Gourmet Detective (4 page)

I timed it so that I was walking by when the driver pulled open the van door and it almost hit me. He apologised, I examined myself for non-existent injuries and we chatted for a minute or two. I offered to help but he declined and I stood by the van while he carried in his first load. I had plenty of opportunity to examine the consignment notes on the other crates.

After half an hour in the alley and by the street corner, I went back into the coffee shop. It was a little busier and the smell of bacon filled the unventilated interior.

“Our coffee must be good, huh?” asked Amy. “You back for more.”

“Best I ever tasted,” I told her and she laughed till she quivered.

An hour went by. It was boring but as Dashiell Hammett must once have said, most detective work is spade work. Amy came over with more coffee. She eyed my clip board as she poured.

“You one of these health food inspectors?” she asked.

“Don't worry,” I told her. “The secrets of your kitchen are safe with me.”

She looked curiously at my clip board again. I went on, “As a matter of fact, I'm with the Sewage Board.”

She took an involuntary half step back.

“No need for concern. I haven't been down today,” I said, “there's a blockage somewhere in this district and we're trying to trace it. When our equipment shows us where it is, we'll have to go and open it up but we can't seem to find it. So I just have to wait.”

It satisfied her. “Hope it ain't on this street,” she said and her nose wrinkled in unpleasant anticipation.

“I don't think so. Probably nearer to the Opera House.”

“Hope it don't turn their singing sour,” Amy giggled and I went on with my watch, my credentials established.

By noon, there had been no more deliveries. Le Trouquet d'Or would be opening for lunch and there would be no accepting of goods so I could get out of here and get something to eat.

“The lamb chops is good today,” Amy called out as she saw me head for the door.

“My favourite lunch but unfortunately I have to call regional headquarters,” I said.

Inside the complex of shops, stalls and boutiques that make up the new Covent Garden is a health food shop run by an old friend, Tony Livesey. The term “health food” puts a lot of people off. They think that in order to be healthy, food must be boring and Tony has devoted the recent years of his life to disproving this. Natural materials only are used, the cooking is imaginative and original and the place is self-sufficient, baking its own bread, savouries and cakes and making every dish daily from fresh ingredients.

Tony brought me his Armenian Soup which has the unlikely combination of lentils, apricots and potatoes and then moussaka made from soya protein instead of minced meat. The elderflower wine which Tony's wife makes was a perfect accompaniment and I walked back to my beat refreshed.

I hung around in the street and the alley for a while. The rain had stopped and there was an occasional glimpse of clear sky but the clouds hastily covered each one over as quickly as it appeared.

Amy had finished her shift and her place had been taken by a skinny Scottish girl with long, bright red hair who slopped some of the coffee into my saucer as she poured. Still, I didn't have to explain what I was doing there. I sat in tedium through the rest of the afternoon, broken by only one delivery which I duly noted down. Then I rode the tube back to Shepherd's Bush, reading my notes and starting to piece things together.

I
T WAS CLOSE TO
nine o'clock that evening when our taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant that had been the subject of my attention all day. This time, however, I was at the front door.

Maiden Lane had been blocked by an accident involving a car and a motor-cycle which had forced our driver to make a detour. Then opening night at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane was evidently coinciding and the street was filled with pop-eyed fans, popping flash-bulbs and pop-stars so that our cursing driver had to inch his way through the crowd. A thinner-skinned breed would have perished from the looks he received and the names he was called.

The name of Winchester worked like a charm and we entered the Aladdin's Cave of cuisine. It was elegant but discreet. The subdued lighting sparkled on the silver cutlery, the gleaming white and blue dishes and the pristine white table cloths. The panelled walls were mellow and the atmosphere refined yet welcoming. The hum of conversation was polite without being restrained and the waiters moved smoothly and competently between the tables.

I had breathed a sigh of relief on seeing Francine. Whether deliberate or not, she had erred on the side of underdressing rather than overdressing and wore a light beige two-piece suit. Her hair was piled neatly and she even wore a hint of make-up.

