Gourmet Detective (24 page)

“The Warrington chain is that active in the market?”

“Sure,” she said. “Buying up competitors left and right.”

“Is that the truth?”

Nelda smiled. “I never tell a lie. I don't have to—I can always do more damage with the truth.”

“Who else does your evil eye rest on?”

“There's Roger St Leger. Since he lost his TV show, he's been all over town like a blue-arsed fly trying to get another. The Beeb said no and ITV weren't interested. Sky talked to him—or rather let him talk to them. Result—zilch. He's getting desperate.”

I looked at her sharply.

“How desperate?” I asked.

She caught my look.

“Ah… maybe not that desperate…”

“Trapped in a web of events?” I suggested. I was just fishing but Nelda was a good source—one of the best. If there were things to know, she knew them.

“He's been keeping some very strange company and, of course, it's well-known that he's been brown-nosing IJ.”

“Who couldn't help him?”

“Wouldn't, more likely. IJ wouldn't hand you a glass of water if your house was on fire.”

“There's a rumour going around that St Leger has latched on to a programme,” I said.

Nelda exhaled a cloud of smoke from a magnificent pair of lungs. “What kind of a programme?”

“IJ's.”

She drank some Scotch. “H'm, haven't heard that… who told you?”

“Nelda, do you reveal sources?”

She chuckled.

“Do you think he can do IJ's programme?” I asked her.

“He's not the ruthless son-of-a-bitch that IJ was, that's for sure. St Leger could do a programme, but it would never be IJ's or anything remotely resembling.” She drank more Scotch, inhaled strongly and added, “Nor can I see him killing IJ to get the chance.”

“I understand he's quite a drinker. What about if he were under the influence?”

“St Leger?” Nelda looked surprised. “He's not a drinker.”

“That's not what my information says.”

“Malicious chatter,” Nelda chuckled. “You know how I detest it.”

“Any other candidates?”

She took a studied look at her now-empty glass.

“Well, there's one of your old girl-friends.”

I signalled to the waiter this time. It also gave me a chance to assimilate her remark.

“Oh, really? Which one?”

Nelda smiled, enjoying herself. She took her time to answer.

“Sally Aldridge,” she said.

I was surprised. I must have looked it for Nelda smiled wider.

“What's suspicious about Sally? It's true she writes books which upset a few people but—”

“Any Gourmet Meal in Thirty Minutes?”
Nelda pulled a face and there was a lot of it to pull. “That's like a carving knife to the heart for real food-lovers!”

“At least she was smart enough to get accepted by the Circle of Careme before she came out with any of those outrageous titles,” I said.

Nelda shrugged. “Would have made no difference. The Circle's too powerful to bother about gnat-bites. What's this new book she's coming out with next? Signing's tomorrow, isn't it?”

“I'm sure you know the title, Nelda. You took up half a column in blasting the last one. You'll no doubt do the same to this.”

Nelda smiled again, looking like a cat that has just swallowed a very large canary, stuffing, gravy and all.

“The new one's called
Why Eat Out?”
I reminded her.

“Oh, yes,” Nelda nodded as if she had just recalled it. “Sub-titled ‘How to Cook Any Restaurant Meal at Home'. The restaurant trade will love it.”

“If you're tossing suspicion around, Nelda, it won't wash. Sally may be getting herself detested in the business but that's no motive for her to take any action against them.”

“Supposing,” said Nelda, “the restaurants put pressure on her publisher. Then he might want to dump her. Might that not make her furious?”

“A cute theory,” I said, “but I don't buy it. Any other ideas?”

“There's the company she keeps.” Nelda tried to be coy but it was not a success.

“What about it?” I prodded though I knew she was dying to tell me.

“Well, you know Sally. Girl has an impediment in her speech—she can't say ‘no'.”

“She can. I've heard her say it.”

“Must have had a hell of a headache,” said Nelda. “Where are those bloody drinks?”

The waiter came with them and was in time to hear Nelda's question.

“Sorry, Miss Darvey,” he said. ‘Martin Ranicar's over there with six blokes.”

