Achille opened his eyes and stared up at the cherubs on the ceiling fresco over his bed. He looked at them and envisioned plump marzipan bodies covered in spun sugar, ribboned with red currant jelly, holding bouquets of pastel fondant candies. The cherubs were smiling. They were constant in an ever-changing world. With Estella, without Estella, wintertime, Christmas, sickness, or spring. And even on the morning after he had killed Nutti.
He raised his hand to his stomach, rubbing slowly against his blue silk pajamas, as though trying to quell the pangs of hunger, the incessant, internal begging. That was a fine image, he thought, one with which he could compete successfully. He did not consider himself a beggar, any more than he considered himself weak-willed. He had taken the doctor’s prescribed diet and given it to his staff with instructions to prepare an “edible” menu that offered no compromises. No sugar substitutes, no skimmed milk, no carrot sticks, and no fat-free cheeses. Unless he was able to eat according to the original recipe, the dish would not appear on the diet. The only concession he offered was in terms of quantity.
Indeed, the diet was tolerable because it gave him the opportunity to focus even more closely upon the quality of the ingredients and the perfection of their preparation. Even the wines, because of the limited quantity he could have, were scrutinized in an atmosphere of challenge which compensated for the small amount in his crystal goblet. In a sense, the diet was a weapon with which he could challenge the farmer, the fisherman, the greengrocer, the vintner, the chef, and God.
Although it had been nearly thirteen years since Estella last shared the bed with him, Achille continued to sleep on the left side. Once he had tried sleeping in the center, but lay awake all night. And once he had taken away her pillow, but when he got into bed he began to cry. In the thirteen years since Estella first went to the clinic, he had never had another woman. Not because he was faithful, but simply because he refused to substitute Camembert for Brie.
His hand reached almost automatically to Estella’s pillow, where Cesar lay wheezing. Achille stroked the cat and he began to purr. Cesar was fifteen years old and his belly hung to the floor White angora fur covered Cesar’s legs so that when he walked, which was rare, he had the appearance of a pull toy with hidden wheels. For the past year and a half Cesar had been unable to jump and had to be lifted from floor to bed, from bed to floor. The veterinarian told Achille months ago to have Cesar put to sleep. But Achille could not bear the thought.
It was time to get up. He rolled himself to the edge of the bed, and put his feet over the side. Then he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position and, bending his knees slightly, stood up. Cesar meowed as Achille walked into the kitchen. Estella had had the kitchen moved near the bedroom, since most of their meals at home had been eaten while sprawled on the bed editing articles or reading recipes to each other. He opened the stainless steel refrigerator and took out the only item it contained, a bowl of freshly boiled and cleaned shrimp. He opened a stainless steel drawer and took out a spoon of Georgian silver. He put three tablespoons of shrimp into a pink Meissen bowl. Cesar was standing on the edge of the bed meowing loudly. Achille walked back into the blue rococo bedroom and put the dish on the bed. Cesar brushed the side of his face against Achille’s hand, and then began breakfast in bed.
Achille went into the pink marble bathroom. He took one pill from each of six bottles on the shelf above the pink marble sink. He turned the gold griffin’s-head faucet and filled the engraved crystal glass with cold water. After taking his pills, he reached for a small decanter and poured some cognac into the glass. He took his toothbrush, dipped it in the cognac, and brushed his teeth. He used the remaining cognac as a mouthwash.
He sat down on the pink marble toilet. After urinating and moving his bowels, he pressed a button that released a spray of hot water onto his anus. After a moment, there was a spray of warm air to dry him. Achille had the device installed because nothing was as repellent to him as the use of toilet tissue.
He walked to the doctor’s scale he had recently bought. It was set at 310 pounds, his weight on Tuesday. As he stepped on it, the arm did not move. 309. 308. 307. 306. 305. He smiled with pride. Another five pounds. He had lost twelve pounds in one week. His diet was working.
After opening the stained-glass door to his shower, he unbuttoned his silk pajamas and dropped them to the floor. He turned on the shower. Water came in needle-sharp bursts from six locations, including straight up from the center of the marble floor. He used no soap, but rubbed himself with a large curved sponge. He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower without reaching for a towel, and dripped freely onto the thick mats atop the marble floor. Once at the sink he turned on the overhead heat lamp and blowers that would dry his body. With a small amount of lather from a professional hot-lather machine, he patted his face and then shaved, using a straight-edge razor with a tortoise-shell handle. When he finished shaving, he left the razor open on the sink and splashed his face and under his arms with strawberry vermouth. He walked from the bathroom without turning off the light. The policy had been adopted some time ago to leave everything for Mrs. Booth.
