Free Gourmet Detective by Peter King

despite his German-Swiss name and saw life through Latin eyes.
    â€œCould that break-up have been so acrimonious that Raymond might want to ruin François?”
    Klaus looked horrified. “After so many years?”
    I could understand his scepticism, I felt the same way. But was that all? Had there been just an argument? What could it have been about?
    â€œPerhaps there’s more to it than just an argument over a woman.”
    â€œWhat could there be?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I admitted. “You can’t suggest anything?”
    â€œI work for François,” Klaus said proudly. “I am his head chef. You would expect me to be loyal—and I am. But I tell you I know nothing more. François never refers to Raymond, never.”
    â€œRaymond is his closest competitor, isn’t he?”
    â€œOne of three or four close competitors, I would say.”
    â€œDoes François ever refer to the others?”
    â€œWell, of course …” His voice trailed away.
    â€œBut never Raymond?”
    â€œWell, no.”
    Miss Marple would probably have been able to make all kinds of deductions from that but I couldn’t discern much that I didn’t already know.
    More staff had now come into the kitchen. One came up to Klaus and held out a dish. “Try this galantine,” he invited. Klaus tasted, savouring it. “Stuffing for a piece of sirloin,” he told me in an aside and tasted it again.
    â€œNeeds more salt,” he ordered. “M’m and maybe some fresh truffle peelings—but certainly more salt.”
    â€œWhat’s a Swiss chef doing in England?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you rather be in France?”
    â€œNot today. Ah, back in the thirties, yes. I would have given a lot to have been in Paris then. It was the time and place when food was most appreciated—paradise for a chef.” He laughed. “Why am I here, you ask? I am old-fashioned. I like the way people take their time here. It is essential for food—whether cooking it or eating it. I spent a year at ‘The Fenestre’ in New York City.” He shivered. “Twenty-four clerks just to take reservations! Can you imagine! Purgatory—maybe worse. François rescued me and brought me here.”
    â€œNo wonder you’re loyal,” I told him.
    A tray of pastry went by on its way to an oven. Klaus stopped the man carrying it, scrutinised the load then nodded approval.
    â€œThanks, Klaus. I’ll let you go back to work.”
    â€œYou wish to return to François’ office?”
    â€œI’d like to talk to Mr Leopold. Think he’s in yet?”
    â€œPossibly. He comes in about this time.”
    He led me to Leopold’s office, knocked and went in. Leopold was there, behind a tidy desk with neat stacks of folders, papers and bills. Klaus introduced me and left.
    Larry Leopold was one of the most dynamic individuals I had met in a long time. Lithe and wiry, he moved with a quick nervous energy like an electrified marionette. In his early forties, he had an angular face with short reddish-brown hair and darting eyes. His outstanding feature was a well-trimmed reddish-brown Van Dyke beard which jutted out from his chin in a way which gave him a distinctly piratical look.
    He paced up and down as he talked, despite having seated me. Bookshelves stuffed with files and folders covered one wall and on another were diplomas, certificates and framed photographs. It was a working office and had an energetic, efficient air that matched its occupant.
    â€œAny progress in finding out what’s going on around here?” he asked in a staccato voice that delivered words in machine-gun like bursts. “No, of course not. Haven’t had time yet, have you? François told me he was hiring you.” He viewed me critically. I wondered if I passed the inspection. “Damn funny business. Any ideas?”
    â€œNot so