Gourmet Detective (3 page)

Taking the afternoon folder up to Mrs Shearer reminded me that I didn't have a companion for the dinner at Le Trouquet d'Or. Would Theresa be recovered from her flu? I asked. No, not a chance was the reply. Mary Chen was proving to be very efficient though—was there something she could do? I decided not. The meal tomorrow must be low profile and Mary Chen was too noticeable.

I phoned Lucy who works in the cheese department at Fortnum and Mason's. No, they told me, Lucy was in Savoie. It was a good place to buy cheese but of no help to me. I was tempted to try Margaret at the British Tour Centre but the last time I had invited her to dine had been when I was on a case too. (I give out invitations more often when an expense account is operative.) Margaret had declined on that occasion, giving as her reason that it was her yoga night. I recovered my speech in due course and reminded her that this was dinner at a good restaurant and not at the corner hamburger place. Again she declined and I have still not determined whether I should strike her off my list permanently. A girl with no sense of priority is highly suspect.

Still pondering the problem, I walked home. My flat consists essentially of a very well-equipped kitchen, a large storage area (part of it refrigerated) and a room full of books. There's a bedroom, a bathroom and so on tucked away there somewhere.

I drank a leisurely Pisco Sour while assembling the ingredients for dinner. Then I cooked a langoustine soufflé with some fresh asparagus and ate it along with a bottle of Berncastler Doktor. I sliced some Packham pears, heated them and poured malvasia over them. A cup of Paraguayan maté completed the repast and after thirty minutes to fully digest, I set off for a meeting.

P.I.E. meet twice a month in a room off Horseferry Road. It used to belong to the Ministry of the Environment and one of our members got it for us at a very low fee. When the Ministry moved out to Haywards Heath (to a better environment presumably), some bureaucratic oversight left it available for us to use. Consequently we haven't paid anything for about a year. One day I expect we will get a bill which we will refuse to pay.

The initials P.I.E. confuse everybody and those who know me as a gourmet detective automatically assume that at the P.I.E. we make good culinary use of apples, rhubarb, blackcurrants and probably steaks and kidneys. They are quite mistaken.

Private Investigators Etc is a club which was originally established as a sort of union where private eyes could protect their rights, put together rules for their profession and get together periodically for some socialising and shop talk. Eventually membership declined, not because there were less private eyes, there were in fact more, but because the newcomers were not individuals but organisations which felt they didn't need the umbrella of P.I.E.

To keep our group active, we opened membership to non-detectives as long as they had some connection. As a result, we now had two book editors, both specialising in crime fiction; a historical novelist who had been trying for a year to write a private eye novel; an engineer who worked for an electronics company making sophisticated gear for surveillance, eavesdropping and such; a girl who worked in a forensic laboratory, was a private eye devotee and had, a few weeks ago, shown a video of a Quincy episode from television and had accompanied it with some well-informed comments on TV versus reality in forensic medicine. Most of the others had some tenuous connection but were basically PI fans.

I said hello to Tom Davidson. He is a marine insurance investigator who lost his job because of excessive drinking, joined AA and recovered both his self-respect and his job.

“How's business?” I asked him.

“Ships keep sinking,” he told me.

“Enough of them under suspicious circumstances to keep the wolf from the door?”

“Just enough. How about you? Still finding the impossible spice, the missing flavour?”

“Always on the trail of the lonesome vine,” I assured him but further conversation was curtailed as we were joined by Miss Wellworthy, a prim, elderly spinster who fancies herself as a Miss Marple and drops repeated hints about a conspiracy at her local town hall which she is determined to uncover.

“Any progress in the investigation, Miss Wellworthy?” Tom asked mischievously.

“They're very clever, you know.” Her steel-rimmed glasses glinted and it was woe betide any conspirators. “There's nothing in the files. Oh yes, they're clever. The annual reports don't show anything either.”

“It's understandable they wouldn't want anything to appear in one or the other,” Tom agreed. “What's your next move?”

