Gourmet Detective (7 page)

So maybe the job wasn't as far out of my field as I had insisted. François was most likely right when he asserted that his beleaguered position could best be resolved by someone with an appropriate background and experience. It appealed to me though, I had to admit. Now that I had been more or less forced into it, I almost liked the thought—me, a private eye, a real one!

I had bought a bottle of tequila at the market, Sauza Blanco being a brand I particularly like. I poured some into the mixer then squeezed in the juice of three limes and added a few drops of Curaçao. I poured in a generous splash of tonic water to give it balance and a few bubbles. Somewhat removed from a classic margarita but I like it.

When the mixer motor finished buzzing, I put Ravel's
Bolero
on the CD player. Ravel described it as “a lewd piece” and marked it in very slow tempo. He was furious when Toscanini played it quite fast. So Ravel was wrong and every conductor has played it at the Toscanini tempo ever since. Played at a pulsating pace, its insistent beat makes it an exhilarating composition even if outraged Spanish musicians declared it alien to traditional folk dances.

Good cooking requires planning but you can't always plan meals. It can be a challenge to come up with a good meal at short notice and with little work. I had bought some shelled shrimp and I tossed them in a pan of clarified butter, added a fair amount of fresh ground pepper and some lemon juice. I cut a tomato in two, hollowed out each half and spooned the hot shrimp/butter mix into them. A generous sprinkle of chopped chives over them and into the refrigerator to chill.

One of my other purchases had been a filleted Dover sole. This is the name given to real sole to distinguish it from the other and inferior varieties. Its flesh is firm and tasty and it has the merit of being ideal for simple frying or grilling although on this occasion, I wanted to make it a little fancier. I buttered an oven dish, put in the fillet, covered it with a mixture of white wine and fish stock and added seasonings and a bouquet garni. I put it into the oven to bake and set the timer for fifteen minutes.

I finished the margarita then ate the shrimp and tomato. When the oven timer sounded, I took out the fillet, put the liquid in a pan with more white wine and some beurre manié then boiled it until the sauce thickened. I added my other purchase—some stoned green grapes and cooked until they were hot. Like the margarita, it was a departure from the original, in this case Sole Véronique. I had put on a few small potatoes to steam, they don't detract from the subtle taste of the sole.

A bottle of Bourgogne Hautes Côtes de Beaune 1988 was the wine I selected from the rack. I had been wanting to try it and a white Burgundy seldom disappoints. This one came through fresh and clean with a stronger finish than expected.

Bolero
lasted from the shrimp to the sole and with the last of the wine, I put on an Errol Garner disc for a complete change of pace. Searching the refrigerator, I found some crème brûlée that I had made a few days ago. That topped off the meal.

Meditating while Errol Garner's fingers slid over the keys was pleasant. What would tomorrow bring? A second visit to Le Trouquet d'Or was a prospect to enjoy especially under the present circumstances. I had only the most niggling of worries that I would be recognised as the dummy who had walked into the kitchen and wrecked a trayful of dishes. Hundreds of diners passed through the place every week. Surely they wouldn't remember one fat-head?

I had an early night and a dreamless sleep.

D
ISASTER ALMOST STRUCK WITHIN
five minutes of arriving at Le Trouquet d'Or. François had greeted me and we had talked for a few minutes. I suggested that in order to get to know the staff, each of them should take me around his own area and François had agreed. The first person I was introduced to was Henri Leclerc, the maître d'.

The moustachioed face examined me as we shook hands and I could see recognition dawning quickly. I told François I would talk to him later and he nodded and went back to his office.

“I am sorry, M'sieu, I did not know the other evening that you were helping us investigate these strange happenings,” Henri said apologetically. “Naturally, with these things going on…”

“I understand,” I said generously. “You were right to be suspicious.”

“Your head,” said Henri, “it is all right I hope?”

“Perfectly,” I assured him. I gave him a suitably conspiratorial nod. “And we will say no more of this matter, eh?”

“Certainly.”

“Not to anyone,” I pressed.

