Murder Is Served (26 page)

“They're popular,” Pam said to Bill. “Isn't that a rather special welcome?”

Bill nodded. He said it seemed to be.

“Pleased she's out of it?” Pam said. “Since he must guess she is. Since she comes here openly.”

“It looks that way,” Bill agreed, and now he turned his eyes away from the two on the banquette and looked around the room.

“You know,” he said, “in spite of all the fuss they make over you, this is rather a pleasant place. Don't you think so? Relaxing, once you're past the—the reception committee?”

“Yes,” Pam said. She looked at him with calculated intentness. “It's certainly relaxed you,” she said. She paused. “Or something else,” she added.

He raised eyebrows at her.

“Or you're holding out,” she said. “Not that there's any reason why you shouldn't, if you want to. Only—”

He shook his head. He said, “No.”

“Well,” Pam said, “don't tell me there isn't something.” She looked at him suspiciously. “A hunch,” she said. “You've gone and got a hunch!”

He did not answer this. His eyes were again on the steps which led down from foyer and bar. He nodded in that direction.

A slender man, smiling, was coming down the steps behind a small, vivid girl with red hair. The Fosters had arrived; William greeted them and there seemed to be hesitation. It was presently resolved; the Fosters, preceded by a lesser captain, moved down the restaurant. Bill Weigand continued to regard them. Pam could see his face only from an angle, but she thought his eyebrows had drawn together as they sometimes did when he was puzzled. She looked at his right hand. Yes, the fingers were tapping gently on the tablecloth.

He expected Peggy and Carey, Pam thought; he wasn't surprised at finding Leonard; he didn't expect the Fosters.

The Fosters, connected with the lesser captain by an invisible tow-rope, approached. Some tables away they recognized the Norths, Weigand. Foster's pleasant face, on which there seemed always to be an expression of gentle amusement, went into a new smile, this time personalized, one of greeting. The Fosters reached the table and stopped; the invisible tow-rope lengthened and seemed about to break. Then the captain realized he had lost his tow and stopped, looked back, and began to hover. Jerry, Bill and Mullins stood up, and Mrs. Foster said, “Please.” They remained standing.

Foster appeared to feel he should say something, explain something. But he hesitated, his smile meanwhile disarming.

“Really,” he said then, “it must look as if we were following you around, trying to—what? Horn in?”

There were deprecating sounds.

“Actually, I suppose there's something in it,” Paul Foster said. “I don't mean we did follow you; we didn't think about your being here. But—well, we'd heard so much about the restaurant, I suppose we just got curious, you know.” There was a rising inflection on the last word.

“Why not?” Bill Weigand said. “It's a public restaurant.” His voice was amused.

“Well—” Foster said. “Well—nice meeting you. Come on, Paula.”

He and Paula went on. The towing captain was relieved. Bill looked after them.

“Just curiosity?” Pam said, after he was seated again. He said, “Why not?” and looked at her quizzically.

“All right,” Pam said. “There is something going on. About to go on. You know it perfectly well. It's like—like people corning into a theater. Members of the audience, people in the cast—isn't it?”

Bill Weigand said only that he saw what she meant. It was not enough, but then food began to arrive.

Potage Maillaux
distracted Pam North. It was delicious, but it was more than that. It was delicious in a new way; it was at once unexpected and reassuring, flavors not quite new, so that it was not necessary to wonder about them, be uneasy about them, and yet not, in this combination, by Pam North, ever experienced before. Cheese, certainly, clarified stock (chicken?) undoubtedly. These things could be identified. But it would have been absurd to say that
potage Maillaux
was a cheese soup, just as it had always, to Pam, seemed absurd to describe Vichyssoise as “leek and potato soup.” It was, obviously; now and then it too evidently was. But the essentials, added together, did not make the essential soup.
Potage Maillaux
, unquestionably, contained ingredients more familiar than ambrosia. It would be ridiculous to contend that there was not in it, somewhere, a drop or two of onion juice. Homely things, familiar things—cream, no doubt, sherry, perhaps?—had gone into it. But they did not come out of it, out of its fragrance, its flavor. Pam took another spoonful and looked at Jerry, who was also eating
potage Maillaux
.

“Good,” Jerry said.

“Jerry! It's incredible,” Pam said. “Good indeed. What does good mean?”