“Thank you,” she said demurely when I congratulated her on her appearance. After glancing at the menu she said, “I think I'll let you order for me.”

I was still studying the menu when I heard her gasp. I looked up to see her eyes widening as she stared over my shoulder.

She was looking at all the tables in turn, celebrity spotting.

“I think that's somebody in the government,” she said finally, “but I don't know his name.”

“In that case, he isn't very important.”

“This is a very nice restaurant, isn't it?” she commented. “Do you come here often?”

“No, not often.”

“You said you were on a case.”

“That's right, I am.”

“You aren't body-guarding one of these people, are you?”

“Nothing like that,” I told her. She waited for more but I didn't give her any more. She resumed celebrity spotting and I went back to the menu.

I chose the cucumber and sorrel soup to start. It would leave my palate unsullied. That way, I would be able to analyse the taste of the main course more fully—the main course being, naturally, Oiseau Royal. The name came off my tongue as if I had just decided on it and the waiter wrote it down without the flicker of an eye. Why shouldn't he? There was no reason for suspicion and people ordered the speciality every day.

The sommelier suggested two or three possibilities as the most appropriate wine to accompany the bird and I selected a Coche-Dury Montrachet. I preferred to stay with the same wine throughout the meal—again for reasons of being able to taste the oiseau better.

“You have a nice job—to be able to come to places like this,” Francine said.

“Doesn't happen too often unfortunately.”

“It must be exciting though,” she went on, still fishing. “I mean, being a real private eye.”

“Some of the time,” I admitted. “A lot of it is just plain dull.”

I was scanning the room while I was talking, looking for all the doors and establishing where they led. I counted the waiters and estimated the times of their movements in and out of the room.

“You said this case isn't dangerous,” Francine said abruptly.

“What? Oh, no, it isn't.”

“You look nervous.”

“Of course not. Just tense. Always am when I'm on a case.”

I hoped she wasn't going to ask me if I carried a gun. I still hadn't recovered from Raymond asking that. The difference was that Francine's question would be casual whereas I couldn't get rid of the thought that Raymond hadn't told me everything.

She didn't ask that—instead she said, “You're shadowing somebody, aren't you?”

Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring her after all. Surely I could have found a girl who wasn't a private-eye fan and wouldn't keep asking these questions.

“Nothing like that. Just a matter of observation” I said and she was assembling another query when the soup arrived.

It was superb, light and yet full of flavour. I gave it my full attention then as the plates were removed, I could see Francine shaping up for more inquisition so I moved in to circumvent it.

“You're probably a Travis McGee fan.”

“I do like him, yes.”

“Nearly everybody does. My theory is that it's partly envy of him living on a boat.”

“He's a good detective too.”

“He is.”

“Although he's not really a private eye—he's a marine salvage expert.”

“Very good. Not every reader of detective fiction realises that.”

“He's also one of the few current detectives they haven't made films about—I'm glad too—it's often disappointing when they do. I mean, I don't think Paul Newman looks like Lew Archer, do you?”

“I think writers are smarter when they hardly describe their heroes at all. Let the reader imagine them, I say…”

The diversionary ploy worked and we discussed private eyes until the main course arrived. Then all conversation stopped and I concentrated every sense I had on Oiseau Royal. It was so delicious I kept forgetting I was on a case and found that I was enjoying myself to a degree that I had not experienced for a long time. When Raymond had described it as “a classic of cuisine”, he had not been exaggerating and it was no surprise that every food writer and gourmet who came to London wanted to taste it.

“Good, isn't it?” said Francine. I nodded.

The flesh was moist and delicate yet bursting with flavour. The sauce was tangy but did not mask the taste of the bird. It was one of those sauces which brings several flavourings to mind but they are so cunningly blended that the mind rejects each one of them as contributive.

“What is it?” Francine asked. “It's a bit like turkey.”

