Someone is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe Read online

  SOMEONE IS KILLING

  THE GREAT CHEFS OF EUROPE

  NAN AND IVAN LYONS

  Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe

  Copyright © 1976 by Nan and Ivan Lyons

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Charlotte Sheedy Literary Agency, 928 Broadway, Suite 901, New York, NY 10010.

  ebook ISBN: 978-0-7867-5456-4

  print ISBN: 978-0-7867-5455-7

  Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services

  To Samantha

  SOMEONE IS KILLING

  THE GREAT CHEFS OF EUROPE

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  Peking duck. Lacquered to perfection. Crisp skin. Warm moist pancakes. Spring onions and sweet bean sauce. Yes. If he were to leave London immediately, within eighteen hours he could be in Peking.

  The black Phantom VI Rolls-Royce spilled noiselessly down South Audley Street and into Grosvenor Square. Achille van Golk grunted as he lifted his leg onto the jump seat in front of him. The pain. He narrowed his eyes and blotted out the white gold of a ten o’clock sun. He envisioned himself at Fung Tse Yuan, nodding with approval as Chen awarded the glistening honeyed duck to him. Indeed, had he not traveled farther for it than Marco Polo?

  Pushing her pram onto the zebra, a nearsighted nanny stepped off the curb. The Phantom VI caught its breath sharply. “What is wrong with him?” Achille shouted through the glass to his secretary in the front seat. “Is he trying to kill me?”

  The new black chauffeur (Rudolph) turned his semi-Afrosheared head quickly toward Miss Beauchamp (pronounced Beechum). “There is nothing wrong with him,” she said, without turning around to her employer, “except that he is not trying to kill you.”

  “Where did you find him? Where is he from?”

  “Poland,” she answered.

  Achille was silent. His leg throbbed and he was chilly. He hunched his shoulders and pressed the sable collar of his black vicuna coat against his ears. He opened the rosewood bar and stared in disbelief at the three empty crystal decanters and the empty silver bowl. He snatched the microphone from its perch.

  “Miss Beauchamp” (pronouncing it Beauchamp), “would you be good enough to explain to me, in front of your friend Stanislaus, why my decanters are empty and most especially explain to me why my nut dish is not filled with my nuts?”

  “You should not have them.”

  “I did not appoint you Keeper of the Cashews. Kindly remember you are a vastly overpaid boring spinster whose nonessential duties do not include sequestering my nuts or employing the Prince of Zanzibar.”

  “He is from Poland. Outside Cracow.”

  “Mozambique is outside Cracow.”

  “We’re here,” she said, turning around for the first time. She allowed a small smile. “Does your leg hurt?”

  Rudolph slid out of his seat and came around to open the door for Achille. Raising the enormous arms of his black fur-lined overcoat, Achille held on to him. They rocked back and forth until momentum propelled the bald man with one black eyebrow across his forehead out of the car. Achille brushed away the hand that helped him and walked painfully toward No. 44.

  Miss Beauchamp rang the bell, and stood well back to allow Achille to fit through the door with ease.

  “Good morning,” the nurse said, rising and pointing to the inner office, as though just having been chastised for not having risen quickly enough. “Dr. Darling is expecting you. Go right in.”

  Miss Beauchamp opened the second door and Achille snorted before crossing the threshold. Andrew Darling, M.D., stepped from behind his drawerless desk and thrust forward a well-manicured hand. “Achille, how good to see you up and around.” He spoke in a voice one decibel below creating a public nuisance.

  “Of all those people who have stuck their fingers up my ass, you are the last by whom I wish to be called Achille.”

  “I’m your doctor!”

  “Your perverse choice of vocation does not endear you to me, however pleasurable you have found my previous examinations. Nor am I particularly charmed by your latest medical fetish. Here.” Achille took a small bottle from his pocket and tossed it. Dr. Darling caught the specimen bottle with an audible intake of breath, and looked down to assure himself that the cap was tight. He saw written across the label in thick red marker Mis en Bouteille au Château.

  Dr. Darling stepped back and placed the bottle on a comer of his desk blotter. “Do sit down, Mr. van Golk. I’m afraid I have some rather serious news for you.”

  “Peter Pan has stolen your children again “

  “Please have a chair,” Dr. Darling suggested, ignoring Achille’s comment. “Are you certain you don’t wish to be alone?” he asked, nodding politely at Miss Beauchamp.

  “I am alone.”

  Miss Beauchamp glared at Achille. He shut his eyes for a moment and then sat down.

  “Don’t you wish to remove your overcoat?” the doctor asked.

  “Is your diagnosis to take us through a change of season?”

  “Mr. van Golk,” he bellowed, “you are not a well man.”

  “Which is precisely why I came here rather than to my florist, however incorrect my instincts are beginning to prove. Doctor Da …, see here, I am a very busy man with a very busy schedule. And who knows what dermatological adventure you may have lurking around the comer. I suggest we save one another some time. How long do I have to live?”

  “That will depend entirely upon you.”

  “It relieves me to know it does not depend upon you, darling doctor.”