“Means it's good,” Jerry said, and swallowed. He dipped his spoon. “Incidentally,” he said, “good is an absolute term.” He raised the full spoon. “Except to a copy writer,” he said, and put the spoon to his lips. He swallowed. “Of course,” he said, “you can always use a ‘very' if you want to be extravagant.”

“You can use ‘um-m-m good,'” Dorian Weigand said, also out of the depths of
potage Maillaux
. They all looked at Bill, who was looking, with regret, at an empty cup.

“The thing you say,” Bill told them, “is ‘ah-h-h!' You hold it, you raise your hand—so—with the fingers—so—and you say, ‘Ah-h-h.' Means you like the soup. It's better if you're wearing a chef's cap, of course.”

“I still like just ‘good,'” Jerry said, scraping. Pam looked at Mullins, commiseratingly, and Mullins said, “O.K., let's see 'em do a steak.” Then attendants swooped, a cart approached, breathing flame, and the lesser captain dished, with an expression of worship. He handed plates to the waiter who served, somehow giving the impression he was on his knees. The Norths and the Weigands tasted, beamed and regarded Mullins. Slowly, Mullins lifted his steak; with care he regarded it. Then he put it to the hazard, and chewed. And, slowly, with a sub-expression of surprise, Mullins beamed.

“O.K.” Mullins said. “
O.K.”

It was an interlude, peaceful and almost quiet. Nobody said anything for a considerable time. There was no tension anywhere for those moments. Pam North forgot to wonder what Bill Weigand was up to; Jerry's mind freed itself from that lurking unease, so common to it when things were assuming a shape which presaged that Pam would get into trouble. It was Sunday evening; it was delicious food after the proper number of drinks. The air was free from the vibrations of approaching crime. They would finish dinner, perhaps with a cognac, Jerry thought; they would go peacefully home in a taxicab to warmth, a fire, the sleepy purring of silken cats. It was all conspicuous waste, and very comforting.

“Everything goes well?” a voice said. “Lieutenant? Madame North? M'sieu?” Jerry came out of it, with the feeling that he had been about to go to sleep. M. Maillaux was in attendance.

M. André Maillaux, seen at close range, was none the worse for wear. He exuded tactful greeting, restrained confidence. Possibly, Pam thought, there was something about his eyes—a weariness? A strain? But his voice was firm and round; he was all the host. She watched his eyes, alert, travel over their table, checking its accoutrements. She saw them hesitate at Dorian's almost empty butter plate, admired the inconspicuous gesture by which he summoned a busboy, indicating the plate. He did all this while still attentive; was attentive while still dignified.

“You are well served, yes?” M. Maillaux said. He directed attention toward Mullins. “The knife, she is sharp?” he said. “The steak—?”

“O.K.,” Mullins said.

“I am pleased,” M. Maillaux said. “Things go well.” He continued to beam.

He is more foreign than I thought, Pam told herself. More French. The clothes, the accent—I had not remembered they were so characteristic.

“Everything's delicious, M. Maillaux,” Pam said. “Everything. The soup is marvelous.”

“The
potage,”
M. Maillaux said. “Ah-h-h—the
potage
is indeed good. I am delighted, madame. A speciality
de la maison
, you perceive. Of my family, madame.”

He was evidently proud. He was not averse to continuing.

“Your family?” Pam said.

“But yes, madame. The recipe, you perceive. My grandfather, as a young man—he created
potage Maillaux
, you perceive. In Paris,
naturellement
. My father, my uncle, always it has been a secret in the family. Always we have been proud of
potage Maillaux
. You know the Restaurant Maillaux in Paris, madame?”

“Ah-h-h,” Pam said.

“My uncle's, you perceive,” André Maillaux said. “Before the war—Ah-h-h!”

“U-m-m,” Pam said.

“Here I attempt the same,” Maillaux said. “It is difficult, yes. It is not Paris, you perceive. And now my poor Tony!” His smile faded. He shook his head sadly. “A loss irretrievable,” he said. He turned to Weigand. “You have not yet discovered, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Weigand said. “Not yet.”

“A tragedy,” Maillaux said. “For me, catastrophe.” He looked very sad. “Who will come now to Maillaux's? Now we have only the good food, the wine. It is not enough, no?”

