Gourmet Detective 01 - The Gourmet Detective Read online

  “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?”

  “No, I’m sorry—I have to host those Canadians tomorrow. The next day?”

  “That would be fine,” I said promptly. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do and I might even get a few view-points of Raymond from a different angle.

  She was dazzling as she opened the door. “See you at 12.30. You’ll have a wonderful meal and we’ll have a cosy chat.”

  Being a private eye wasn’t such a bad life after all, I reflected as the tube train bucketed and jolted out of the station. The food was good and the girls were gorgeous and there seemed to be a good supply of both.

  After leaving Raymond’s, I had found a phone booth and asked information for Roger St Leger’s number.

  “I’m sorry, there is no number listed for that party,” said the girl sweetly.

  “Does that mean it’s an unlisted number?”

  “I’m sorry but I’m not permitted to give you that information.”

  “How do I go about getting an unlisted number?” I asked.

  “You would have to call the party concerned and ask them to give it to you.”

  “But if you won’t give me the number, how can I—thanks anyway.”

  He could live out of London but having had a regular television programme, it seemed more likely that he was in the Greater London area. I did what I often do in such circumstances—I called Michael.

  “I’ll call you back,” he said after I had told him what I wanted.

  “I’m in a phone box. I’ll call you.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  I gave him six. He picked up the phone promptly and gave me St Leger’s number. “His address—if you want it—is 103 Melbourne Place, Fulham Wharf.”

  “You’re a marvel, Michael,” I told him. “How did you do it?”

  “I called his publisher.”

  “He’s a writer too?”

  “Wrote a book based on his last TV programme. I know the publisher—promised him I’d move two hundred copies of a new cook-book just coming out.”

  “I’ll buy one of them,” I offered, “providing it’s less than a fiver.”

  “Good-bye,” Michael said and hung up.

  Fulham Wharf was one of those new Thames-side developments, all concrete and glass and trees in barrels. The river looked dark and greasy and a chilly breeze swirled through the barren streets which were liberally scattered with black-and-white humps to break the heads of fast drivers. A barrier kept out unwanted visitors but it looked as if all visitors here came in cars for there was no one to stop me walking in.

  I had decided to just go rather than phone. He couldn’t say “no” as easily this way. I found Melbourne Place from the large map displayed inside the entrance. It was grim and impersonal like the rest of the buildings in here but the inhabitants no doubt preferred the facilities, the location and the trendy to the picturesque.

  Number 103 was on the ground floor and the expansive window must have had a fine view of the dirty water. I paused outside and gathered my thoughts as to why I was here.

  Raymond had said that St Leger had visited his restaurant, saying that he hoped to get a new TV programme. Well, maybe … but wasn’t that putting the dessert before the entrée? There was no question though that most of my suspicion of St Leger stemmed from his behaviour at the Circle of Careme dinner. But why? What had he really done? I’d seen him hand an envelope to Ivor Jenkinson and had seen the look on IJ’s face when he had opened it and seen the contents. And I had seen the look on St Leger’s face when he had stood looking down on the dead body of IJ—well, we had all thought it was dead.

  Not much to go on, I admitted. If I had read of these items in a report, they would have meant little or nothing. It was only because I had witnessed them myself that they seemed to have some significance—and because IJ had died.

  Was I kidding myself? I wondered. Or was my lack of experience showing? Father Brown’s understanding of human nature or Sam Spade’s intuition would have been useful right now.

  The heavy curtains were drawn inside the windows of number 103 even though it was still daytime. One of them was crinkled, leaving a sliver of space at one end through which I could peek if I pressed against the glass. The lights were on and I could see part of a large white couch with pastel pillows piled on it. In front of it was a glass topped coffee table with chrome trim and angled chrome legs. A lush pale blue carpet covered the floor but I registered these details almost automatically.

  It was because my mind was refusing to accept what else I saw—a body half under the table, sprawled in an impossible position and with one leg twisted at a grotesque angle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I RECOILED IN HORROR. I looked again—the body was there, no doubt about it. “St Leger!” my mind screamed. “He’s been murdered because of what he knows!”

  The large window appeared to be double-glazed and made of very thick glass. Not much chance of breaking it in without a sledge-hammer. I would have to go for help. As I passed the door, I took a look at it. It looked solid and probably had half a dozen locks and bolts. I turned the brass handle—and to my astonishment, the door opened.