Mrs. Booth was once a companion to a cousin of Queen Mary. For the past twelve years, however, she had come in daily except Sunday to put back Achille’s toothbrush, clean his glass, fold his razor, and pick up his pajamas. Mrs. Booth’s sister, Mrs. Wickes, came once a week to clean thoroughly. Achille’s flat, in addition to the pale-blue rococo bedroom, the stainless steel kitchen, and the pink marble bathroom, had an enormous living room-dining room-salon that had once been four separate rooms. One complete wall, air-conditioned behind a floor-to-ceiling glass partition, held Achille’s wine cellar. Over a thousand bottles rested in vibration-free, controlled temperature behind tinted glass panels. The two parallel long walls were covered with bookcases in which resided Achille’s collection of cookbooks, books about cooks, histories of food, analyses of national cuisines, and the oversized volumes in which Achille had recorded for over twenty years every meal he had eaten. On the fourth wall was an original Breughel. The room held three overstuffed sofas, half a dozen large chairs, and numerous tables and desks. The original windows in the room had been covered over to avoid the sunlight, dampness, or sudden temperature changes, which could affect the books. A constant temperature was maintained throughout the flat.
The sofas, chairs, and exposed walls were covered in a striped maroon-gold-and-blue fabric. Pale-blue oriental rugs rested on beige carpeting. Large vases were filled twice weekly with Estella’s favorite flowers. In thirteen years Achille had never once sat in that room. He only walked through for a bottle of wine, or to shelve a completed volume of his dinner records. The room had once been lively with people. Friends of Estella’s. Boring people, but with lovely voices.
He picked Cesar off the bed and, bending over with great care, put him on the floor. The cat brushed against his leg and then found a corner of sunlight in which to sit while he cleaned his paws. Mrs. Booth would remove the dish from the bed.
Achille sat on a high chair in order to put on his blue lisle socks. He lifted each leg slowly and with great effort. Then, holding on to the dressing-room door, he put on his freshly ironed, monogrammed blue undershorts. He took a monogrammed blue shirt from the closet and slowly got into it. He selected a maroon tie, and then his blue-and-maroon plaid suit, which felt less constricting than it had a week ago. It was nearly eleven o’clock when he left the flat and took the elevator downstairs.
Rudolph came to attention and threw his cigarette behind him as Achille walked out the front door. “Good morning, Mr. van Golk.”
Achille grunted. Rudolph opened the back door and helped him inside. He picked up the morning paper as Rudolph started to drive the five blocks from his Hertford Street flat to the office on Curzon Street. He could find nothing about Nutti’s death.
Rudolph helped him out of the car, and then ran ahead to open LUCULLUS’s red door. “Good morning, Mr. van Golk,” the receptionist said. Achille nodded. Rudolph opened the elevator doors, pressed 5, and closed the doors after Achille. As he reached the top floor, Miss Beauchamp opened the doors.
“Good morning,” she said, not expecting the greeting to be returned. As they walked to his office, she stopped to pick up her notepad. It was filled with messages. She had called Achille at ten o’clock the previous evening to tell him that while he had been in Geneva, Nutti Fenegretti was killed. The chef at the British Embassy in Rome, who often translated recipes for them, had called to tell her. When Achille heard, he said merely “Mala fortuna,” and hung up.
She followed Achille as he sat behind his desk. For the first time, he looked directly at her. “Call the Grand. I want to speak to Natasha.”
“She’s not there. You got a cable this morning. She’s in Paris. At the Plaza. With Mr. Ogden, no less.”
“There is no less than Mr. Ogden. Call Paris, then.”
“Alois had a message for her to call you. I thought perhaps I should cable her some expense money. Perhaps five hundred.”
“Why did she leave Rome?”
“I don’t know. I presume she was upset by Mr. Fenegretti’s death. Speaking of which, Mr. Fenegretti’s cousin in Manchester has called three times, and his brother in Palermo wants to be sure you’re going to the funeral.”