“Of course.”

That was one obstacle out of the way.

Henri lead me along a wood-panelled corridor with old menus framed on the walls. “This is Mr Leopold's office. He is general manager. He is not in yet.” He lead me a little further along. “This is an office used by our accountant. He comes in only occasionally. Anyone else uses it in the meantime. Come, we will go to the kitchens.”

Shiny metal gleamed everywhere. Oven fronts, pots, pans, blades shone brightly and glass and ceramic jars, bottles and containers sparkled under the bright kitchen lights.

“Our head chef, Mr Klingermann, will be here at any moment,” said Henri.

Even if he wasn't here to crack the whip, his staff was already hard at work. Two apprentice chefs were sorting vegetables for salad and another came through carrying a tray of meats. A kitchen helper was chopping pears and dropping them into a bowl of red wine. The air was still pristine with no aromas yet apparent. In a few hours, it would be heavy with luscious smells of sauces and spices, pungent with the flavours of condiments and seasonings.

We walked on through the dining and banquet rooms. They were silent and empty, awaiting their turn to be brought to glittering life. I looked around. There was not much to see but I wanted to get the feel of the place. A door slammed and Henri went to look. “Ah, here is Mr Klingermann. Come and I will introduce you.”

Klaus Klingermann was a big man with a bald head that looked polished and a jovial expression. He was Swiss, he told me proudly.

“I've heard your name, of course,” I told him. “Switzerland is fortunate to have two such fine chefs.”

He beamed. To be put alongside the legendary Fredy Girardet was the finest compliment I could pay him.

“You are going to help us find out the meaning behind these terrible things that are happening here?” Klaus' large face was almost pleading. “I love this restaurant. Who can be doing these things to us?”

I assured him I intended to find out. “Can you tell me anything about these events?” I asked. “Were you involved in any of them?”

“François has told you about them …? yes, the mice I can tell you about.” His jovial expression was gone. He looked almost ready to cry. “We found them in one of the cupboards in the kitchen … come, I will show you.” He did so, pulling open a door. “They were in here. But, I can tell you—someone put them in here. We have a clean kitchen here, a spotless kitchen. It is absolutely impossible to have mice.”

“Klaus,” I said, “we both know that cockroaches and houseflies have been found in the kitchens of London hotels and restaurants. I appreciate the fact that you are proud of your kitchens but I have to be critical. How can you be really sure—” He stopped me with an upraised hand and looked around. “Tommy, over here a minute.”

A youth of about eighteen with a thin Cockney face put down his knife and walked across. “Tommy is responsible for the cleaning and storage of these cupboards. Tommy, you remember the mouse incident? Tell this gentleman about it.”

Tommy scratched his ear, mildly embarrassed by the attention.

“I cleaned out them cupboards just the day before the inspector was due,” he said in a strong East End accent.

“How often do you do that?” I asked.

“Once a month. I 'appened to do it that day because we was changing things around—the way they was stored, I mean. So before puttin' all the new stuff in, I cleaned the cupboard out, cleaned it real good, I did.”

“And you saw no signs of any mice? Not even any droppings?”

His young face creased in a grin. “Mister, I know signs of mice when I see 'em. Lived in Barking, I did when I was a youngster.”

“West Ham supporter?” I hazarded.

He glowed. “Right! 'ow about last Saturday, eh? Four-one!” He caught Klaus Klingermann's eye then with cheerful Cockney cheek said, “The boss is an Arsenal supporter … yeh, well, I can tell you there was no signs of mice in that cupboard. None whatsoever.”

He sounded sincere but I had to push it a little further.

“Couldn't they have come through from another cupboard? A hole in the wall?”

Klaus cut in at once. “After the mice were discovered, I had that cupboard examined very carefully. It is not possible, no. Thank you, Tommy,” he said to the boy who went back to his counter. Klaus turned to me. “There is only one way mice could have been in that cupboard. Someone put them there.”