  It was St Leger sprawled there. I pulled him out from his position half under the coffee table and dragged him on to the couch. It was only then that I remembered the cardinal rule about never touching the body. Oh well, no private eye is perfect. I was looking round for a phone when a groan made me jump almost out of my skin.

  St Leger groaned again and I pulled him up straighter. He was still alive! I started to loosen his tie but it was already loose. Memories of IJ being dead and coming back to life began to flood back but I wa
s close to St Leger now and I suspected that the circumstances were different. The blast of alcohol fumes that he breathed at me almost knocked me back. He wasn’t dead but he was certainly dead drunk.

  I found the kitchen, a couple of dozen electronic gadgets surrounding a stainless steel island and put half a jar of coffee into what was surely an automatic coffee maker. The refrigerator had a continuous ice-maker and I soaked a dish towel in water and filled it with ice cubes. I made a cup of coffee strong enough to sober W.C. Fields and took it and the ice cubes back into the living room. It was then that I noticed two glasses on the table. One had lipstick.

  Some minutes later, the bleary eyes greeted me with a singular lack of cordiality. After they had focused, St Leger croaked:

  “What the devil do you want?”

  He looked awful. I forced more black coffee into him and re-arranged the ice pack. He almost gagged at the coffee and tried to push the ice-pack away.

  “What is that?” he spluttered.

  “Just coffee. Have some more—it’s good for you.”

  He didn’t agree, I could tell. Especially he didn’t like the way I made it. He expressed his opinion of me and the coffee in language that NTV would never have allowed on the box. Then the coffee started to come up and I moved out of range.

  “What are you trying to do—choke me?” he gurgled.

  “What are you trying to do? Kill yourself with booze?”

  He glared furiously at me but his breath was coming back.

  “I knew a fellow once,” I said conversationally, “spent forty-eight hours in intensive care with an intravenous drip in his arm after over-indulgence in the grain.”

  The glare was still there but his breathing was nearly normal. His colour was coming back too but I didn’t want to be too soft.

  “Didn’t help though. He died anyway.”

  There was silence for a while, not of the kind called companionable. Finally he said, “If you’ll put some more coffee on and make it properly this time, I’ll drink it.”

  I did and poured one for myself though I didn’t drink it.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked me, a little more civilly but not exactly warm.

  “I came to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  Now was the time—or was it too late? Should I have pressed him unmercifully while he was still weak and unable to resist?

  “About the death of IJ.”

  He closed his eyes and then opened them as if they were small slabs of marble.

  “Why would I know anything about it?”

  “You were there.”

  “So were you.”

  I had left it too late. He was getting sassy already. I moved the coffee out of his reach.

  “What was in the envelope you handed to IJ at the Circle of Careme dinner?” I asked abruptly.

  “What envelope?”

  “Don’t play games!” I snapped.

  He squinted at me out of puffy eyes.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Jimmy Valentine—Master Cracksman.”

  “That’s breaking and entering!” he said indignantly.

  “I didn’t break a thing. Now tell me—what was in the envelope?”

  He groaned and tried to move the leg that had looked as if it had been bent through three angles.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you know.”

  He was still wincing with pain. Maybe it was distracting him from my questions or I could hope that it made him more vulnerable.

  “I collected it from one of IJ’s informants,” he said, rubbing his knee. “I came in a little late—went straight over to IJ and handed it to him.”

  “What was in it?”

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Who was the informant?”

  “I’d never seen him before.”

  “But you know some of IJ’s informants.”

  “I’ve seen one or two. Never saw this one before. IJ wasn’t free with introductions.”

  One thing I was beginning to realise was that deciding when people were telling me the truth and when they were lying was very difficult. The private eye of fiction can spot the flicker of an eyelid or the quiver of a lip and interpret it unerringly. His instinct was more efficient than a polygraph and a prevarication didn’t stand a chance. I didn’t find it that easy. If there had been a meaningful flicker or quiver—then I’d missed it.

  St Leger sounded as if he were telling the truth but he probably wasn’t. Raymond had sounded as if he were telling the truth too and so had François. Most likely, there were lots of lies in there—but where?

  “How did you get along with IJ?” I asked him.

  His face contorted as stomach pains twisted his insides. He fought to keep them under control. “I didn’t like him much,” he said at length.

  “Hard to get along with, I’ve heard.”

  “He used me as if I were an errand boy.”

  “You were helping him with his programmes?”

  “He had me doing a few things for him, yes.”

