8

Returning to his office on the main mezzanine, Peter occupied himself with routine business for the remainder of the morning, when he was informed that a guest room, occupied by Mr. Stanley Kilbrick of Marshalltown, Iowa, had been robbed. A long list of valuables and cash was alleged to be missing, and the guest, according to the assistant manager, seemed extremely upset. A house detective was already on the scene. Some twenty minutes later, he arrived in Peter McDermott’s office.

Ogilvie laid a handwritten list of missing valuables on Peter’s desk.

“Is there any sign of forced entry?”

The detective shook his head. “Key job sure. Kilbrick claims he lost his key. More than likely, though, he fell for a Bourbon Street girl routine. But he’s already figured the hotel’s insurance is good for what he lost. Maybe a bit more; he says there was four hundred dollars cash in his wallet.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No.”

“Do you think it was a once-only job?”

“No, I don’t,” Ogilvie said. “I reckon we’ve got a professional hotel thief here.”

“What makes you think so?”

“A complaint from room 641. Near dawn some character let himself in 641 with a key. The man in the room woke up. The other guy pretended he was drunk and said he’d mistook it for 614.”

“The desk could have given out a wrong key.”

“Could have, but didn’t. And 614’s a married couple; they went to bed early last night.”

“It looks as if you’re right about a professional thief. In which case we should start planning a campaign.”

“I already told the desk clerks to ask names when they hand out keys. And my men will do extra patrol.” Ogilvie said.

Peter nodded approvingly. “That sounds good. Have you considered moving into the hotel yourself for a day or two?”

Peter thought, a worried expression crossed the fat man’s face. Then he shook his head. “Won’t need it. My men know what to do. You don’t have to worry.”

Peter’s instinct told him that for some reason the fat man was worried himself.

He descended to the lobby and strolled to the main dining room. The St. Gregory’s comptroller, Royall Edwards, and Sam Jakubiec, the credit manager, were already at lunch as Peter joined them. Doc Vickery, the chief engineer, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, was studying a menu.

Jakubiec asked, “What’s this rumor I hear – that our dentists’ convention may walk out?”

“Your hearing’s good, Sam. This afternoon I’ll know whether it remains a rumor.” Peter began his soup, which had appeared like magic, then described the lobby events of an hour earlier. The faces of the others grew serious as they listened.

Then Jakubiec asked pointedly, “Well, what is the news?”

Peter shook his head. “Don’t know a thing, Sam. Except that was a good soup.”

Royall Edwards had been sampling the fried chicken served to himself and Jakubiec a moment earlier. Now he put down his knife and fork.

Peter asked, “Is it really that bad?”

“No, if you happen to be partial to rancid food.”

Jakubiec sampled his own serving as the others watched. At length he informed them: “If I were paying for this meal – I wouldn’t.”

Peter caught sight of the head waiter across the dining room and beckoned him over. “Max, is Chef Hebrand on duty?”

“No, Mr. McDermott, Sous-chef Lemieux is in charge. If it’s about the fried chicken, I assure you everything is taken care of. We’ve stopped serving that dish and where there have been complaints the entire meal has been replaced.”

“At the moment,” Peter said, “I’m more concerned about finding out what happened. Would you ask Chef Lemieux if he’d care to join us?”

It was a temptation to stride through and inquire directly what had gone wrong. But to do so would be unwise. In dealing with their senior chefs, hotel executives followed a protocol as proscribed and traditional as that of any royal household. Within the kitchen the chef de cuisine – or, in the chef’s absence, the sous-chef – was undisputed king. For a hotel manager to enter the kitchen without invitation was unthinkable.

To invite a chef outside the kitchen was in order. In fact, it was close to a command since, in Warren Trent’s absence, Peter McDermott was the hotel’s senior officer.

The kitchen door swung open once more.

“Gentlemen,” Peter announced to the executives’ table, “in case you haven’t met, this is Chef Andre Lemieux.”

Peter McDermott had encountered the new sous-chef several times since the latter’s arrival at the St. Gregory six weeks earlier. At each meeting Peter found himself liking the newcomer more.

His qualifications were excellent. He had trained in Paris, worked in London. But already in his short time at the St. Gregory, Peter suspected, the young sous-chef had encountered frustration. This was the refusal of M. Hebrand to allow any changes in the kitchen, despite the chef de cuisine’s own frequent absences from duty, leaving his sous-chef in charge.