“I shall have to interview that girl who resigned last August,” said Miss Wellworthy grimly. “Trouble is, I think she went to Cornwall.”

“Knows something, does she?”

“Why else would she resign?” demanded Miss Wellworthy but Tom and I were saved from having to answer by the rapping of Ben Beaumont's gavel summoning us to take our places.

One of the reasons I had stayed on as a member of P.I.E. after it had thrown open its membership to non-detectives was that it gave an equal amount of time to the private eyes of fiction—one of my weaknesses. I had over three hundred novels featuring all the great eyes of fiction and I loved discussing them. Tonight, I could see from the blackboard that we were going to have a talk on “The Female Eye”. With some surprise, I noted that it was to be given by Francine Drew. Francine was in her thirties and personal assistant to a famous crime novelist. Francine was not unattractive and could be a dazzler if she would wear make-up, dress properly and have her hair fixed. She was her usual mousy self tonight though as she stepped up on to the platform. I awaited the outcome with curiosity as public speaking didn't seem to be one of her attributes.

Ben Beaumont introduced her. Ben is our genial president—at least he would have enjoyed hearing himself described that way. He had served thirty years in the regular police force, retired and then conducted a successful private investigation service before retiring again.

Red-faced, beaming, Ben completed his introduction and waved to Francine to take over. We gave her a polite handclap of welcome and she looked as if she needed encouragement for she was a little nervous and flustered at first. She got herself under control though and launched into her subject.

“Private eye novels have been dominated by men for too long. The expression ‘private eye' means to most readers Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, Lew Archer or Mike Hammer.

“The balance is now being adjusted and we are seeing female private eyes. Tonight, I want to talk about two of them—and both created by women writers.”

I leaned forward eagerly, anxious to hear who she would choose.

She continued, still slightly breathless but enjoying herself.

She chose Kinsey Millhone, a double divorcee from California who drives a VW, carries an automatic and lives in a converted garage. The creation of Sue Grafton, the daughter of two China missionaries, Kinsey Millhone was tough, female and believable. Her other choice was V.I. Warshawski, a former insurance investigator who now has an office in Chicago's Loop, is skilled with a variety of weapons and is an expert at unarmed combat. Her creator, Sara Paretsky, is a Ph.D.

Francine talked for about fifteen minutes, got a nice round of applause and a couple of complimentary comments. I followed her over to the drinks dispenser where she was sipping thirstily at a lemon tea.

“That was great, Francine,” I told her.

Her face lit up. “Did you really think so?”

“I did. If I'd had to guess who you were going to talk about though—I think I'd have said Sharon McCone.”

“Yes, she was one of the first, wasn't she? Did you know she's part Indian?”

“Shoshone, I think.”

She made a wry face. “I might have known you'd know that. But then you're a surprising person.”

This was the first time we'd talked and I raised an eyebrow.

“Surprising?”

“Well, yes. I mean, you're a real private eye and yet you know all the fictional detectives.”

I basked a little. After all, a detector of rare spices and a hunter for exotic foods doesn't always get the credit he deserves.

“One's a business and the other's a hobby.”

“Yes,” she said, “but it's unusual when they are both on the same lines.”

“You ought to give another one of these talks,” I suggested. “This time, tell us about the sexy female private eyes.”

“Such as?” she asked, open-mouthed.

“How about Honey West, Angela Harpe and Alison B. Gordon?”

She didn't answer.

“Have you read them?” I asked her.

She nodded.

“So how about a talk on them?”

She sipped reflectively at her tea.

“I suppose because they're too much sex and not enough detective.”

“A good enough reason.”

“What do you like about Sharon McCone?” she asked.

“Marcia Muller is one of my favourite writers. She has created a very credible female eye in Sharon McCone. She stays on the right side of the law and co-operates with the police.”

Francine smiled. It did a lot for her.

“That's the way you operate, isn't it?”

She must have been listening to club gossip. Her mention of operating gave me a sudden flash of inspiration.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?”