  “Because of your background regarding food?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he was killed, who do you think killed him?”

  The puffy eyes opened as much as swollen flesh permitted.

  “Who said he was killed?”

  “Nobody. I said ‘If he was’.”

  “There wasn’t anybody who liked him. He was an unpleasant bastard.”

  “So everybody disliked him?”

  St Leger didn’t answer that speculation, just shook his head.

  “So everybody had a reason to kill him?”

  His glare came back. “Don’t be absurd! You don’t kill people just because you don’t like them.”

  “Out of all the people who didn’t like him—maybe there was one who disliked him enough—enough to kill him,” I suggested.

  He shook his head wearily. His eyelids were drooping. The reaction was setting in and he was going to fall asleep on me any minute now.

  “You must have had quite a party,” I commented.

  He nodded and yawned.

  “All of you,” I said pointedly. He saw me looking at the two glasses and tried to do the same but he didn’t focus well.

  “M’m…” he murmured.

  “Your ex-wife?” I hazarded.

  He shook his head then moaned with the pain.

  “Girl friend?” I persisted. “Au pair? Neighbour? Cleaning lady? Income tax inspector?”

  None of them registered although he heard them. His head was drooping. The interrogation was over.

  I went into the bathroom and opened all the cabinets. No sign of any female occupancy. I thought of what he had told me, little as it was. Once again, I had heard how disliked IJ was. I wondered if all IJ’s colleagues at the studio felt the same way, what they might know and what they could guess.

  There was only one way to find out. Oh, I remembered Inspector Hemingway’s warning but if Nero Wolfe had listened to Inspector Cramer, he would never have solved a crime.

  The phone was another electronic marvel. Pushing the right buttons, St Leger could probably talk to the astronauts and ask them what flavour mush they were sucking through their straws today. After I figured out how to place a local call without getting the Kremlin, I got the National Television Studios.

  “This is Roger St Leger,” I said in what I hoped was near enough to his voice. “I have a friend who has kindly agreed to come to the studio tomorrow to pick up some files for me. Make arrangements to let him in, would you?”

  There were clicks and I had to repeat my request. A voice said: “I’ll call you back at your private number to confirm.” They did so and I hung up, pleased that that had gone so well.

  I put St Leger’s feet up on the couch, brought a duvet from the bedroom and tossed it over him. I didn’t tuck him in but I did make sure the door locked as I went out.

  Back at the office, I read the fax
from Carol. There was a fair amount of technical stuff that wasn’t very enlightening but the gist of it was that Tintilinum botulinum was a very nasty customer indeed to have on your plate.

  It is similar to the botulinus bacillus but much less common. The toxin is found in fish which has been kept too long before cooking. The onset of symptoms occurs much more quickly than in botulism.

  First, there is an inability to focus the eyes. The stomach may or not feel queasy. The voice remains normal but the brain rapidly becomes unable to concentrate and can operate properly only for short spans. There is difficulty in connecting thoughts.

  The pulse slows and may become so weak that it is undetectable. Breathing is very shallow and the victim may appear to be dead. Both pulse and breathing may return to normal for brief periods but death will follow.

  It all fitted IJ’s symptoms and explained his mysterious return from the dead. I turned to the contents of a fat envelope from Michael Markham.

  He had been as thorough as ever. There were a lot of newspaper cuttings on Legionnaires’ Disease and the Mad Cow Affair which seemed now to be irrelevant. However, I learned that the bacteria known as listeria which is found in some pre-cooked, chilled foods especially soft cheeses kills over two hundred people a year. Reading about the Salmonella in Eggs scare made it seem more political than medical. One alarming figure though came from the Ministry of Health quoted by the Sunday Times as saying that totally two million people a year in Britain experience food poisoning, ranging from one day attacks to death.

  On the subject of lamprey, Michael had dug deep into historical files. Just before World War I, thousands of lamprey had been washed up at Hammersmith Pier, all dead from poisoning. Forensic investigation at that time was not well advanced but the conclusion was that they had died from their own poison—and that was presumably Tintilinum Botulinum, the poison that had killed Ivor Jenkinson.

  Michael had included comments on King Henry I’s death and it seemed that modern opinion was that he had died—not from a surfeit of lampreys as popular legend had it—but from the poison in the fish. Michael reminded me that several kings had died from eating certain foods, the most interesting of which were King Matthias of Hungary—killed by eating figs and King George I of England—died after eating watermelons.