Gourmet Detective (16 page)

I was startled. “More? How can there be more?”

Winnie consulted one of the sheets of paper from her plastic folder.

“You know that many shellfish and some other fish have a poisonous vein running down their back. It's removed when preparing the fish for cooking.”

“Yes.”

“That poison was found in IJ's stomach too. It's the type that's found in eels.”

“And lamprey is an eel.”

“Correct.”

She set the papers down on the table. I sat back and looked at her. Just for the moment, her blue eyes, red lips, blonde hair and neatly chiselled features didn't register. I was thinking only of the inevitable conclusion from what she was telling me. I hoped I was wrong.

“What does the Yard deduce from this?” I asked.

“The facts suggest sloppy preparation of food—”

“Not removing the poison veins thoroughly.”

“Yes—and bad housekeeping in having the lamprey around too long at room temperature before cooking.”

“In other words, the worst possible deductions as far as Le Trouquet d'Or is concerned.”

Winnie sighed. “I'm afraid so.”

“You have more to tell me—” I started to say and then waited until she said, “Yes, I—” then I held up a hand.

“I promised progress food-wise after the initial bad news.”

Winnie smiled enticingly. It was probably hunger pangs. I waved at the waiter and he arrived quickly with a tray. From it, he placed on the table two more of the house cocktails. “Compliments of Signor Luigi,” he said. He put down a tray of tiny bouchées, crisp-looking circles of pastry—“Gratinéed Shrimp,” he explained. From under the tray, he whipped two menus and placed them in our hands and laid a wine list on the table.

“Good service so far,” Winnie said. “Your friend George is determined to earn your approval and he's impressed it on the staff.”

“I hope he's impressed on them the need to give all their customers this kind of service,” I told her.

I was desperately anxious to hear what else Winnie had to say but I forced myself to study the menu. George was living up to his intention of blending Italian and French cuisine and the choice wasn't easy.

“How does it look?” I asked Winnie.

“I could ask for almost anything on here,” she murmured, still reading but after a couple more minutes she said, “I think I've decided.”

The waiter was hovering nearby and came over as soon as I looked up. Winnie ordered the Soufflé Stuffed with Crab followed by the Veal Sweetbreads. I ordered the Terrine of Salmon and Rascasse and the Leg of Lamb Provençale.

“I'll order the wine then you can tell me what's in the rest of that folder,” I said. “Do you have any preference?”

It has been my experience that women ask for white wine more often than red but Winnie surprised me.

“On this occasion, a full-bodied red,” she decided and I ordered a Gattinara. It is not perhaps quite as deep and strong as a Barolo but usually more subtle.

When the waiter had gone, I gave her my full attention which was not at all difficult.

“The other five people who complained of not feeling well at the dinner. What did you learn from them?”

“The Poison Unit at St Cyril's Hospital found small amounts of one or the other of the two bacteria in them.”

“Small amounts, you say?”

“0.1 to 0.25 International Units. The level of fatality is over 1.2.”

“And IJ had how much in him?”

“Over 3.5.”

We tasted the bouchées. I didn't remind Winnie that they were shrimp and she didn't comment. They were hot and very tasty—the shrimp in a mixture as near as I could tell of onions, curry, Tabasco and cream.

“I talked to Tarquin Warrington too.”

“Ah, yes. I wanted to ask you about him.”

“He said he didn't feel well after eating the lamprey. He left and went straight to his own doctor. Said he didn't want to make any fuss at the Circle.”

“Very laudable—if true.”

“Well, it was true as far as going to his doctor was concerned. The doctor verified it. The symptoms that Warrington described were consistent with Tintilinum botulinum.”

“Did the doctor diagnose it as that?”

“No. But then he wouldn't be able to without tests. He wanted Warrington to go to a hospital but he said he'd see if he felt better in the morning.”

“And he did?”

“Yes.”

“Is that probable?”

“Yes. He could have got a very minor dose.”

“Convenient,” I suggested.

Winnie stopped, a bouchée poised to enter her opened mouth.