The change of subject took her unawares. She stared at me then she coloured slightly. You don't see many girls do that these days.

“Nothing special.” She could hardly have said she was having her hair done.

“How about having dinner with me?”

Her eyes widened.

“I'm on a case,” I told her. “I have to do some investigating. It involves having dinner at a restaurant—two people.” I watched the expressions cross her face and wasn't sure whether my approach was too personal or not personal enough. I plunged on, regardless of perhaps making it worse.

“I need a female opinion. I think you could provide it.”

She looked pleased. “You mean I could help with your investigation?”

I put on my best Jim Rockford look (which nobody recognises).

“Nothing dangerous,” I assured her.

“All right.” She nodded eagerly. “It sounds exciting.”

We made arrangements for me to pick her up at her flat in Chiswick and then Ben Beaumont was calling us back to our seats as we were about to hear a review of a new book by Max Byrd. His first novel
California Thriller
was set in San Francisco and won an award as the best PI book of the year. The review was to be given by Ray Anderson who had retired last year as a PI himself. Some thought he had done so just in time for Ray was apt to cut corners and take risks. If he had been caught, it could have been bad for our profession…

Was I becoming too prissy? I wondered. Ray hadn't been caught and now he was likely to be our next president. While I was being introspective, I might as well reflect on whether I should have invited Francine to Le Trouquet d'Or. She sounded like a bit of a women's libber. There had been that opening sentence, “Private eye novels have been dominated by men for too long…” Why pick on private eyes? Where were the female Hopalong Cassidies and Shanes? Then there was her reaction to my comment about the sexy female eyes…

That lead to thoughts of Le Trouquet d'Or. Surely she wouldn't show up looking like this? I'd probably put my foot in it if I made any suggestions … how diplomatic could I be, I wondered.

As we walked back to our chairs, I asked, “Are you sure eight o'clock isn't too early to pick you up tomorrow?”

“Oh, no, it's fine.”

I didn't like the sound of that.

“It's a fairly fancy restaurant so I'm sure you'll need plenty of time to get ready.”

When it was out, it sounded untactful but she didn't react as if it were.

“No, that's plenty of time, really.”

I hoped she meant she was going to leave work early.

M
Y INVESTIGATION BEGAN IN
earnest the next morning even as the first rosy fingers of dawn began to creep across the sky. At least, I suppose dawn's rosy fingers were creeping—there was certainly no way of knowing what might be happening above the heavy grey clouds which were tipping down periodic showers of cold and very wet rain.

Good weather for an investigation though—people are more occupied trying to keep warm and dry to notice anything out of the ordinary. Not that I expected much suspicion. I looked the part—I wore my second shabbiest suit, a sort of faded off-blue serge and a greasy peaked cap from which the identifying badge had long since been removed.

I might have been anything from a water board inspector to a taxi rank starter as I took the tube to Covent Garden Station then walked down James Street, turned and walked until I came to Le Trouquet d'Or. It was silent in the still early hours. I went on past till I came to the alley that passed along the back of the restaurant. From there, I picked out a coffee shop on a corner which gave a perfect view of the restaurant's rear exit.

I took a table by the window and ordered a cup of coffee from a big amiable girl with “Amy” embroidered in black on her white blouse. She would normally have been wearing a wide smile but what could you expect this early in the morning on a cold wet London day?

Across the room, two students were deep in a discussion of a music score and a bus driver was drinking tea and eating a jam doughnut. It was evidently too early for serious breakfast customers. I settled in for a long vigil.

Soon after nine o'clock, a van stopped at the back door of Le Trouquet d'Or. I had already slipped the plastic sheath off my clip board and I began making notes. Two more vans came within the hour and I kept scribbling. There were deliveries of bottles of milk and cream, boxes of butter and cheese, cases of eggs … I wrote down all the identification on the vans and noted every little thing I saw. Then an unmarked green van turned into the alley. I waved to Amy, put the right coins on the table and hurried out.