Death with Blue Ribbon (6 page)

‘Who does he visit?'

‘I don't know whether you would say he visits anyone. Not to say
visit,
that is. He calls to consult Mr Montreith, like a good many others.'

‘Who is Mr Montreith?'

‘You don't know who Mr Montreith is? I can see you don't know much. Big solicitor. Handles a lot of important business. He has offices on the first floor and lives above them. He's had a staircase made to his flat.'

‘Is there another way out of here?' asked Carolus, who had been watching the car and thought he saw signs of movement.

‘Only the staff entrance. That gives on Wilsey Place.'

‘Show me it, would you?'

He knew it was useless to ask Humbledon for secrecy. Even Razor Gray as he came down in a few minutes would be told,
for a tenth of what Carolus had paid, that a man had followed him in and enquired about his movements, and though Humbledon would maintain that he had given no information Gray would read Humbledon at least as well as Carolus had done. The hope, so far as the future was concerned, was that Rivers had not seen enough of him in the driving mirror to recognise him, and that neither of them had reason to connect a man they may have seen dining in the restaurant with anyone at Gaitskell Mansions.

‘What street is the front of the building on?' asked Carolus as Humbledon took him to the staff entrance.

‘Attlee Avenue,' said Humbledon.

Only when he had walked to the corner and examined the plate giving the street's name did he realise that he was in Bayswater. He went to a phone box and called a Hire Service headquarters for a car to take him back to the Fleur-de-Lys.

Before turning in he left a note asking that copies of all the daily newspapers should be sent up to his room in the morning and after breakfast he lay in bed reading these. He was surprised to find what appeared to be a conspiracy among pressmen to report the incidents of yesterday with a certain slant.

Imogen Marvell had been given her full share of publicity, for she had so exposed her life to public view that details could not be withheld when she provided them, but in such a way that her collapse was the news, not the cause of it or the restaurant where it had happened. ‘In one of the restaurants most highly recommended in her
Gourmet's Vade Mecum,
Imogen Marvell …' were the opening words of one account, and short of a picture of her in the act of vomiting nothing was spared her of humiliation. The name of the Haute Cuisine was not mentioned but the woman whom one paper called ‘the
Grande Gourmette' being carried out of an eating house she had praised just after she had decorated the
chef
with the
cordon bleu
was shown in all its irony.

The explanation lay in the arrogance she had displayed in her dealings with the press. In order to explode this it had been necessary not to identify the place where her fall had been lest an action for libel might lie. Not that the dangerous words ‘food poisoning' were ever actually used. The implication was rather that Imogen had been hoist with her own petard.

This would bring small relief to Rolland, Carolus thought. He would still have to face her action for damages if evidence of food poisoning was discovered, and he would still be subject to the dilemma created by Rivers and those he represented. But Imogen Marvell would be enraged.

There was a knock at his door and a little sour-faced woman in an over-all came in with another newspaper. This, he guessed, was Mrs Boot the daily cleaner.

‘Here you are. Rolland wanted a read of it first.'

‘Thank you,' said Carolus.

‘That's just like him. Taking someone else's paper then sending me up all those stairs with it.'

‘I'm sorry,' returned Carolus vaguely.

‘They'll be the death of me, those stairs. Up and down them fifty times a day. And it's worse with Ur in number four.'

‘Do you mean Miss Marvell?' asked Carolus who did not suppose she was referring to the city of the Chaldees.

‘Yes. They've put her in there though she hadn't booked. She's making the most of it. I don't know why she wants to make a fuss about a little bit of a turn like that. No one's going to write about it in the papers if I bring up my dinner, are they?'

‘I suppose not.'

‘Her secretary's been up since eight o'clock telephoning all over the place for doctors and specialists and I don't know what-all. They say her sister has been sent for and her husband has decided to come down this morning. All for a bit of collywobbles. Makes you think, doesn't it?'

‘Yes,' Carolus admitted.