I hid a shudder. “They call it ‘Oiseau Royal',” I told her. “It's the speciality of the house.”

“It's nice—you say it's not turkey?”

I shook my head, trying not to let her question affect the succulent mouthful I was relishing.

“What is it then?” she persisted.

“They don't say. Just call it ‘Oiseau Royal'.”

“But you're the Gourmet Detective,” she said accusingly. “You must know.”

“Not yet,” I told her. “I'm trying to figure it out though.”

We finished—I, with great reluctance and only because there was not even a morsel left. We sipped the wine for a few minutes and I scanned the room again. I knew exactly where all the doors led and I had the movements of all the waiters in my head. It was now or never. I excused myself to Francine and headed for a doorway. I pushed through it and down a short corridor. There was no doubt as to which way to go—my nose led me.

I pushed open the swing doors and stepped into the kitchen. It was a heady atmosphere of aromas and spices, of bubbling pots and spirals of steam. Dishes clattered, pans rattled and voices echoed sharply. Cleavers thudded on to chopping boards, carving knives slithered on metal. All was action, excitement and motion yet all was controlled and directed in the search for perfection.

No one seemed to have noticed my entry and my eyes roamed like laser beams while my brain clicked notes and impressions, numbers and weights, storing them all away as fast as more flooded in.

Things were beginning to add up. I turned to look across the kitchen when a head swivelled in my direction. There was a frozen moment. Denouncing tones whipped out words I didn't catch and then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a blur of movement and an upraised arm. I tried to step away but too late. Something crashed into the back of my head and reality went swimming away down a river of darkness.

I came to as if I was clawing my way out of a Jacuzzi full of plain yoghurt. Faces looked down at me in condemnation. They were all in white uniforms and I was seized in a paroxysm of terror.

I knew exactly where I was because I had encountered the same situation in dozens of private eye novels. All of them had found themselves in this same frightful predicament at some time in their careers—Philip Marlowe, Mike Hammer, Lew Archer, Tony Rome. I was in a private sanitorium where I had been injected with scopolamine, the truth serum.

Would I tell them the truth? Of course I would.

Could I tell them the truth? Did I know the truth? What if Raymond hadn't told me the truth? Would these people believe me?

If the truth serum didn't work, what would they do then? Would they torture me? Or worse—feed me food with preservatives and artificial colouring and MSG?

The fiendish faces staring down at me looked capable of anything. Then, the whitish haze began to clear … Those weren't doctors' caps, they were chefs' hats. Those weren't medical uniforms, they were kitchen wear. Pots still simmered and grills still sizzled. I smelled onions, garlic, lemon … I was lying on the floor of the kitchen at Le Trouquet d'Or.

“You must not blame Marcel, M'sieu,” said a moustachioed face, helping me to my feet. “He came through the door with a full tray—he could not know that you were standing there behind it.” His tone was commiserating but did I detect a hint of suspicion in it?

“I must have taken a wrong turn. I was looking for the—”

“It is in the opposite direction. Still, I hope you are not hurt?”

“I—I'm fine,” I said. I saw the shattered dishes and the mess on the floor. “I'm sorry about the—”

“T'cha—it is nothing. Charles will escort you back to your table.”

Francine glanced up as I returned to my seat then did a double take.

“Did something happen? You look pale.”

“I'm okay.”

“It's not the food, is it?”

I just shook my head.

When the waiter came around again, I persuaded Francine to have the chocolate cake with almonds and chocolate butter cream. I watched her eat it while I drank a cup of coffee. She looked surprised when the waiter brought two liqueurs and said, “Compliments of the restaurant.”

“They must know me,” I said quickly in order to forestall more questions.

The taxi ride back was quiet. My head stopped aching but I was in no mood to satisfy Francine's curiosity although she was clearly bursting with it. She however was determined not to ask and so, at her door, I gave her a kiss on the cheek, thanked her for her company and said we must do it again sometime. She smiled automatically and thanked me for a nice evening.