  “Mr. van Golk, the results of our tests have already shown you to have gout, an enlarged liver, a duodenal ulcer, a spastic colon, severe hardening of the arteries, and a nasty case of the hives. You are calamitously obese. Unless you take immediate action to lose one-half your present weight, you will die of cardiac arrest within the year.”

  “Doctor, surely there is no need to beat about the bush.”

  “I regret I find no humor in your case, Mr. van Golk. Indeed, it is ironic that the publisher of LUCULLUS …”

  “The publisher of LUCULLUS is the publisher of LUCULLUS precisely because he has eaten his way to the top. You will remember, darling doctor, I am not the publisher of The Tuna Fish Gazette. I have shaped the eating habits of millions so they might appreciate the most civilized of the arts, despite your medical hysterics over egg yolks. My body is a veritable canvas on which creative geniuses have developed their techniques. I am, myself, therefore, a living work of art. Every fold, every crease, every chin is the signature of creation. I am, doctor sweetheart, thrilled by the flowering of my own flesh.”

  “Mr. van Golk, I do understand the unusual nature of this case. It is indeed unfortunate that so renowned a gourmet as yourself is faced with this problem, but you simply have no alternative. Unless you stop eating,” he said, lowering his voice for emphasis, “you will most certainly die. All this food will kill you.”

  Kill me? The thought angered Achille. Not if I kill it first.

  “You must take immediate action.”

  I must take immediate action, Achille thought

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nbsp; “You must attack the root of the problem.”

  The chefs, Achille thought. The chefs are the root of the problem.

  “You must begin to diet,” whispered Dr. Darling.

  Indeed, I must. The Ultimate Diet.

  LUCULLUS LTD

  Staff Memo

  From: Typing Pool (Loretta)

  To: Miss Beauchamp

  Dear Miss B:

  I’ve completed transcribing Mr. van G’s tapes of yesterday. I trust you will find my work has been satisfactory and in spite of a personal problem over which I have no control you will give me a satisfactory letter of reference. I have worked for this firm nearly two years and always gave “above and beyond” as one might say. My respect for Mr. van G was always of the highest and I may say I regard his action as highly unusual.

  Since I shall no longer be affiliated with this firm, I should appreciate your returning the six shillings I contributed to Sheila’s wedding present. I have attached to these memos my unused luncheon vouchers.

  From: AVG

  To: Skeffington, Art Dept

  Your proposed cover for the Easter issue is wretched. I doubt it could stimulate a Biafran’s appetite, although the salami addicts in your department obviously thought their photo of a plexiglass pig stuffed with apples the height of nouveau garde. It stinks. I want to see flesh. I want to see a cover that would make Lazarus rise. Else you can go back to designing anchovy tins at Fortnum’s.

  From: AVG

  To: Worthington, Editorial Dept

  What have you got against leeks? I have searched through the copy for the Easter issue and cannot find them in one dish. Was this some amnesiac oversight or would you have me believe that you knowingly deleted my favorite veg from our sacred Easter issue?

  From: AVG

  To: Bussingbill, Mail Room

  Your suggestion that we re-create the menu from The Last Supper in our forthcoming Easter issue is one of the most vulgar ideas I have ever received. If you wish to remain in my employ through Lent, keep your mind on delivering Her Majesty’s Mail. With dispatch.

  From: AVG

  To: Aldingham, Senior Editor

  What the hell did Jesus eat at The Last Supper? Worth a two-page spread?

  To Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth

  May it please Your Majesty,

  A note of reassurance that I have organized a truly brilliant dinner next month to honor Mr. Westlake, the departing ambassador to Bolivia. I don’t know what old Bunky ever did (short of introducing your uncle to Wallis Simpson) that could provoke your banishing him to spend his old age tarnishing in some wretched tin mine. No matter. Bunky will be feted as befits a departing fusilier, who may himself, within weeks, become an hors d’oeuvre for some Andean hammersmith. I believe this dinner to be the best I’ve organized for you—from the superb “Pigeonneaux en Croute” of the Savoy chef to the spun sugar dessert that will be prepared by Miss O’Brien, who is flying in from New York. (Fear not, the illegal booty of Richard the Lion-Hearted will not be tapped. The “en Croute” and the “Bombe Richelieu” are at my own expense because they are the first and last courses of my most favorite dinner.)

  I anticipate the evening with the greatest of pleasure. If you are searching for a way in which to express your appreciation for my efforts, consider Barbados.

  Your obedient servant.

  From: AVG

  To: Beauchamp

  Call Holstma at Swissair. Inform him there was no Perrier on my flight last week. For a supposedly neutral country, they’ve produced the most inflammatory people I’ve encountered. In view of my recent dietary restrictions, I am to be seated in the first row. No one is to be seated beside me. No one is to ask whether I wish anything to eat. Simply, one of those cheesy Swiss misses is to have ready a well-chilled bottle of Perrier and a wine glass. Holstma is to inform his airline personnel of this regimen. Since I go to Geneva every Thursday, I do not wish to endure a weekly confessional over so noncaloric a beverage. If he gives you any trouble tell him I shall print an article claiming that fondue produces cancer.