‘I've no use for anything like that,' went on Mrs Boot. ‘Not that it doesn't serve that Rolland right. This was a nice quiet pub before he came here. I used to work here in Mistr'an Misses Cheeseman's time and it was very different, I can tell you. No
chefs
and that with French names though they're no more French than what I am. As for that Stefan, as they call him, he's on the booze half the time.'

‘You don't seem to care for it much,' said Carolus.

‘Can you wonder? What with those two Arabians waiting to stick a knife in you any minute. They give me the creeps—I can tell you that. Did one of them bring your breakfast in this morning?'

‘Yes.'

‘There. I thought so. People don't like to wake up and find one of those creeping round the room. Then …' She paused for breath. ‘Then there's Bridger grinning all over his face. What
he
got to grin about I'd like to know, except that he's chasing after that Gloria Gee, as she calls herself. What you say about her, eh? Nice thing to have him waltzing up to her room every night, or so I'm told he does, and it wouldn't surprise me.'

‘Don't you approve of anyone, Mrs Boot?'

‘Eh? Well, I don't like those that say things behind your back, like Molt does. They call him a wine waiter. I'd like to
know what would have been said in Mistr'an Misses Cheeseman's time if anyone had called himself a wine-waiter. Not that
they
were much to write home about.
He
was caught with one of the girls they had working here and
she
had a nasty way of spying on anyone and writing D-U-S-T with her finger on anything there wasn't time to get round to.'

Carolus was determined to break this disapprobationary sequence.

‘What about young Davy Paton?' he asked.

‘What about him? Thinks too much of himself for my liking. Playing silly jokes half the time. He's another who talks. I've heard what he says about people. I always say if you can't say anything good about anyone don't say anything at all.'

‘Very wise.'

‘Well I must be getting on otherwise they'll think I don't do my work in the morning.'

She nodded unsmilingly and left Carolus to reconsider her information.

So Imogen was making the most of it. Carolus could imagine her having death-bed scenes and wondered if they would be televised.

He dressed and went downstairs and found Rolland.

‘You ought to be pleased,' he said.

‘Why?' asked Rolland.

‘The press haven't mentioned the name of your restaurant.'

‘What good will that do? She's going to sue me.'

‘Don't be too sure. It must depend on the medical evidence.'

‘Dr Jyves our local man couldn't find anything wrong with her. She raged like a lunatic, called him incompetent and ordered him out of the room. Now she has sent for a specialist.'

‘All the same, the first attack was half a failure.'

‘They'll soon do something else. Worse probably. I think I shall pay. It's scandalous but you don't seem able to do anything about it. I can't go on like this.'

‘I shouldn't do that,' said Carolus. He foresaw an end to the visits of Rivers and the rest and the collapse of his own efforts.

‘Why not? Yesterday you wouldn't advise me one way or the other. What makes you tell me not to pay it now?'

He was insistent, looking desperately for some hope.

‘I shouldn't. That's all. I can't say much but I have made a start. Hold out as long as you can.'

Rolland was not a fool. Sly, selfish, mean, but quite intelligent.

‘Play it off the cuff,' Carolus advised him. ‘With any luck they'll give you some breathing space. As for Imogen Marvell, whatever she ate…'

‘That's just it. She must have been given something. Who do you suppose…'

‘Whatever she ate she probably brought up when she vomited. The carpet was cleaned at once of course?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then I doubt if she can prove it was anything she had here.'

‘It must have been.'

‘Why? But I should take those
scampi
off the menu if I were you.'

‘I have,' said Rolland, tragically.

It was clear that Imogen Marvell intended to make her presence felt positively and at every moment of the day. Though reported by Miss Trudge to be remaining in bed ‘seriously ill' she succeeded in disturbing the routine of the Fleur-de-Lys and no one, from Antoine to Gloria Gee, was allowed to forget that there was a Very Important Invalid in number four.

Miss Trudge was everywhere. Because it disturbed Imogen to have the telephone in her room used, she hurried about looking distraught and carrying out Imogen's orders.