“You mean he gets priority over me!” Nelda was furious. “I'll take my business elsewhere.”

“Hope not, Miss Darvey. We'd miss your cheerful, friendly chatter, your pleasant—”

“Go away, Brian. Go kneel before Sir Martin.”

He left, chuckling.

“You were telling me about the company Sally keeps.”

“Well,” said Nelda, “there's that crummy photographer for a start. Sells his work to any sleazy rag that'll buy it.”

“So maybe he's not a regular in
Vanity Fair.
There are worse occupations.”

“There's also the company Scarponi keeps.”

A bell rang inside my head.

“Scarponi? Do you know his first name?”

“Alessandro, I think.” She glanced up. “Why? Know him?”

The initials AS on the board at NTV studios. One of IJ's informants according to Joel Freedman.

“I don't think so. What's wrong with the company he keeps?”

“Mixed up with some unsavoury characters in Soho, they say.”

“Some good Chinese restaurants there,” I said to keep her talking.

Nelda shuddered. Her whole magnificent frame shuddered with her.

“I know. I ate in one last week. I think the head waiter was a former war-lord. Place was full of Eastern promise—and that's all they were—promises.”

She fortified herself with Scotch and lit another cigarette although I could still just see her through the pall of smoke.

“Then there's Le Trouquet d'Or.”

My interest quickened. I sipped my vodka and tonic slowly, trying not to look too concerned.

“What's happening there?”

Nelda flashed me one of her withering looks.

“Don't tell me you haven't heard. Carelessness in the kitchen, negligence in book-keeping, slack management. Poisoned fish was only the latest incident.”

“Has any of this appeared in your column?”

“Don't you read it?” Nelda was shocked.

“Ordinarily, I never miss it,” I said with pardonable exaggeration. “I've been busy lately and haven't seen many papers.”

“I haven't printed any of it yet,” Nelda said. “I'm holding out for the bigger story.”

“IJ?” I guessed.

She nodded.

“You think it's all connected?” I asked.

“I don't believe in coincidence,” Nelda said. “Neither is it coincidence that Miss Best Selling Aldridge has been at Le Trouquet d'Or and that photographer of hers has been seen hanging around too.”

“What do you make of that?” I asked.

“You're asking an awful lot of questions,” said Nelda, “and not giving me any answers.”

“Shows how little I know.”

Nelda pursed her lips. “Maybe—but more likely, maybe not. Anyway, if you do learn anything you think I ought to know, give me a call, will you?”

“You promise anonymity?”

Nelda gathered up her purse and leaned forward.

“You know me. Never promise anything—and if I do, you don't have to believe it—unless of course, it's in print.”

She stood, all five feet ten or so of her. “Glad we had this chat. Keep in touch.”

“I will,” I said.

Nelda was already looking around. “Brian—put it on my tab, will you?” She turned to me. “Got to rush, meeting an unimpeachable source.”

“Aren't they all,” I said to her back as she left.

At home, the first thing I did was phone Winnie at the Yard. As I had expected, she had left but when I identified myself, the Yard operator gave me her home phone number.

“Hello,” she answered warmly, “something new?”

“There's a photographer, a freelance, he may know something. IJ used him occasionally and—”

“You mean Alessandro Scarponi?”

“Oh,” I said, deflated. “You know about him.”

“One of our handwriting experts went through the photographs of the board at NTV and matched up IJ's entries. The computer ran through AS's and picked up Scarponi. Our Squad which handles blackmail talked to him last year concerning some photos he'd taken—they were very incriminating. They couldn't make anything stick but they filed him.”

I was disappointed the Yard had beaten me to it but I had demonstrated my co-operation. That couldn't hurt.

“Have you talked to him?” I asked Winnie.

“Not yet. Can't find him. He's an elusive character.”

I wondered whether to mention that his name had been linked with Sally Aldridge's. I decided against it.

“Anything else?”

I had held out—but only a little—on Sally. I'd better come clean on one other item if I wanted to stay in the best books of Sergeant Winnie.