“Tell them I’m overcome with grief. Another Michelangelo has been lost. Arrange for a boys’ choir to sing at the funeral. And pick up the check for whatever catering they want.”
“The Les Amis de Cuisine branch in Rome wants to know if you will deliver the eulogy.”
“Tell them I’ve been captured by gypsies, but that all their subscriptions have been extended an extra month in memoriam.”
“I’ve written a eulogy for you. I thought we could Telex it to Benito at the embassy and he could deliver it for you.”
“Benito could not deliver the morning paper for me.”
“It’s being typed now. Do you want to see it?”
“Your usual diabetic prose?”
“Mrs. Kohner called. She wanted to thank you. She was the only one at Mr. Kohner’s funeral. She said the boys’ choir was lovely.”
Achille banged his fist on the desk. “Is this a publishing house or a burial society?”
“It’s an unfortunate coincidence. But these men were your friends. You can’t ignore it.”
“I don’t wish to discuss these moribund matters any further. Deal with them as you wish. Don’t involve me. I have my own problems.”
“Clearly.”
“Of which you are not the least annoying.”
“Speaking of annoying, Mr. Tresting is most anxious to see you.”
“Who is he?”
“He is the treasurer.”
“The one with the heart condition?”
“Yes. He told me he hasn’t seen you in six months. I explained how fortunate he was, but apparently he’s self-destructive.”
“What does he want?”
“He said it was confidential.”
“I don’t want to see him. I don’t like accountants.”
“He was most persistent.” The telephone rang. Miss Beauchamp answered it. “Yes, he’s here now, operator.” She handed the receiver to Achille. “It’s Paris. Miss O’Brien.” He took the receiver and waved her out of the room.
“What are you doing in Paris?” he shouted into the telephone. “I had you on assignment in Rome.”
“Someone murdered the assignment.”
“I know. I expect to be named mortician of the year.”
“Achille, within three days … both of them … what do you think is happening?”
“You must know. You were with them both.”
“Achille”—her voice grew tense—“what are you saying?”
“Nothing, puss. But then again I wouldn’t want you hanging around my neck as a good-luck charm.”
“Achille, Inspector Carmody alerted the Rome police about me. He thinks I killed Louis.”
“Rubbish.”
“I know, but he thinks I did. And then I was in Rome when Nutti was killed. What do you suppose Carmody thinks now?”
“Undoubtedly he is convinced he is right. However, I do not wish to participate in your gothic fantasies.”
“It’s not just my fantasy. I met with Auguste. He’s also convinced that the same person killed Louis and Nutti. Thank God, I’ve had Millie here.”
“Don’t tell me Flash Frozen has captured your heart again?”
“No,” she said defensively. “I just need some time. A few days to recoup.”
“And then what? Will you become a madam for H. Dumpty?”
“Of course not. I just need some time to think.”
“An unproductive activity.”
“Achille, have you seen Hildegarde?”
“No. But I understand she had a splendid time at the funeral. I had the Harrow Boys Choir sing The Trout.”
“Achille, shouldn’t I have been there?”
“Guilt is also unproductive. You seem to have cornered the market on boring symptoms.”
“I shouldn’t have gone to Rome. I should have stayed in London and been at the funeral. Then I wouldn’t have been there when Nutti was killed.”
“And now you are in Paris, missing yet another funeral!”
“I saw him. In the tank.”
“Indeed.”
“Achille, it was so terrible. There was a lobster crawling up his arm.”
“Lobsters have never been known for their manners. Listen, my love, you may comfort yourself that although you missed the funeral, you saw the murder.”
“My God, you’re heartless.”
“Heartless? After personally insisting on an all-Schubert program for Louis? And what about the eulogy I’ve written for Nutti? I’m merely trying to shake you out of the heebie-jeebies, ma fleur. You are voraciously groveling in self-pity to the exclusion of all else. Since you did not murder Louis and Nutti, stop worrying.”
“Achille,” she said, becoming very serious, “you’re one of the few people I really trust.”
“Then take my advice. I would personally feel much better knowing you were enjoying these last few days.”
“You are a dear.”
“Don’t snivel. After all, what are friends for?” He said good-bye, hung up the receiver, and rang for Miss Beauchamp on the intercom. She came into his office. “I’m hungry. I want my lunch.”
“It’s on its way,” she said. “How much weight have you lost?”