“Oh, I'm sure it will be, M. Maillaux,” Pam North said. “Such wonderful food!”

Maillaux brightened a little.

“The food, yes,” he said. “The food, certainly. That we can achieve. But is it sufficient, Madame North? And the time to prepare, you perceive. People are impatient, no?”

He looked earnestly at Pam North, who did not know the answer and made a sound which she hoped was encouraging. It seemed to be.

“We must attempt,” he said. “When this—this tragedy—is finish. Already—” He broke off. “You will come again, I hope, Madame North?”

“Of course,” Pam said.

“So tragic,” Maillaux said. It seemed to haunt him. “Poor Tony. It is unbelievable.”

“And the girl,” Pam said. “Mrs. Britton.”

“Mrs. Britton?” he said. “Ah yes, the poor Elaine. So sad, Madame North.”

He doesn't take that part of it very hard, Pam thought. I'd have guessed he would. She was momentarily puzzled that she would have guessed that, and then the point cleared. The little mink—the poor little mink—had been attractive, no doubt approachable. And M. Maillaux was French. The connection was tenuous, but serviceable.

“She I knew only a little,” M. Maillaux said. “You perceive, madame? A—a friend of the poor Tony. But it is very sad, of a certainty.”

Poor little mink, Pam thought again. I hope somebody minded more. But she merely nodded to M. Maillaux.

He had turned a little toward Bill Weigand, in any case, and Bill was looking up at him.

“You no longer seek Mrs. Mott, I perceive,” Maillaux said. “She is—what do you say—in the clear?”

“Why do you think that?” Bill Weigand said.

Maillaux looked surprised.

“But,” he said, “she is here. Surely, Lieutenant, you have perceived that—”

“Oh,” Bill said. “Yes, I noticed she was here, M. Maillaux.”

“With a friend,” Maillaux said. “A young man. Very dark?”

“Yes,” Bill said. “I noticed him.”

“And you do not arrest her,” Maillaux said, and nodded. “It is so I think she is exonerated, Lieutenant. No?”

“As I said, we've not closed the case,” Bill said. “Nobody is—exonerated. But we are not ready to arrest anybody.”

Maillaux nodded. He said, “So?”

“Mrs. Mott is certainly a—” Bill said, and stopped as if, Pam thought, he felt he was saying too much. “However, she is not under arrest, M. Maillaux. As you see.”

“I am so glad,” Maillaux said. “I should not like to think a woman so—what shall I say—so
exquise
would do such a thing. But I was disturbed, you perceive. She did not love Tony. And there was so much money. And then the little Elaine, who had become the good friend of poor Tony. You perceive, Lieutenant?”

He seemed anxious to explain, Pam thought. She could appreciate his probable feeling. One felt so about Peggy Mott. One felt defensive of her, one did not want to suspect her. But the facts—The grist, Pam thought, the gritty grist.

“I am aware there is a case against Mrs. Mott, M. Maillaux,” Bill said. He nodded. “Very much aware of it,” he added. “All I can tell you, again, is that—well, that we're not ready yet. You understand?”

Maillaux nodded.

“It is not complete?” he said.

Bill Weigand said, “Right.”

Maillaux seemed saddened. He shook his head. Then, with an evident effort, he became again the host.

“These things,” he said, “we should forget them, no? For the digestion. Now—you will have the dessert? The
bombe glacée Maillaux?
The cherries flame? The
crêpes?”
He smiled around at them, fully the host again. “Ah-h-h-h!” he said. “The
crêpes!”

They ordered
crêpes Suzette
. The waiter brought the pancakes, the ingredients and the table with its spirit lamp. M. Maillaux remained, observant. The lesser captain came and compounded, pouring liqueurs, squeezing orange. He built the pretty bonfire on the pancakes and apportioned them, pouring the flickering sauce. He beamed, Maillaux beamed. And, unexpectedly, John Leonard came down from the bar, walking almost too steadily among the tables, and joined them. He stood above them, looked down.

“The moth,” Pam North said. “To the flame. I thought you'd left, Mr. Leonard.”

“Left?” Leonard said. “No, I haven't left. Still waiting for my friend. Got lost somewhere, my friend has, I'm afraid.”

“Join us,” Jerry said. “Have a drink with us.”