Gourmet Detective (17 page)

The rest were routine and not nearly as interesting. I took the notes to drop off with Mrs Shearer on the way out and ran into her outside the door.

“Off detecting again?” she asked with a conspiratorial wink. Since I had put her on twenty-four hour call, she had acted like … no, I couldn't call to mind a parallel. Hardly Dr Watson, certainly not Harriet Vane … Tuppence to my Tommy … or maybe Nipper or number one son from Honolulu? I gave up, handed her the notes.

“Not a word to anyone about this strange business, Mrs Shearer,” I said in a low voice and exited before she could reply.

I took the tube to Tottenham Court Road Station, walked down Charing Cross Road then turned before reaching Cambridge Circus. Even as in Dr Johnson's day, all human life was there. I managed to ignore some of it and went along Pagnell Street where the atmosphere improved as I came nearer to Raymond's Restaurant.

My arrival time was 11.15. I had planned that so it would be before opening time and I would have the opportunity to talk to him before the restaurant went to full action stations. I rattled the front door. A waiter just inside was moving chairs. He put one down long enough to wave negatively at me. I rattled again. He came to the door and through the glass made mouthing signs. I shook my head, pointed to myself then pointed inside.

The waiter made waving-off gestures with both hands as if he were on the deck of a carrier and I was an approaching aircraft coming in too low. I shook my head again and made meaningless motions but they held his attention. Finally, he unlocked the door and opened it almost two inches.

“We don't open until—”

“I know. I don't want to eat.”

That statement really grabbed his attention. He stared at me as if I had said I had just arrived from another planet.

“You don't want to eat at Raymond's?”

“No. I just want to talk to him.”

“Oh.” He pulled open the door and I went in.

“His office is at the end of the corridor, top of the stairs.”

Raymond's Restaurant was a sort of Paris idyll without making any overstatement that might contradict its location in London. It was decorated in the shades of turquoise always linked with Paris and consisted of a set of rooms, interconnected at irregular angles, their dimensions made uncertain due to the subtle use of trees and plants and carefully placed mirrors.

It was grand but not opulent, luxurious but not ostentatious and everything in it was a tempting invitation to dine at what was clearly an exceptional restaurant. Top class was obvious from the glint of silver to the sparkle of crystal glass.

Raymond's office was impressive too in its way. An old desk, carved from dark wood stood in one corner. A brass lamp cast a pool of orange light on to the tooled leather desk top. Raymond's large, face looked out at me through the cone of light. The expression changed on recognition but he rose, greeted me and led me across the room to a long low mahogany table with some carved ivory figures on it. Three large leather couches were spaced around it and Raymond motioned me to sit.

“I saw you at the Circle of Careme dinner on that terrible night,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “It was a terrible night.”

He waited for me to tell him what I was doing there but I didn't oblige. I wasn't even sure why I was suspicious of him—or what I suspected him of doing. Perhaps it was just a private eye's hunch—or perhaps it was because my introduction to this entire affair had been through him, if indeed his commission had been part of it.

“Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“I'm making some inquiries,” I told him.

“Inquiring into what?” he asked politely. “The death of Ivor Jenkinson?”

I'd better tread carefully here, I thought. Don't want this reaching the ubiquitous ear of Inspector Hemingway.

“There may be some related matters,” I said. He didn't ask what that meant fortunately.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“You didn't talk to François Duquesne at the Circle of Careme dinner, did you?” That broke the ice as effectively as dropping a steamroller into it. His eyebrows shot up.

“Talk to him! I haven't talked to him since—don't you know we—” he spluttered to a stop then went on more calmly.

“No,” he said. “I didn't talk to him.”

“I've heard about the feud between you and François. I suppose everybody has. What exactly caused it?”

His eyebrows went up again at my audacity. “What does this have to do with—”

“I don't know yet,” I said, watching him carefully. The private eyes in fiction always seemed able to pick up all kinds of clues from people's faces but I had never really believed it was that easy. None the less, a flicker passed across Raymond's features. I was still trying to analyse it when he went on:

“It was a long time ago. Yet it wasn't so long that either of us has forgotten it. It was a bad business—very bad—unpardonable.” He sighed. “The details don't matter now.”

“They might matter,” I pressed.

“No,” he said decisively. “They don't.”

“And if they do, you're not going to tell me.”

“They don't concern you—or anyone.”

“A man has died,” I reminded him.

“There is no connection.”

One more try at this subject, I thought. “You're both very bitter about it still, aren't you?” I asked.

“Bitter?” He gave a short barking laugh though there wasn't any mirth in it.

“Had you met IJ previously?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to him that night?”

“No.”

The best private eyes knew when to keep silent. They often did it after the person being interrogated had been unforthcoming. The idea was that the guilty wanted to explain how they weren't guilty and the innocent had nothing to hide. To my surprise, it worked perfectly.

“We've had other media persons at the restaurant but never Jenkinson.”

Something in his tone prompted me to ask, “Have any of them come for other reasons than to enjoy the food?”

“Yes, sometimes.” He seemed more willing to talk now. Was it relief that we had got away from the one subject he wanted to avoid?

“Who else has been here?”

“Sally Aldridge, Roger St Leger …”

“You don't mean together?” I was half joking but he answered seriously enough.

“No, no,” he said, “separately.”

“These visits were recent?”

“Sally Aldridge … about three weeks ago. St Leger—a week, no, ten days ago.”

“Why did they come to your restaurant if not to eat?”

“I knew St Leger. He had me cook a meal on his programme—oh, last year some time. You know, explaining each step, that sort of thing. Perhaps you saw it?” he suggested.

