Death with Blue Ribbon Read online

  Gloria exhibited an expanse of bosom as smooth and tempting as a pink silk cushion. Her hair had an artificial gold sheen, her eyelashes were too long and her ear-rings too heavy—she seemed to have a deplorable tendency to overdo things.

  ‘Goo-ood mor-ning,’ she called musically, giving Carolus her wide professional smile. ‘You’re early, aren’t you?’

  ‘Used to getting up early in my job,’ said Carolus.

  ‘Are you?’ She leaned over the bar. ‘Let me guess what that is. Meelk Marketing Board? No? News agency? Press, perhaps? Or could it be feelms?’

  ‘Something of that sort,’ said Carolus briefly, and realised that the idea of films had a magical effect on Gloria.

  He ordered a whisky-and-soda and offered her a drink. Her movements had suddenly taken on an exaggerated gracefulness. She pivoted round to the bottles behind her and held a glass under the bottle measure with fingers delicately extended. Her smile was in slow-motion.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen your face. I expect I ought to know it at once,’ she said roguishly to Carolus.

  ‘Not very likely. I’m not a star.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps you direct. I adore the films.’

  ‘You wouldn’t if you had to work in them.’

  ‘Oh, but I should. It’s what I’ve always wanted. I have been told…’

  ‘What’s wrong with your job here?’

  Gloria looked petulant.

  ‘It’s all right, I suppose. I do meet some interesting people. Tony Curtis came in the other day. But I don’t think it’s what I’m cut out for. Doo yew?’

  Carolus appeared to examine her carefully.

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  Through the door behind the bar a jolly red-faced man in a chef’s white cap emerged, beaming.

  ‘Give us a Guinness, Glor,’ he said.

  Gloria became very dignified.

  ‘You’re not supposed to come into the bar,’ she said haughtily.

  ‘What’s up with you this morning, sweetheart?’

  ‘Don’t call me sweetheart. You can take your Guinness and go back to the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Hark at you, Brigitte Bardot.’

  Gloria flushed.

  ‘Will you please get out?’

  The man seemed to realise for the first time that he was interrupting something. His smile faded.

  ‘No need to be nasty,’ he said.

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘I’ll see you later. When you’ve got over it.’

  He disappeared and Gloria turned to Carolus.

  ‘You see? They’re so common.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Carolus.

  ‘Tom Bridger. He’s the assistant chef. He’s all right, I suppose. But I hate anyone talking like that. It’s so silly. That’s why I want to get out of here.’ She looked fixedly at Carolus. ‘I shouldn’t care what I did,’ she added ambiguously.

  ‘He seemed a nice enough chap,’ said Carolus.

  ‘Tom? He’s not bad, I suppose, but he shouldn’t presume.’

  ‘What’s the chef like?’

  This was not the sort of question Gloria wanted to encourage but she could not avoid answering.

  ‘He’s a bit of an old misery,’ she said. ‘Very good at his job, though. He’s jealous of Mr Rolland, I always say. You can tell by the way he talks.’

  ‘I hear there was a scene in the dining-room the other night. A man complaining of food poisoning.’

  Gloria gave him a steady look.

  ‘I know nothing about that,’ she said curtly.

  ‘You were here at the time, though?’

  ‘In here, yes. I never saw any of it. It wasn’t my business.’ Or yours, she might have added. To think that she had waited all these years to meet a film director and now that one had come he wanted to talk about the hotel.

  ‘You didn’t see the man at all? He didn’t come in here for a drink before he went to the dining-room?’

  ‘Whatever do you want to know for?’

  ‘I’m inquisitive.’

  ‘Telling me you are. I thought you were a film director.’

  ‘What’s wrong with an inquisitive film director? I like to hear you telling me things. Just ordinary things about your work.’

  Gloria recovered.

  ‘Doo yew?’

  ‘Yes. When I asked you about the man with food poisoning you looked quite sulky. Different expression altogether. Almost as though you knew more about it than you wanted to say. Interesting, that.’