“You suspect him of not telling the truth?”

“Not really. I suppose I'm prejudiced because he's so curt and rude.”

Winnie completed the eating of the bouchée and I enjoyed watching her enjoy it. The waiter arrived with the first course. Winnie said the soufflé was outstanding and my terrine was light, fresh and tangy.

The main course was just as good and the Gattinara was rich and powerful. I let Winnie reach the last of her sweetbreads before I asked the question:

“What are your next moves?”

She finished chewing, wiped her mouth daintily and asked:

“My next moves?”

“In the investigation.”

“Oh.” She cleaned her plate carefully. I like to see a girl enjoy her food. “We're checking now on IJ's relatives and friends. He doesn't seem to have anyone really close. We're talking to his co-workers but he didn't confide much there either. He wasn't popular though—and we're following up on that. We've talked to most of the guests at the Circle of Careme. Only two or three of those exchanged any conversation with him and they don't have anything useful to offer.”

“What about his neighbours at the table?” I asked.

“Nothing there either.”

“Did he eat the same as the other guests?”

“Oh yes. Just the same.”

“So it's odd how he ingested much more toxin?”

“It is.”

“No sign of any poison in any of the food other than the lamprey?”

“None at all.”

“The brandy … you've heard what happened when IJ recovered after being apparently dead? Someone handed him a glass of brandy and he drank it before the inspector could stop him.”

“Yes.” Winnie nodded, her expression wry. “Bizarre. We've heard several versions but they all amount to the same story.”

I leaned forward, interested in this point as I had been so close to it.

“The brandy glass … It dropped from IJ's fingers after he had emptied it. Then he died only minutes later. What happened to the glass?”

Winnie smiled. “The inspector slipped it into his pocket.”

I laughed. “The sly old dog!”

“He can be—he can be. No trace of any toxin on it though.”

“H'm,” was the best comment I could make.

The waiter poured the rest of the Gattinara. “Dessert?” I suggested.

“No, thanks. I yield once in a while but just coffee will be fine right now.” She flashed that wonderful smile again. “It was a superb meal.”

“I'll let you congratulate Luigi yourself. He'll appreciate that.”

“Before I do,” Winnie said, “I must ask you—what are your next moves?”

“Well, I thought we might—”

“In the investigation.”

“Ah—well, I've been thinking—and the more I do, the more I want to talk to Raymond.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Raymond?” she asked surprised.

“You've heard the stories of the feud between him and François?”

“Yes but what reason do you have for supposing that it goes any further than professional rivalry?”

“I don't have anything. Just a feeling—and I want to explore it.”

She considered for a second. “I don't see why not. It's certainly more relative to your investigation than ours. Let me know what you learn.”

We had coffee, authentic black Italian coffee from a machine which could be heard faintly as it gurgled and spluttered in the kitchen. Luigi came over to make sure that we had enjoyed the meal. We complimented him and I paid the bill. Winnie protested that we should go Dutch. I insisted on paying it and Winnie shrugged.

“All right but the next one's on me.”

“Does the Yard pick it up?”

She nodded. “Inspector Hemingway is very liberal regarding entertainment expenses.”

“He should be. After all, you are the Food Squad. Okay, I accept your offer. When and where?”

She pouted. “We'll be in touch.”

We walked outside. “Where do you live, Winnie?”

“Not far. Just over the Albert Bridge, opposite Battersea Park.”

“We'll take a cab—” and even as I said it, one came cruising past.

In the taxi, I said, “I've been so engrossed in all these details, I haven't even had the chance to ask you about yourself.”

“There'll be plenty of time.”

The cab lurched around Dolphin Square and on to Grosvenor Road where the lights of the Thames bridges glistened wetly in the evening mist. The turn threw her against me. She seemed to reach for the strap but must have missed it.

“Here we are,” she said what seemed like only seconds later.

We got out and Winnie held out a firm hand.

“We'll do it again soon.” Then she was gone.

T
HE FIRST THING I
did in the office next morning was to call Ben Beaumont, the president of the P.I.E.