It was understandable that any chef, and particularly one of Klingermann's reputation, would want to distance himself from such a suggestion. On the other hand, there were the other incidents. Accusations against other restaurants had not put them out of business although one hotel's kitchens had been shut down for a while. Nevertheless, it was the general feeling in the trade that a one hundred per cent spotless kitchen was impossible.

One other point bothered me. “It's my understanding that inspectors don't announce visits in advance,” I said. “I can see that if someone wanted to show Le Trouquet d'Or in a bad light, they might plant mice when they knew an inspector was due. But how could they know?”

“It is usual for inspectors to turn up unannounced,” agreed Klaus. “The inspector for our area does not advise us when he is coming but he is a man of rigid schedule.” He smiled, back to his happy beam. “We mark him on our calendar and we know to within two or three days. One of the tricks, you might say.”

“So only a person familiar with the restaurant and its operation could have known of the visit?”

Klaus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I hadn't thought of it that way but yes I suppose so.”

“Do you think a competitor is behind all this?”

Klaus looked alarmed. “A competitor?”

“Yes. You are in a very competitive business.”

“But we are not gladiators in an arena!” Klaus was shocked. “We do not fight each other. Chefs, owners, proprietors—we are like a brotherly community, we help each other—”

“You have an enemy,” I said sternly, “who hates you. He isn't acting in a brotherly manner.”

Klaus shook his head sadly. “I wish I could say you are wrong but—” he sighed. “Alas not, you may be right.”

I decided to press home the advantage. “Can you suggest any competitors who might be this ruthless?”

“No.” Klaus was firm. “No, I cannot.”

“Isn't there anyone—anyone at all—with a grudge against François?”

“I am sure not,” he said emphatically.

“Isn't it true that he and Raymond have bitter feelings towards each other?”

“Raymond? Raymond Lefebvre?” Klaus looked alarmed at the idea. “They were friends once,” he admitted slowly. “I believe they worked together as young men. They had an argument—”

“About what?”

Klaus grinned. “A woman, I suppose—I mean, I have always assumed that. What else is important enough at that age to break up a friendship?”

I could think of other things but obviously Klaus had been brought up in a Gallic atmosphere of cooking despite his German-Swiss name and saw life through Latin eyes.

“Could that break-up have been so acrimonious that Raymond might want to ruin François?”

Klaus looked horrified. “After so many years?”

I could understand his scepticism, I felt the same way. But was that all? Had there been just an argument? What could it have been about?

“Perhaps there's more to it than just an argument over a woman.”

“What could there be?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “You can't suggest anything?”

“I work for François,” Klaus said proudly. “I am his head chef. You would expect me to be loyal—and I am. But I tell you I know nothing more. François never refers to Raymond, never.”

“Raymond is his closest competitor, isn't he?”

“One of three or four close competitors, I would say.”

“Does François ever refer to the others?”

“Well, of course …” His voice trailed away.

“But never Raymond?”

“Well, no.”

Miss Marple would probably have been able to make all kinds of deductions from that but I couldn't discern much that I didn't already know.

More staff had now come into the kitchen. One came up to Klaus and held out a dish. “Try this galantine,” he invited. Klaus tasted, savouring it. “Stuffing for a piece of sirloin,” he told me in an aside and tasted it again.

“Needs more salt,” he ordered. “M'm and maybe some fresh truffle peelings—but certainly more salt.”

“What's a Swiss chef doing in England?” I asked. “Wouldn't you rather be in France?”

“Not today. Ah, back in the thirties, yes. I would have given a lot to have been in Paris then. It was the time and place when food was most appreciated—paradise for a chef.” He laughed. “Why am I here, you ask? I am old-fashioned. I like the way people take their time here. It is essential for food—whether cooking it or eating it. I spent a year at ‘The Fenestre' in New York City.” He shivered. “Twenty-four clerks just to take reservations! Can you imagine! Purgatory—maybe worse. François rescued me and brought me here.”

“No wonder you're loyal,” I told him.

A tray of pastry went by on its way to an oven. Klaus stopped the man carrying it, scrutinised the load then nodded approval.