Gourmet Detective by Peter King Page B

dark-red stain across the white table-cloth. A woman squealed and there were gasps of horror.
    Next to IJ, Goodwin Harper on one side and Raymond on the other side pulled him up and eased him back into his chair. Goodwin Harper had his hands on IJ’s wrist, feeling for a pulse.
    There was not a sound in the room. Goodwin Harper felt IJ’s neck then he straightened slowly, a look of bewilderment on his face.
    â€œHe’s dead,” said Goodwin Harper.

Chapter Nine
    T HE SCENE IN THE banquet room was vastly different from that of half an hour earlier. Then it had been glowing with camaraderie and basking in good humour. Now, fear and uncertainty hovered in the air like great vampires.
    The guests stood clustered in small uneasy groups, discussing IJ’s death in low voices. Suspicion and doubt were in every face. Hercule Poirot would have said that the smell of death was in the air but to be honest, the odours of good food still lingered.
    The calls for an ambulance and the police had brought forth a constable from his beat, hastily summoned by his walkie-talkie and he was in the restaurant within two or three minutes—even before the initial furore had subsided. The doors had promptly been closed and within a further few minutes, a sergeant and a horde of constables had descended upon Le Trouquet d’Or.
    Against a wall, the body of IJ lay on a table, the subject of many a nervous glance. The occasional guest wandered over, unbelieving but irresistibly drawn then turned away.
    Near me, Benjamin Breakspear was regaling his neighbours with a reminiscence brought on by someone thoughtlessly asking him the kind of question he doted on.
    â€œOh yes, I was in a James Bond film once,” he boomed. “I was killed off in the first five minutes but I…” Something on the faces of his listeners must have given him a hint. He was ordinarily as impervious as a buffalo but on this occasion, he went on quickly—“Just a film, of course. Not at all like real life…”
    Maggie McNulty approached me. “God, I need a drink! Don’t you have any influence around here? These young men in uniform are very sweet but they haven’t been trained in the social amenities.”
    â€œYou’ll have to forgive them, Maggie. I don’t think we can expect them to be serving any liquor just yet. After all, the body isn’t even cold.”
    Maggie shivered. “Did you have to say that?” She walked away in search of better co-operation.
    Vito Volcanini was waving his arms and rolling his eyes. I supposed he was saying something dramatic and Latin. Johnny Chang was listening, imperturbable by contrast to Vito’s volatility. The police sergeant weaved his way through the knots of people, his eyes on me.
    â€œCan I have a word, sir?” he asked politely.
    â€œCertainly.” We distanced ourselves from the others. I noticed that constables had been stationed by all the doors, not blatantly, in fact quite discreetly though it was evident that no one could get in or out unless they allowed it. Two or three of the constables had disappeared, presumably gone to the kitchens to establish similar control.
    â€œSergeant Nevins, sir,” he introduced himself. He was a little over thirty, red-faced and beefy. He looked like a tough man to face in a rugger scrum. “I believe you’re responsible for security in this establishment.”
    â€œNot exactly, sergeant—” I began.
    â€œMr Duquesne says he hired you to keep an eye on things here.”
    â€œWell, yes, that’s true but—”
    â€œIn the Force, we would consider that as responsible for security, sir.”
    â€œIt may look that way to you, sergeant, but in fact I have only just been hired.”
    â€œHired to be responsible for security, sir?”
    â€œThere’s more to it than that!” I was getting rattled. Did what I had been hired to do include security? Perhaps so