  Natasha O’Brien will be arriving for Bunky’s dinner. She is to be my guest throughout her stay. Give her the suite at the Connaught, although she’s probably still alley-catting it with Louis. Find out. I want to know everything. Every detail. Send her roses from me. And perhaps a little marzipan.

  From: AVG

  To: Dr. Enstein

  I wish to report I am deeply concerned over a decline in the condition of my wife. While I was at the clinic last week, she hardly conversed with me at all and at one point was nearly unable to distinguish between the Rhine wine and the Moselle we tasted at lunch. When I entrusted her to your care thirteen years ago I expected she would at least maintain some contact with reality. I must report I am sadly disturbed by her lack of improvement and wish to remind you that flying to Geneva each week to sit beside a virtual zombie is not one of the high points on my agenda.

  In answer to your recent inquiry, your name has been added to our complimentary subscription list. Your first issue should reach you in about six weeks.

  From: AVG

  To: Beauchamp

  I want Natasha picked up at Heathrow next month. Send the red Rolls.

  From: AVG

  To: Louis Kohner

  Sehr Gehert Herren,

  OUR Natasha will arrive at the Palace in MY red Rolls. So much for pumpkins.

  Love and kisses, A.

  P.S. I, too, will arrive at the Palace (but not through the Service Entrance) and will personally review the dinner for LUCULLUS. Better get the lead out of your pastry.

  URGENT

  To: Beauchamp

  Loretta is to be given a month’s severance and fired the moment you receive her transcripts. Ketchup has been found in her desk.

  Chapter 2

  Natasha O’Brien had been awake nearly twenty-four hours. Body time was 7:00 A.M., September ninth, despite her fickle Piaget insisting it was noon. Even her loose chestnut Kenneth-cut hair was at twelve o’clock high. Her pink Chanel suit was imperiously unwrinkled. Her face (her own) was clean, soap scrubbed except for a trace of silver Givenchy shadow around her very big brown eyes. She wore no lipstick. Ever. It was a question of taste.

  She passed through British immigration, holding her maroon Gucci valise in one hand, and her red alligator Mark Cross case and her pink suede Hermès purse in the other. Walking under the track of green “nothing to declare” lights at customs she frowned at the agent as her alligator case hit against a low counter. It opened and twelve knives fell at his feet.

  “Oh, fuck,” Natasha said.

  “Here, madam, I’ll help you.”

  “Thank you so much.” She took each knife as he handed it to her, ran her thumb across the blade to be certain there was no damage, and then carefully replaced each one in its proper slot. They rose together and he put his hand to her elbow.

  “I wonder if we might have a word.”

  “These are not for resale. They’re not even a gift,” she said. “These are for personal use only.” She smiled broadly at him. “You see, I have a job to do at Buckingham Palace.”

  His grip tightened on her arm and with his other hand he picked up her valise. “This way, madam. It won’t take a moment.”

  “Double fuck.” Natasha followed him into a small office. A picture of the Queen hung on the wall. Natasha raised one arm in a gesture of mock greeting. She slumped into the chair and handed him her passport.

  “You were born in Vienna, Miss O’Brien?” asked the small gray man who flaunted a gray sweater under his gray jacket.

  “Yes.”

  “Nice city, Vienna?” he asked, still without looking up from her passport. “I’ve never been there.”

  “Oh, you must go. You would love it. It’s so gay and romantic. Why am I here?”

  “But you’re an American citizen?”

  “Yes. You see, my father was an American who met my mother in Vienna during the war.”
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br />   “I’ve never been to America either.”

  “Well, what can I say? It’s even bigger than Vienna. You must go. You would love it. Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “Your mother was Austrian?”

  “No. Actually, she came from yet another place you’ve probably never been. She was a Russian émigrée. Her parents fled from Russia before the Revolution and settled in Vienna.”

  “Russia, you say?” his voice rising perceptibly.

  “Much too cold. You wouldn’t like it. On the other hand, if you like the cold, it would be a terrific place for you. Especially if you like borscht. I would say, if you do like borscht, Russia is the place to be. May I go now?”

  “Miss O’Brien,” he said sharply, “why do you have all those knives with you?”

  “I am a cook.”

  “I see.” There was a pause as they looked at one another. “My wife,” he continued slowly, “is a cook.” Another pause. “She doesn’t carry knives around with her.”

  “I am a professional cook. Actually, a rather famous, rich, beautiful American cook. I give classes, write articles and books, appear on television….”

  “Are you a chef?” he interrupted.

  “That’s it. That is it You see, all chefs, all professional cooks, use their own knives. We take them from job to job like a doctor takes his own instruments. No good cook would ever dream of using anyone else’s knives. It would be like asking Rostropovich to play on someone else’s cello.”

  “He’s Russian, too, isn’t he?”

  “Da.”

  “You were born in 1942?”

  “Da.”

  He looked at her sternly. “Brown hair.” He checked the passport for verification. “And brown eyes. Yes. Five feet four inches.” He studied the photograph, nodded at her, and announced, “Well, this is certainly you.”

  “Goody.”

  “Tell me,” he began slowly, “is it your intention, Miss O’Brien, while you are a visitor in Great Britain, to kill anyone with your knives? I mean to ask, do you plan on using them as lethal weapons?”