“I think I did.” A little prevarication might help. “What did he want to talk to you about?”

“He wants to get back on television. He's trying to get a new series. He had a few ideas and wanted me to comment.”

“And did you?”

“Yes but he was vague. None of his ideas had been thought through very far. He struck me as being desperate to get back on television but not having a clear plan of how he wanted to do it.”

“What about Sally?” I asked.

“She said she was planning a new book. She wanted to know if I would contribute some recipes.”

“Are visits like these unusual at all?”

“Oh, no. Within limits, we like to get all the publicity we can. It's good for business to keep our name in front of people. Nelda Darvey was here too. She's writing a series of articles on London restaurants. She's always given us a good press.”

I wasn't much further along in my thinking. Raymond didn't seem to be hiding anything—so why was I still suspicious of him? Was this a man who would stoop to foul means of putting a hated rival out of business? He didn't look like he was but then Charles Crippen had looked like a respected doctor, Billy the Kid was angel-faced and Dion O'Bannion had been a choir-boy before he had gathered together a gang to battle Al Capone and kill dozens of Chicago citizens.

The visits of St Leger and Sally Aldridge to Raymond's—both within the last three weeks—were another big question mark. The reasons sounded innocent enough but neither seemed to have achieved much. Was one of them a cover to mask some other purpose?

“You did an excellent job for me on—on that matter recently,” Raymond said.

I inclined my head to acknowledge his words.

“I have been trying to decide whether I should come to you again.”

I waited for him to continue. He was looking for the right way to express it. He did so, slowly.

“I suspect that someone is trying to put me out of business.”

I
T WAS BECOMING AS
prevalent as the common cold. How many other London restaurants were catching the same virus? I eyed Raymond cautiously. Or was it a tit-for-tat conflict with Raymond hitting back? Had the famous feud now grown to a bitter battle?

The cause of that feud seemed to be lurking behind these questions and looming in importance. If I could find out what had caused it, I might be a lot closer to several answers. For the moment though, I needed to know what Raymond's statement meant.

“Simple things,” he said in reply to my query. “Simple to do but with severe effects on the operation of the restaurant. Labels on spice jars switched, for instance. Cinnamon with ginger, basil with tarragon.”

“Similar in appearance so the changes wouldn't be noticed. Devastating in result though—especially if a dish reached the table—”

“One did. It could have been much worse but the chefs were very careful about aromas during cooking after that.”

“What else?”

“Cancellation by phone of an order of beef tenderloin. It was for dinner for a large and influential group of a dozen people. By the time we found out about it, there was no time to go elsewhere. We had to substitute. The group said they wouldn't come back. Then our reservations book disappeared. That caused confusion and we inadvertently double-booked some tables. The reservations book reappeared.”

“Carelessness? Accidents? Human errors?”

Raymond shook his head vehemently. “My staff are too efficient, no—I don't believe it.”

That led me into my big question though I wasn't too hopeful for its success in bringing any revelations.

“Is there anyone you suspect?”

“No. I can't imagine who would do this.”

“Would François?”

He didn't reply right away. He sighed.

“We're back to that, are we?”

“Of course we are,” I said flatly. “Any list of suspects would have François' name at the top, wouldn't it?”

He didn't answer. I was getting a little peeved.

“If I'm suspicious of him, you have to be more so. Unless there is someone else…”

“I told you—I can't imagine anyone else doing this.”

I changed tactics. “Are you so concerned about these events in your restaurant?”

His eyes widened. “Of course I am. Shouldn't I be concerned?”

“Have you told the police?”

“No.”

“And you didn't approach me. I came here to talk to you.”

“I had thought of it—but I was still trying to find other explanations. It's so preposterous, not only who would do these things but why.”

It wasn't as preposterous as he thought. It was already happening in a similar manner to his hated rival but I couldn't tell him that.

“The death of Ivor Jenkinson has changed a lot of things for me,” I told him. “I just couldn't take on an assignment for you at the present time.”

He nodded unhappily. “I understand but—” he gave me a pleading look “—will you do this for me? Will you keep in mind what I have told you? Maybe you will run across a clue, a hint—you might hear something—”

Well, I had said—or at least hinted—that I was involved in the investigation of IJ's death. Did he have some reason to believe that there might be some connection with his problem?

I asked him.

He shrugged. “I don't know. But you will do as I ask?”

I agreed, trying to think what else I ought to ask him. Philip Marlowe would have had dozens more questions but I didn't. I was already rising to leave when there was a knock at the door. It opened and in came a really stunning-looking woman. She was in her early to mid-thirties and had lustrous coppery hair and large oval-shaped brown eyes. A dark-green wool knit dress fitted her lovely figure perfectly—tight enough to be sexy but not so tight as to be tarty.

Raymond introduced me then said: “This is my niece and general manager, Paula Jardine.”

Her eyes appraised me coolly as we shook hands.

“I'm making some inquiries,” I told her, “which may be connected with that terrible business at the Circle of Careme dinner—” I broke off as I remembered, “I saw you there—wondered who you were.”

“I've been a member for some years.” Her voice was low and musical. I could have listened to it for hours but Raymond was suggesting, “Perhaps you could escort the gentleman out, my dear? I have to go to the kitchen—”

As we went out, she asked: “Do you know our restaurant?”

“By reputation,” I said.

We reached the door and she turned to me. She was breathtakingly beautiful close up and her complexion was flawless.

“You must come and eat here. We live up to our reputation, I can assure you.”

“I'd like that,” I said and meant it. “I'll see if I—”

“As our guest, of course.”

“That's very nice of you.”

She smiled delightfully. “My guest, that is.”

“That's even better—”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”