“None of your business. Twelve pounds.”
“That’s wonderful. You’ve only got a hundred and forty-three pounds to go.”
There was a knock at the door. She opened it, and André, the house chef, entered carrying a tray. He wore a white jacket, black-and-gray-striped trousers, and a freshly starched toque straight up on his head. He was a wiry man with a pencil-thin black mustache.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Bonjour, Monsieur van Golk. Aujourd’hui le caviar avec un verre de champagne.” He walked to the desk and put the tray in front of Achille. Ceremoniously, he removed the linen napkin that covered the tray. “Voilà, le déjeuner extraordinaire.”
In the center of the tray was a richly ornamental Georgian silver bowl filled with crushed ice. A small crystal cup of caviar was embedded in the ice. André arranged the small wooden spoon and the lemon wedges so they were at right angles to Achille. He pulled back a napkin to show one slice of toast with its crust removed. Then he took the towel off the top of the ice bucket, removed a split of Bollinger ’66, inserted the tulip-shaped glass upside down in the ice for a moment, opened the champagne, poured exactly four ounces, and removed the bottle and bucket. “Bon appétit, monsieur. Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He left the room.
“What about Tresting?” she asked.
“Send him in, send him in. But you go away.” She left the office. Achille licked his lips. He looked at the small pearl-gray eggs. Carefully, he put his spoon to the caviar and took but a single egg. It was perfect. He pressed it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Then he brought the glass of champagne to his nose. He sniffed it, put his lips to the glass, and merely moistened them. He sat back thinking of how the first snowflake must have tasted to the gods on Mount Olympus. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called.
Arnold Victor Tresting was fifty-six. He was a medium-sized man, with no distinguishing features. Light-brown hair, pleasant enough looking, neatly attired.
“Good afternoon, Mr. van Golk,” he said, entering the room with his hand extended. Achille was busy spooning some caviar onto a small piece of toast.
“You must excuse me, Tresting, but as you can see …”
“Yes, of course.” There was a pause.
“Well, Tresting, it must be six months at least since I’ve seen you. Why have you been avoiding me?”
“Oh, I haven’t been avoiding you, Mr. van Golk. We’ve been very busy, sir.”
“You are the treasurer, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then tell me, what do you treasure?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For what treasure did I employ you to be the treasurer?”
“Well, you see, sir, I’m really more of an accountant.”
“Then let us have an accounting. How do you account for the weather these days, Tresting? And how do you account for the abominable manners of the young?” He picked up his glass and again moistened his lips. “Ah, Bollinger tries, but the Dom will out.”
“Mr. van Golk, I am Arnold Victor Tresting. I am the treasurer, and I have been in your employ for six months. I came to this firm after recuperating from a series of seventeen mild heart attacks.” Achille looked at him and frowned. “I took this particular position because it was my evaluation the firm was showing a modest profit and no severe strain would result from my involvement in the finances of this company.”
“Do you like caviar, Tresting?”
“I prefer fish sticks, myself.”
“Tresting, what do you want?”
“Mr. van Golk, I merely wish to inquire whether you foresee the increasing profitability of this firm continuing at its present rate. Our subscriptions have gone up forty percent over last year, thereby increasing our profit by some sixty percent. You are becoming an exceedingly wealthy man and I am frankly …”
“What is it, Tresting? Trest me.”
“I am frankly afraid if the spiraling profitability continues, this position will become too taxing for me. The first thing I know you will want to diversify. You will increase my wages, and both my professional and personal lives will be altered immeasurably. I have been worrying about this problem for a number of weeks and I would appreciate your assurance that you expect a decline in our profits.”
Achille pushed aside his caviar. He pushed back his chair. He stood up. “Tresting, are you seriously telling me that if this company continues to make more money it will be detrimental to your cardiac condition?”
“Yes, sir. That’s it. That’s precisely what I’m saying.”
“Tresting, you are dismissed. Write yourself a check for one month’s wages. Leave these premises within half an hour or I shall apply a magnet to your pacemaker. Do not expect you will receive any recommendation from this firm other than encompassing our suggestion you be admitted at once to Charenton Asylum. You may go.”
“Yes, sir.” Tresting got up from his chair, and turned curtly to leave.
“One more thing, Tresting,” Achille called after him.
“What?”
“BOO!”