  ‘Perhaps I do,’ smiled Gloria, registering an impossibly arch expression.

  Carolus watched her intently.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well, as a metter of feet he did come in here before dinner,’ she said, becoming a mite dramatic and conspiratorial. ‘I had quate a long talk with him.’

  ‘What about?’

  Arch, again; arch but smiling. She even raised a coy forefinger.

  ‘That would be telling,’ she said.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said Carolus.

  ‘As a metter of feet …’ Now she was elaborately casual. ‘As a matter of feet it was about Imogen Marvell.’

  ‘Go on. Con brio,’ said Carolus.

  ‘I told him who she is and all about her. He seemed terribly interested. Then I said she was coming on Thursday and he made a little note. That’s really all.’

  ‘Good. Now something else.’

  Wistfulness replaced the casual expression, wistfulness and sisterly concern.

  ‘Poor Mr Rolland’s terribly worried about her visit. After this other episode, I mean. It would be dreadful for the restaurant if anything went wrong.’

  ‘Dreadful,’ agreed Carolus. ‘Have you any reason to suppose it will?’

  Gloria seemed to wake up.

  ‘I? What do I know about it? It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘One last question. Just stand under that light when you answer it. Good. Now then. Did anyone else speak to the man who complained of food poisoning when he was here?’

  Gloria registered deep thought.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, hanging her head. The answer seemed to have been wrung from her with whips and scorpions.

  ‘Hold it,’ said Carolus. ‘Who?’

  She became in a flash the lady of the underworld with a heart of gold.

  ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble,’ she whispered.

  ‘Go on!’ said Carolus enthusiastically.

  ‘Davy Paton. The chef’s apprentice. When the man left after shouting at Mr Rolland, Dave Paton followed him out to his car.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Carolus. ‘Let’s have another drink.’

  ‘Was I…? Did I…?’

  ‘You were splendid,’ said Carolus, with satisfaction. ‘It’s not really quite my line. I’m concerned more with actualities. But I’m going to write to Alex Foss.’

  ‘Alex Foss? Will you really?’

  Alex Foss was a film producer and an old friend of Carolus. It was characteristic of him that he meant what he said and had not made the girl display her talents merely to gain his own ends.

  ‘I can’t promise you anything, Gloria. But Alex will certainly see you.’

  ‘Even if it was only crowd work!’ said Gloria ecstatically.

  ‘Well, it’s up to you. But he’ll see you.’

  Carolus found Rolland in his office and guessed that something had happened since yesterday for the man was in a state of white panic.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ he said. ‘They rang up last night.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Rivers. I knew his voice. From a call box. He kept laughing in that frightful way he has.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To tell me what to do if I changed my mind, he said.’

  ‘What are you to do?’

  ‘Put an advert in the Personal Column of the Daily Post. “Darling. Am expecting you. Daisy”. Then someone will call.’

  ‘And what?�
�

  ‘It will be a woman. She will come to the bar and have a gin and peppermint. Then she’ll ask whether we sell chocolates. I shall have the chocolates locked up in my office and bring a box myself which will contain the notes but be weighted to match a full box. She will pay for them and leave.’

  ‘How will you know it’s not some innocent woman asking for chocolates?’

  ‘Because when I’m called, she’ll say, “I ought not to eat them really. I’m on a regime.” ’

  ‘Pretty good. But not cast-iron. If you had told the police beforehand …’

  ‘Don’t mention the police. These people are dangerous. They would kill me if I went to the police. I know it. That’s why I came to you. And for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I’ve called you in. It would be nearly as bad. You’re going to behave just like everyone else staying here, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try. I’m not very good at behaving just like everyone else, but I’ll try. Did Rivers say any more?’

  Rolland fidgeted nervously.

  ‘Yes. They know that Imogen Marvell’s coming on Thursday. Rivers seemed to think it was a tremendous joke.’

  ‘I suppose it is—for him. Can’t you put her off?’

  Rolland stared.

  ‘Put off Imogen Marvell? You must be crazy. I might as well try to put off Judgment Day.’

