Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [17]
“What a lovely meal,” commented his wife on their journey back to Romford. “I do hope that we’ll be able to go there again some time.”
“We will, Doris,” he promised her, “next week.” He paused. “If I can get a table.”
Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright visited the restaurant again three weeks later, this time for dinner. Dennis was impressed that Mario not only remembered his name, but even seated him at the same table. On this occasion, Mr. Cartwright observed that Mario was able to fit in a pre-theater booking—almost full; an evening sitting—packed out; and a post-theater sitting—half full; while last orders were not taken until eleven o’clock.
Mr. Cartwright estimated that nearly three hundred and fifty customers passed through the restaurant during the evening, and if you added that to the lunchtime clientele, the total came to just over five hundred a day. He also calculated that around half of them were paying cash, but he still had no way of proving it.
Dennis’s dinner bill came to £75 (it’s fascinating how restaurants appear to charge more in the evening than they do for lunch, even when they serve exactly the same food). Mr. Cartwright estimated that each customer was being charged between £25 and £40, and that was probably on the conservative side. So in any given week, Mario had to be serving at least three thousand customers, returning him an income of around £90,000 a week, which was in excess of four million pounds a year, even if you discounted the month of August.
When Mr. Cartwright returned to his office the following morning, he once again went over the restaurant’s books. Mr. Gambotti was declaring a turnover of £2,120,000, and showing, after outgoings, a profit of £172,000. So what was happening to the other two million?
Mr. Cartwright remained baffled. He took the ledgers home in the evening, and continued to study the figures long into the night.
“Eureka,” he declared just before putting on his pajamas. One of the outgoings didn’t add up. The following morning he made an appointment to see his supervisor. “I’ll need to get my hands on the details of these particular weekly numbers,” Dennis told Mr. Buchanan, as he placed a forefinger on one of the items listed under outgoings, “and more important,” he added, “without Mr. Gambotti realizing what I’m up to.” Mr. Buchanan sanctioned a request for him to be out of the office, as long as it didn’t require any further visits to Mario’s.
Mr. Cartwright spent most of the weekend refining his plan, aware that just the slightest hint of what he was up to would allow Mr. Gambotti enough time to cover his tracks.
On Monday Mr. Cartwright rose early and drove to Fulham, not bothering to check in at the office. He parked his Skoda down a side street that allowed him a clear view of the entrance to Mario’s restaurant. He removed a notebook from an inside pocket and began to write down the names of every tradesman who visited the premises that morning.
The first van to arrive and park on the double yellow line outside the restaurant’s front door was a well-known purveyor of vegetables, followed a few minutes later by a master butcher. Next to unload her wares was a fashionable florist, followed by a wine merchant, a fishmonger and finally the one vehicle Mr. Cartwright had been waiting for—a laundry van. Once the driver had unloaded three large crates, dumped them inside the restaurant and come back out, lugging three more crates, he drove away. Mr. Cartwright didn’t need to follow the van as the company’s name, address and telephone number were emblazoned across both sides of the vehicle.
Mr. Cartwright returned to the office, and was seated behind his desk just before midday. He reported immediately to his supervisor, and sought his authority to make a spot-check on the company concerned. Mr. Buchanan again sanctioned his request, but on