The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth by Leonard Goldberg

Author:Leonard Goldberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

14

The Secret Companion

We arrived at François at the latest possible hour, having wished to be amongst the last to dine and thus the last to leave. Our intention was succeeding nicely, for as the clock struck ten there were only two other tables occupied in the upscale restaurant. Near the window was a young couple signaling for more coffee, while an elderly gentleman at an adjacent table studied his bill.

“How shall we determine which of the waiters served Alistair Ainsworth?” I asked quietly.

“It is not the waiters but the maître d’ we should concern ourselves with,” Joanna whispered back. “He will know the most.”

My father asked, “And what will be the topic of your conversation? Obviously you must be somewhat circumspect for the maître d’ will be reluctant to share information on an aristocratic patron.”

“We shall talk of the excellent food at François,” Joanna replied.

“Which requires no exaggeration,” I interjected.

The dishes we had ordered—both the chicken cordon bleu and the coq au vin—were truly superb in every aspect, particularly when topped off by a delicious but far too expensive Chablis. The restaurant itself had a definite French feel to it, with its quaint tables upon which rested long, elegant candles that gave off gentle illumination. The low lighting seemed perfect for the engravings by Renoir and Monet that decorated the walls. Despite the charming atmosphere, our collective minds remained focused on Alistair Ainsworth and the fate that awaited him.

I asked Joanna in a whisper, “Why are you so convinced that it was Ainsworth and not the Germans who visited François on the day of his disappearance?”

“Because foreign agents do not dine at expensive, popular restaurants,” she replied. “Nor do they hold on to receipts for days and days. They immediately destroy all items that might leave a trail behind.”

“But Ainsworth may have dined here for lunch, long before he vanished,” I argued mildly.

Joanna shook her head at the notion. “Recall that Mary Ellington saw him at lunch with Roger Marlowe and Lady Jane Hamilton on that very day.”

“The same Roger Marlowe who was said to have had dinner with Ainsworth at Simpson’s-in-the Strand that evening,” I commented.

“The very same.”

“Strange business here,” my father remarked.

“Or quite revealing, if we can determine who Ainsworth had dinner with on that fateful night,” said Joanna.

“What is the evidence that he had company?”

“The scorched receipt, which listed two separate entrées.”

Over by the window, the elderly gentleman had paid his bill and was preparing to leave, while the young couple watched their coffee cups being replenished before returning to their deep conversation. The waiters began dousing the candles on unoccupied tables.

“Now,” Joanna said in an undertone and signaled to the maître d’. The tall, thin man, with a perfectly trimmed moustache, hurried to our table.

“Yes, madam,” said he.

“I must tell you that your food far exceeded our expectations,” Joanna lauded.

“Thank you, madam.”

“The chicken cordon bleu was superb.”

“As was the coq au vin,” I interjected.

With a half bow, the maître d’ stated, “Those are the two dishes most favored by our patrons.

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