Free The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club by Joan Collins Page A

possibly have gone bad.’
    ‘Well, they did,’ snapped Captain Poulpe. ‘They most certainly did. Thirty people don’t become extremely sick, with one dying, unless they’ve gone bad.’
    The chef moaned, terrified of losing his job. ‘It’s not my fault, I’ve never had a problem before and I’ve been serving oysters for Mr Silver for five years.’
    ‘I know, I believe you.’ Poulpe actually did believe the Algerian chef, a small, timid man, in France illegally. After all, he would be foolish to jeopardise his tenuous hold on residency.
    ‘Understand that you are under suspicion – you’ll be watched. If you as much as step out of the country, even out of this area, I will know about it,’ he warned the chef, as he had all the other staff.
    ‘I’m wondering whether someone tampered with the food,’ Captain Poulpe told his daughter. ‘It just seems odd that
so
many of the guests had such a violent reaction – so many, but not
all
. It would be understandable if one or two oysters had been contaminated, or one or two people were allergic; or indeed for everyone to fall ill if the whole batch was contaminated. But to have about half the guests falling sick – well, that seems really strange.’ He would make sure the coroner checked all the possibilities at Mina’s post-mortem.
    Although the Mayor wanted this incident brushed under the carpet as quickly as possible to avoid the bad publicity that was sure to follow, Poulpe was certain this evening was far from accidental.
    ‘No one is above suspicion,’ he sighed to Gabrielle. ‘Keep your eyes open for a very twisted mind.’

    It was the day after Mina’s tragic death and Gabrielle had started the morning investigating the fishmongers who plied their trade in the ancient fish market situated behind the popular Sénéquier Café. The fishmongers displayed their wares beautifully, with every kind of fish laid out geometrically on marble slabs. The market was no more than a tiny alleyway from the main street leading to a small square where flowers, cheese and every kind of bread and pastry were sold. Work started at six a.m. and finished at two p.m., by which time the ground was awash with dirty, smelly water. Although the tradesmen cleaned the pavement, walls and surfaces of the alleyway assiduously with powerful lye, the odour of fish lingered in the aged tiled walls. At night the alley was dark and ominous, and few people fancied taking the stinking shortcut.
    Gabrielle asked all the vendors to whom they had sold oysters within the past two days, but it appeared that the only bulk buyer had been a cook from a giant cruise ship that had departed before Harry Silver’s party began. All other purchases had been small, but she logged them dutifully as her father had taught her.
    Gabrielle finished her inquiries with each fishmonger and decided she merited a drink at Sénéquier. Everyone who was anyone – and plenty who weren’t – visited the legendary Sénéquier Café. This area was truly the heart of the village, constantly bubbling with life. In the middle of the busy cobble-stoned street, and right in front of the port where the big white gin palaces lay at anchor, next to dozens of chic boutiques and restaurants, stood the Sénéquier, which had been feeding Saint-Tropez visitors since 1887.
    She joined Charlie and his blond-headed lover Spencer, who sat at a table in the front of the Sénéquier sipping kirs and watching the world stroll by.
    Cuddly Charlie Chalk, one of England’s best-loved comedians, lived on a hill above Saint-Tropez, with his much younger civil partner Spencer Brown, in a small but beautifully decorated villa within walking distance of the town.
    In the 1980s Charlie had made his money in England with a camp comedy sitcom called
Charlie’s World
. He had invested shrewdly in that decade, a time when investments actually paid off, and now he and Spencer lived an idyllic life all year round, either in Saint-Tropez or