“That other entry on the board—VDZH,” I said.

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Know what it means?”

“It's a bank.”

“Confound it!” I said. “How does Scotland Yard know all these things?”

She giggled and it sounded so delightful that I wished I could have been able to see her doing it.

“We have our ways. That one was easy though. We simply circulated it to all quarters and the Banking Squad came back with the answer immediately.”

“Have you talked to them?” I asked.

“Inspector Hemingway went himself. He was almost grumpy when he came back. They wouldn't tell him a thing.”

“I wonder why,” I said.

“There may not be anything sinister but the inspector has applied for a court order. He can force them to open their files to him if he wishes.”

“Any objections if I try?” I held my breath.

“If the inspector couldn't get anywhere—” Winnie began.

“I might try a different approach.”

“All right. Why not?”

“I'll tell you what I find out,” I promised.

“Your suspect?” Winnie reminded me. “Want to tell me about it?”

“I'm nearly ready.”

“I'm here,” said Winnie, “whenever.”

After I had hung up, I reflected on that. I was sure I was right in my suspicions of Raymond though some of the details might be fuzzy. But it was not the kind of thing to discuss over the phone—and a personal meeting would be so much more pleasurable anyway.

The lunch with Paula and the three vodkas with Nelda had left me with little appetite. I worked on the Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo query.

Charles Deville Wells parlayed £400 into £40,000 over a period of three days. He put even money bets on red and black but it was the red which won repeatedly until Wells had exceeded the 100,000 franc “bank” limit allocated to each table.

Returning to London, Wells gave a dinner for 36 of his intimate friends at the Savoy Hotel. The press referred to it as “The Red Dinner” for everything was red. The ceiling was painted red and the carpets were red. The waiters wore red costumes even to shirts, ties and gloves. Red flowers were everywhere and the lights were red.

The dinner was served on a huge roulette table and was composed of Prawns, Queues de Langouste, Crème Portugaise, Saumon à la Nantua, Mousse au Jambon, Filet de Boeuf (rare, of course), Tomates Farcies, Choux Rouges braises, Poularde à la Cardinale, Canard Sauvage au Sang, Salade de Betterave and Mousse au Fraises—everything red. It was said that Wells' bank account was a similar colour when the evening had been paid for.

Reading that menu made me hungry when I had thought I wasn't. I raided the larder, found some turkey and some cheese and made a couple of Monte Cristo sandwiches, one of California's great contributions to cuisine. A half bottle of California Chardonnay seemed like an appropriate accompaniment and rounded off the day.

F
ICTIONAL DETECTIVES HAVE SUCH
an easy time. True, they get beaten up, punched in the face, coshed, slugged or half-drowned (with either water or bourbon) now and then but as far as the actual detection goes, coincidence, luck, chance and good fortune are all in their favour.

When our detective finds the first body, there's a chopstick alongside it which is inscribed “The Celestial Palace”. While eating the Fried Noodles with Spiced Beef there (detectives are never gourmets), an exotic Chinese waitress tells him that the victim used to come in every day from The Happy Feet Massage Parlour. Prone on a couch in that establishment, our hero is threatened by a 30 stone bruiser who is about to let slip a vital clue when he collapses with a knife in his back.

The knife has a price sticker from Sam's Hardware and there the detective learns from the terrified wife of the proprietor that Max Nicht, the gambling boss at the Spinning Wheel Casino … well, that's the way the plot goes. Every place or person leads to the next person or place in a rigged game of Snakes and Ladders.

Would that it were so. All I was able to do was wallow around like a crouton in a thick soup of suspects. There was no continuity—I might as well play eeny-meeny-miny-mo.

I had a little time in the office before going to Sally's book signing so I tackled the post. The first letter caught my attention at once.

“We understand,” it read, “that there is a tenth-century Chinese cookbook written by a Madame Wu. Can you suggest where we might be able to obtain a copy?”

That was definitely a question I would have to pass on to Michael. The semi-legendary volume that the correspondent mentioned was very difficult to find in a reliable translation.