  He shook his head sadly at the wild impossibility of the suggestion.

  ‘Tell me about this young apprentice of yours,’ said Carolus.

  ‘Paton? I know very little about him. He came here through an agency.’

  ‘From what background?’

  ‘I have heard since, though it may be nothing but staff gossip, that he has been in an approved school.’

  ‘But there has been no complaint about him here?’

  ‘None from the chef under whom he works. I understand that the bar manageress complained of his having been cheeky to her. But that might mean anything or nothing. He seems to be a lively youngster.’

  ‘I see. What about the bar manageress, as you call her. Do any of the men here seem seriously attracted?’

  Rolland drummed his fingers on the desk.

  ‘I really don’t think you should expect me to indulge in that sort of gossip,’ he replied with an attempt at the loftiness of manner he had once shown. ‘I have no idea who is attracted to Miss Gee or who finds her quite unattractive, as I do.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I do. And may I point out that I am deeply concerned with something you almost ignore. On Thursday Imogen Marvell comes here. If these people intend to do it they can ruin my business on that day entirely and for good.’

  ‘That would surely be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs, wouldn’t it?’

  The metaphor seemed to bring no comfort to Rolland.

  Four

  On Thursday Carolus rose early because it was a brilliant frosty morning. He occupied a pleasant room on the first floor of the Fleur-de-Lys and from its window he could see the wide space in front of the house and the car park.

  There was a bright and busy early morning air about the place, a delivery van or two with cheerful drivers who shouted greetings to Tom Bridger, a whistling youngster delivering newspapers, a crisp atmosphere which promised a clear if chilly day. Carolus decided to pass the morning in complete relaxation in expectation of Imogen Marvell’s arrival in the afternoon.

  At about four o’clock Carolus woke from a siesta and phoned down for tea. Crossing to the window he looked into the dusk and saw nothing less than the arrival of Imogen Marvell. A pink Rolls-Royce, like a mobile strawberry ice-cream, was driven in and the chauffeur, a handsome young man in a cherry-coloured uniform, jumped out athletically to open the door. From this emerged a drab-looking woman with a shapeless hat and nondescript tweeds who immediately turned towards the car interior as though it were a shrine. It is not easy to get out of a car and be greeted at the same time by those waiting, even when the car is a Rolls with ample door space. There is too often an ungraceful scene with a bottom emerging first or an awkward crablike exit. Imogen Marvell must have practised her movements. She leapt lightly from the car and beamed to Rolland who was standing in the hotel entrance to receive her. Skilled Royalty could not have done it better.

  Although the space before the front door was brightly lit, it was impossible from Carolus’s window to see more of the women than the dull clothes of the one and the mink coat of the other and he decided to go down to the large chintzy room known as the Residents’ Lounge, not to be confused with the Georgian Lounge and Bar. Here he found Miss Marvell enthroned, waiting for the television men to prepare their apparatus, the reporters, who were already in the bar, to encircle her, and any odd bods, like Carolus, to be presented to her.

  Beside her like an acolyte squatted her secretary Maud Trudge, a stringy woman who flushed easily and seemed to live in a state of taut anxiety. Her worried expression contrasted, and was intended to contrast, with the serene self-confidence of Imogen Marvell.

  Rolland led Carolus to the throne.

  ‘May I introduce Mr Deene, one of our guests?’ he asked Imogen Marvell and waited for her smile before announcing her name.

  Carolus noticed the woman’s voice, evidently trained by a skilled elocutionist.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Deene. Are you interested in gastronomy?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Carolus. ‘I know what I like.’

  A condescending smile lit the enamel features.

  ‘Ah. How very English,’ she replied. It was evident that she was going to use the occasion for a pronouncement. ‘I have nothing against people eating what they like,’ she conceded, ‘providing that they make some effort to educate the palate. Do you do that, Mr Deene?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m too busy educating my pupils.’

  ‘I see. A schoolmaster,’ Miss Marvell said, all interest in her voice dying out as she turned to Rolland.