At ten o'clock arrived the first of those summoned from London to Imogen's bedside. This was her sister Grace Marvell. After a brief interview with the suffering woman, during which she was called elegantly ‘a clumsy cow', she was dismissed and came down to the bar for a reviver. Carolus fell into conversation with her.

She was a dumpy, jolly little woman who seemed quite unperturbed by her sister's bad temper and illness.

‘Nothing wrong with her,' she confided to Carolus. ‘Just tantrums that's all. But that silly old Trudge plays up to her.'

‘Miss Trudge is devoted to your sister?'

‘A dog-like devotion. Or bitch-like. I can't bear her. Flying
about as though she was on fire. Imogen attracts that type, I suppose.'

‘Do you share your sister's gastronomic interests, Miss Marvell?'

‘I taught her all she knows—which isn't much. It never struck me as important. I knew how to cook but so do millions of women. It took Imogen to turn the knowledge to money.'

‘I read a newspaper article of hers in which she spoke of your grandmother, the
Baronne,
from whom she learned the secrets, she said, of the
cuisine française
.'

Grace Marvell grinned.

‘Granny was a railway porter's wife who lived in Pimlico. All she could cook was kippers and spuds. It was a joke in the family.'

‘It must have been your maternal grandmother,' said Carolus kindly.

‘I believe
she
had been connected with catering—as a waitress,' chuckled Grace. ‘But Imogen never knew her. She was knocked down by a hansom cab in the Seven Sisters Road and was killed, before Imogen was born. They were both as English as I am and if either of them saw France it was on a day excursion to Boulogne. The
Baronne
is sheer fantasy. But she gets away with it, bless her. She's a phenomenon really.'

Miss Trudge rushed in.

‘Oh, Miss Marvell. I've been looking for you. Could you come at once, please? She's asking for you.'

‘Cool down, for goodness' sake. I'll come up when I've finished my drink.'

‘But she's asking for you!' cried poor Miss Trudge making the nervous movement called wringing the hands.

‘All right. All right. Go and tell her I'll be up presently.'

‘Oh, I couldn't do that. Won't you
please
come?'

Grace gave Carolus a grin and followed Miss Trudge from the bar.

‘It just shows, doesn't it?' commented Gloria.

‘It does.'

‘Dickie Biskett says those two hate each other now, though they were friendly enough till about three months ago. Jealous, I suppose.'

Yes, thought Carolus. For in spite of her way of discussing her sister one felt that Grace admired her success.

He saw no more of Grace till lunch-time but in the meantime became aware of a vague-looking elderly man who drifted about the Fleur-de-Lys like a stray cat. This, he learned from Gloria, was Imogen's husband. It was typical of him that no one saw him arrive, in fact no one remembered sending for him. He was just there.

Carolus was not very successful in conversation with him. He was courteous, even chatty, but made no reference to The Invalid and could not be led to discuss anything more personal than the weather, the news from Vietnam, the Government and so on. His name, Carolus learned, was Dudley Smithers. Marvell was a professional name which Grace had been obliged to adopt when Imogen became famous. The two sisters were born Grace and Emma Haskins.

‘You staying long?' Carolus asked Mr Smithers at the bar.

‘No. Not long,' he said. ‘It's bracing air down here, though, isn't it? I thought this morning what splendid air this is.'

‘You came down last night, perhaps?'

‘No. No. I do enjoy a day in the country. Blows the cobwebs away.'

Exasperated Carolus tried a direct attack.

‘How is Miss Marvell this morning?' he asked.

‘She's doing nicely,' said Mr Smithers. Then, chirpily he asked: ‘Are you staying in the hotel?'

Carolus, temporarily defeated, decided to retire.

In the hall he found a curious little scene in progress. An impressive-looking elderly man was speaking in a loud but cultured voice to Miss Trudge who with scarlet face positively writhed before him.

‘You told me on the telephone it was a case of life and death,' he said. ‘I've wasted an entire morning coming down here.'

‘Your fee will be paid, Sir Glynn,' said poor Miss Trudge reproachfully.