. Many knew of the vendetta between the two of them.

Nelda was continuing. “—And my series is quite different. It's on London's Great Restaurants.” She turned an accusing stare on Sally. “I thought that was your title too.”

“I don't believe it” blurted Sally. “You were—”

“Ladies!” There were a few titters at the mild reproof in Hemingway's voice, especially as he neatly avoided any hint of sarcasm. “At least we've accomplished one worthwhile objective today. We've sorted out the misunderstanding between you. Would you continue, Miss Aldridge?”

Sally tossed another blistering glare in Nelda's direction for face-saving purposes and went on.

“I talked to Raymond and François and got some information from both of them. After a conversation with François, Larry Leopold took me aside and asked me various questions about printing, publishing and so on. We chatted and then he invited me to lunch. He proposed the idea of a writing and publishing group as part of an expanded organisation, financed by Le Trouquet d'Or. He wanted me to direct such a group.”

Up popped François again. “I know nothing of this either!” he protested furiously. “Inspector, this is going too far! I must ask you—”

Hemingway held up a placating hand.

“Mr Duquesne, I agree. This has gone far enough. What have we learned so far?” He lifted his head to take in the rest of the great room.

“Combining Larry Leopold's confession with the statements we have heard, we know that he was trying to put Le Trouquet d'Or out of business so that he could then buy it. He intended to use it as leverage so that he could set up a vast food empire—a world-wide chain of cooking schools, a line of gourmet foods for sale in supermarkets, a printer and publisher of books on food, possibly others we have not yet uncovered.”

He had everyone's full attention now and he continued, slick as golden syrup.

“We have established that Larry Leopold was acting without Mr Duquesne's authority in all this for obvious reasons.

“We have also established that IJ became interested in an exposé of Le Trouquet d'Or—and possibly other restaurants—but then he realised he had a much more explosive story, the illegal establishment of a vast food empire.”

He stopped, looked around the room. I knew him just well enough to know that he was spinning a web and waiting for someone to step into it. There was a barely audible gasp of expectation from several mouths.

“Well, go on, Inspector,” urged Ted Wells. “Leopold killed IJ. Is that what you're saying? The lamprey was poisoned—we know several others got minor doses. But why did IJ die?”

Inspector Hemingway had got the reaction he wanted for continuing.

“He arranged to have drinks before the Circle of Careme dinner. He confronted Leopold with evidence that established his guilt. Leopold had already put small amounts of the botulin in some of the lamprey—just enough to look like carelessness in preparation. Alarmed at finding that IJ was about to expose him, he put an additional dose into IJ's drink. He hoped it would look as if several people had got small doses and IJ an extra dose. Determined to be sure that it would be lethal, he overdid it.”

Maggie McNulty raised a hand. “But surely it was reckless of IJ to tell Leopold what he knew? Dangerous, even.”

“Mr St Leger has given me his opinion on that,” said the Inspector.

“I probably knew IJ as much as anyone did,” admitted St Leger. “He didn't need proof as much as the police would. His technique was to accuse—then let the accused defend themselves. It made a much better programme that way. He was a journalist first and an investigator second. With him, there was no searching for truth or justice—he was simply putting on a TV show.”

“How could you tell that some of the botulin was in the lamprey and some in a drink?” asked Nelda, scribbling furiously.

“It was the timing. The botulin takes at least an hour to kill. Less than thirty minutes elapsed from the start of the meal to the serving of the lamprey. At any time before the meal started, Leopold would have been having drinks with IJ in François' office.”

There was a lengthy pause. Hemingway didn't seem anxious to go on. There were one or two buzzes of low-level conversation then Raymond spoke up.

“Inspector, as you know there were some similar incidents at my restaurant… you haven't mentioned these.”

Hemingway addressed him with a nod.

“Thank you, Mr Lefebvre. There are just a couple more items and then we have all the answers we need. The point you make is one of them—” he paused. This casual manner of his was likely to have a juggernaut following close behind.

“Larry Leopold must have had an accomplice. We believe that Leopold was not satisfied with taking over control of Le Trouquet d'Or but he wanted to take over Raymond's Restaurant too.”

More gasps sounded. The air trembled with expectation. So did I—Hemingway was going to expose St Leger, I was sure of it.

Raymond stood up. He was bulkier even than Benjamin Breakspear and his expansive face had that perpetual irritable look.

“You know who this accomplice is?” he asked.