  ‘I should like to see the cuisine,’ she announced.

  This had evidently been anticipated and a cortège moved towards the kitchen in which Carolus took an obscure place. He did not want to miss the scene that would follow.

  But here a surprise awaited them and for Rolland it was an unpleasant one. The three members of the kitchen staff were all present, but Antoine instead of wearing a shimmering white uniform and coming forward to greet Miss Marvell was seated in his shirt-sleeves smoking a cigarette and studying the Evening Standard. (The crossword, Carolus noted sympathetically.) Tom Bridger’s apron was soiled and Davy Paton mechanically swept the floor.

  Antoine rose slowly. Carolus saw that he was a dour, cadaverous man.

  ‘This is our chef-de-cuisine,’ announced Rolland, and then with threatening emphasis, as though Antoine must be made to realise what was happening, ‘Miss Imogen Marvell.’

  ‘Afternoon,’ said Antoine.

  Miss Trudge looked as though her face might disintegrate with anxiety as she watched her employer. But Imogen Marvell was equal to the situation.

  ‘How do you do, M’sieur Antoine?’ she said. ‘I have heard a great deal about you and your Scampi à la Rolland.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Antoine flatly.

  ‘And what are you preparing for us this evening?’

  ‘The usual. Our menu doesn’t vary much in winter.’

  Some camera flashes, which caused Miss Marvell to adopt her gracious smile, interrupted them. Then she eyed a large drum which had been carelessly left in view.

  ‘I see you use Ova-Crema Liquid Eggifier,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Antoine shamelessly.

  Miss Marvell, who was a director of the firm manufacturing the product, beamed.

  ‘The best egg-substitute on the market,’ she said.

  As a piece of dialogue between the chef of a restaurant called the Haute Cuisine and the author of a book called French Cuisine Suprême this struck Carolus as memorable. But there was more to come.

  ‘And cheese?’ a
sked Imogen Marvell.

  ‘Processo,’ said Antoine briefly, indicating another drum.

  ‘Could not be better. It runs so smoothly. What about cooking fat?’

  ‘Been using Lardoline,’ said Antoine, ‘but I want a change.’

  ‘Try Margolio,’ said Imogen Marvell. ‘It Fries More Golden,’ she added. She was quoting that famous television commercial which showed a triumphant housewife dishing out fried fish in batter to ecstatic children.

  The big scene was approaching in which Imogen Marvell was to pin a blue rosette, her own Cordon Bleu, on the breast of a proud Antoine. Miss Trudge stepped forward while Imogen turned to the cameras.

  ‘Haven’t you got a chef’s uniform?’ she whispered to Antoine.

  ‘Only wear it for special occasions,’ said Antoine sulkily.

  Miss Trudge flushed.

  ‘If this is not a special occasion,’ she hissed, ‘I’d like to know what is!’

  ‘Why? Who’s she?’ asked Antoine.

  Miss Trudge would not listen to blasphemy.

  ‘Quick!’ she said. ‘Put it on!’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Antoine. ‘You’ll have to wait then.’

  He disappeared and Imogen approached Davy Paton.

  ‘Do you enjoy your work?’ she asked.

  Davy Paton, a cheerful-looking youth with a sprinkle of humorous freckles, grinned.

  ‘Enjoy it? Good Lord no. It’s a frightful bind.’

  ‘You’re not interested in cooking?’

  ‘I’m giving it a try. If it suits me, I’ll go on. If not I’ll take something else. D’you like it?’

  Imogen Marvell smiled gaily and turned to two reporters.

  ‘An original, evidently. He has just asked me if I like cooking!’

  She glanced towards Tom Bridger but seemed unwilling to chance her luck further.

  Then Antoine returned in a white uniform and under the eye of a television camera the ceremony took place which would enchant several million viewers.

  Carolus escaped to the Georgian Lounge and found Gloria Gee at her station.

  ‘Make it a double, Gloria,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t she a scream?’ said Gloria.

  ‘Your term is more apt than you know. A scream of sheer horror. I wonder where she comes from.’