In many ways, Peter thought sympathetically, the situation paralleled his own relationship with Warren Trent.

Peter indicated a vacant seat at the executives’ table. “Won’t you join us?”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“Have you discovered,” Peter asked, “what caused the trouble?”

The sous-chef glanced unhappily toward the kitchen. “The troubles have many causes. In this, the fault was frying fat badly tasting. But it is I who must blame myself – that the fat was not changed, as I believed. And I, Andre Lemieux, I allowed such food to leave the kitchen.” He shook his head unbelievingly.

“It’s hard for one person to be everywhere,” the chief engineer said. “All of us, who have departments, know that.”

“Unfortunately, we’ll never know how many didn’t complain about what they had, but won’t come back again.

Andre Lemieux nodded glumly. “Messieurs, you will excuse me. Monsieur McDermott, when you finish, perhaps we could talk together, yes?”

Fifteen minutes later Peter entered the kitchen through the dining-room door.

“It is good of you to come, monsieur.”

Peter shook his head. “I enjoy kitchens.”

“I wished to speak with you alone, monsieur. With others present, you understand, there are things that are hard to say.” The young chef’s face was troubled. “This morning I give the order. My nose informed me the fat was not good. But M. Herbrand – without telling me about it – forbade to follow my order.”

Involuntarily Peter smiled. “What was the reason for changing the order?”

“Fat is high cost. Lately we have changed it many times. Too many.”

“Have you tried to find the reason for that?”

Andre Lemieux raised his hands in a despairing gesture. “I have proposed, each day, a chemical test – for free fatty acid. It could be done in a laboratory, even here. M. Herbrand does not agree – with that or other things.”

“You believe there’s a good deal wrong here?”

“Many things. This is not a kitchen to work with pride. Yes, monsieur, I would make changes, many changes, better for the hotel, for Mr. Herbrand, for others. But I am told – as if an infant – to change nothing.”

Peter asked curiously, “If the St. Gregory stayed independent, what kind of changes would you have in mind?”

“In this hotel we waste much money on the decor. But not enough on the sauce. With less throw-away we could have a cuisine that would satisfy any taste. Now it is extravagantly ordinary. We must cook fast many meals, serve many people who are too much in an American hurry. But in these limitations there can be excellence of a kind. And I have proved my ideas are not that high-cost.”

“How have you proved?”

The young Frenchman led the way into the glass-paneled office. Opening a desk drawer he took out a large envelope and, from this, a folder. He handed it to Peter. “You ask what changes. It is all here.”

There were many pages, each filled with a fine, precise handwriting. Several larger, folded sheets proved to be charts. It was, he realized, a master catering plan for the entire hotel. On successive pages were estimated costs, menus, a plan of quality control and an outlined staff reorganization.

Peter looked up, “It’s impressive. If I may, I’d like to study this.”

“Take it. There is no haste. And now there may be a great trouble if we do not find the cause why the fat had gone bad.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Today – through much good fortune – we have used the frying fat a little only. Tomorrow, monsieur, there are six hundred fryings for convention luncheons.”

“The fat will be fresh tomorrow, of course. When was it changed previously?”

“Yesterday.”

‘That recently!”

Andre Lemieux nodded. “M. Herbrand was making no joke when he complained of the high cost. But what is wrong is a mystery.”

Some long forgotten facts stirred in Peter’s brain. At Cornell there had been a course in food chemistry for Hotel Administration students. He remembered a lecture dimly…

“There are certain substances,” Peter said reminiscently, “which, in contact with fat, will act as catalysts and break it down quite quickly.”

“They are the moisture, the salt, the brass or the copper couplings in a fryer, too much meat, the oil of the olive. All these things I have checked. This is not the cause.”

“What metal are your fry baskets?”

“They are chrome.” The tone was puzzled.

“Is the chrome in any places worn?”

Lemieux hesitated, his eyes widening slightly. Silently he lifted one of the baskets down and wiped it carefully with a cloth. The chrome was scratched from long and constant use.

“It is brass!” The young Frenchman clapped a hand to his forehead. “Without doubt it has caused the bad fat.”

Andre Lemieux seemed close to tears. He said slowly, “Others have said to me you are a good man, and intelligent. Now, myself, I know this is true.”

Peter touched the folder in his hand. “I’ll read your report and tell you what I think.”

“Monsieur, there is something else that I am thinking.” The young sous-chef hesitated. “You and I, Monsieur McDermott – with the hands free – we could make this a hot-shot hotel.”