“Remember the girl who gave us that talk on Quincy—how the medical examiner in real life compares with the one on TV?”

“Carol Dodson?”

“That's her. Do you have her phone number?”

“Not your type, old chap. Now I'd recommend—”

“Ben, they're all my type—but that's another problem. What I'm calling for is to ask if you have Carol's number.”

“Oh well,” he grumbled, “if you've made up your mind … just a minute.” He quickly produced two numbers and I thanked him and called the office number for Carol.

“Could you get me some non-confidential information?” I asked. “It's probably readily available in your lab files.” I knew that the forensic laboratory she worked in did jobs for official bodies and so should be well-equipped with data.

She agreed at once and I told her that I was looking for all she could tell me about Tintilinum botulinum. It would be no problem, she assured me and would call back in a couple of hours. “Oh, do you have a fax?” she asked. “In case there's quite a lot of it.” Helpful girl and I told her so.

“The IJ Case” as I found myself calling it might be occupying most of my thoughts but while I was in the office, I decided to catch up on some other business.

I skimmed through the fax's from Michael. He had sent statistics on snails to help me make up my mind what I wanted to do with that particular query. There were figures on world-wide production and consumption plus figures for France and elsewhere—the UK still had a long way to go in both.

On the subject of cobalt, not a lot was known. It is one of the active minerals in the body and is part of Vitamin B-12. It is essential for red blood cells like iron and is not a normal food supplement. It occurs naturally in meat, kidney, liver, shellfish and milk. Vegetarians are most likely to suffer from a deficiency. Too much of it might enlarge the thyroid gland.

I could hardly charge for that scanty information so I made a note to send it to the enquirer with compliments. The data Michael had provided on aluminium was, however, a different matter. Numerous powerful bodies and a few multi-national corporations were locked in the struggle here and major issues were involved. I don't mind the occasional participation in a good cause but it sounded as if I might emerge a loser in this one no matter what I decided. I drafted an answer declining.

Opening the post brought a few laughs. The first came from a letter which read:

“Could you please recommend a non-alcoholic wine for the wedding at St Richard-in-the-Marshes Church of our son, So-and-So and Miss Penelope Something. Both are ardent teetotallers.”

I drafted a reply for Mrs Shearer to send:

“I regret that I cannot recommend a non-alcoholic wine for consumption at a wedding.”

The next letter was interesting. I read:

“We are having a barbeque for two hundred people in the grounds of Graceworthy Manor. This will be a gala affair and all the guests are in or associated with the travel industry.

“We wish to serve wine and we are in a dilemma as to what this should be. If you will make suitable recommendations and if these meet with the majority approval of our guests, we will send you a case of one of those wines as token of our appreciation.”

A cheeky one—but I liked it!

The lazy drift of smoke, the sizzle of meat over hot coals and the satisfying sense of eating in the great outdoors … what a thrill!

Well, maybe to some people but not to me. My ancient tribal memories of eating around a blazing fire were apparently buried too deeply to be revived by the smell of charred pork, burned sausages or singed eyebrows.

Still, it was my opinion that was being sought not my participation. What could I tell them? It was a tricky question and depended on whether they intended grilling—which is fast or barbecuing—which is slow as well as the degree of smokiness to be induced by wood chips or water or fennel.

I would have to ask them about these points because they would affect the selection of the wines but in my mind, I was already turning over various possibilities. The frank taste of a Zinfandel would be good with beef, if it were to be grilled. A Brunello di Montalcino—an Italian wine becoming increasingly more popular—would be even better. A Gigondas or a Côtes du Rhone Villages or a Moulin à Vent would all go well with grilled meat.

If they were planning chicken then I would suggest a Chardonnay, a Pinot Gris or a Vernaccia, preferably one from San Gimignano. With lamb, red Bordeaux or a Cabernet Sauvignon whereas with pork … but I was getting carried away. And with a feast I wouldn't even be enjoying. All for a case of wine! Ah, well, it was fun and I made notes to ask several questions.