Spiced to Death (12 page)

She opened it, looked at my picture and looked at me. “I’ve seen worse.”

“In police lineups?”

“No, it’s not that bad. Well, considering that there is no such thing as a good passport photo.”

She sipped her drink and looked at me speculatively.

“Go ahead,” I urged.

She smiled. “I got a fax today. It was about you—from Scotland Yard.”

“I expected you to check on me. Present at a major theft, then at a murder—naturally I’m a suspect.”

“They give you a glowing testimonial,” she said carefully.

“I worked with them on a couple of cases,” I explained. “Scotland Yard has a Food Squad—it gets involved whenever there’s a crime involving food or drink or the businesses surrounding them.”

“You worked in Smithfield Market in London in your teens, then got a job as an apprentice chef at—Kettner’s, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. One of the best in London. I had a wonderful training there.”

She nodded. “Then you were a chef on cruise ships. Both coasts of the U.S., Australia, South America, Europe, Africa—that must be how you learned so much about foreign foods.”

“Scotland Yard really are a bunch of blabbermouths, aren’t they? I’m appalled that they told you all this. Do they spread my innermost secrets all over the world?”

“You’ve no idea—that girl in Rio, for instance …”

“What!”

The twinkle in her eyes gave her away but if she had wanted to conceal it, I was sure she could have done so.

“They withheld that part of the file. Then after that, you went into the food-finding business, which led to your present job—which I understand a little more clearly now.”

“Food finding was interesting and very educational. I tracked down unusual food items and ingredients, looked for substitutes for rare products, advised on markets.”

“This doesn’t mean that you are incapable of committing a crime, of course.” Her face was stern.

“Of course not.”

Then the face relaxed into a delightful smile. “However, I have dismissed you as a suspect.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s not pleasant having people suspect you of murder.”

She nodded in understanding. The waiter came with menus, massive documents as large as a newspaper.

“And what about Lieutenant Gaines?” I asked. “Does he still think I did it?”

“Hal is a man you need to get to know. It takes a long time. But I’ll tell you one thing—there isn’t a better cop in all of New York City.”

“So he does still think I did it.”

“One of the reasons we make such a good team is that he operates on facts and reasoning. I go on hunches and intuition.”

“But you can’t persuade him over to your point of view that I’m innocent.”

“As a matter of fact, I have managed to convince him …” She paused, an impish look on her face.

“Go on.”

“That we should use you to help us.”

“That’s great,” I said enthusiastically.

“And that I should be the contact.”

“Even better.”

“It’s logical too. We may be the Unusual Crimes Unit but we’re not gourmets, either Hal or I.”

I looked slowly and meaningfully around the Bull Moose. “I can’t believe that.”

She laughed, a tinkly laugh that I was really beginning to like.

“But you were raised in a restaurant.”

“This case goes far beyond a knowledge of restaurants. Hal and I both agree that we are going to need some genuine expertise to crack it. Which, incidentally, we are going to have to do very soon.”

“Why is that?”

“In Unusual Crimes, we have a rule. It’s solvable in ten days or not at all.”

“Surely that’s a bit unreasonable.”

“It may sound that way but the chances of solving it after that period of time decline rapidly. We can’t put manpower on the investigation any longer so we have to drop it. The only likely way of solving it beyond the ten days is a fluke or a tipoff, so it comes off the active list and we go on to something else.”

“That must mean that you have to really concentrate on it during those ten days.”

“We do. And that’s all the more reason for bringing in all the help we can get.”

“Well,” I told her, “as far as available help is concerned, here I am.”

“I should tell you,” she said after draining her glass, “that Hal Gaines has another reason for wanting to have you work with us.”

I was about to ask what it was when it struck me. “Makes it easier for you to keep an eye on me.”

“Right.”

She seemed pleased at the way I was taking it.

“I’m supposed to be back to do a job in Scotland,” I said. “I’ll fax them some data instead.”

“What kind of a job?”

I told her of the salmon poaching incidents and my anticipated appearance in court to give testimony.

“Interesting,” she commented.

“So’s this,” I said grimly. “And a lot more serious. Have you learned anything that I ought to know about?”

“Renshaw was killed with a seven-millimeter bullet, fired from an automatic pistol, probably a Russian Tokharev or a Japanese ripoff. No prints in the office that are of any help. No witnesses out in the parking lot, no clues of any kind otherwise.”

“This is a wild shot,” I said, “but I suppose you have considered checking on Sam Rong? He couldn’t have taken the Ko Feng back with him to the East, could he?”

“We checked him thoroughly. We had his luggage searched when he arrived back in Bangkok. We checked him out there too. Nothing.”

“I didn’t think so but I had to mention it.”

“That’s okay. Shall we look at the menu?”

The menus were written in a jokey style that fitted with the theme of the Bull Moose. Typical entries were:

Alaskan Salmon Salad

Tell us whether you want the small can or the large can

Hudson Bay Hawk

It tastes just like chicken, in fact, we cook it with tomatoes, onions and mushrooms so that you can’t tell the difference

New Brunswick Stew

Don’t ask what’s in it—believe us, you don’t want to know

Yukon Sole

Remember Charlie Chaplin eating “sole” in
The Gold Rush?
Well, ours may not be that tender but it’s cheap

Gabriella and I were chuckling over every item. We worked our way through the menu. It had Quebec Quail—shot down while escaping to America; Great Lake Bear Steaks, Prince Edward Potatoes, Chased Goose and a long list of other humorous dishes.

The wine list was not nearly as long. There were beers of many nationalities but the wine list declared, “You’re in luck—we have Baffin Bay Burgundy and Calgary Chardonnay—yes, both of them!”

Gene came back to take our order himself. I ordered the Caribou Steak, about which the menu stated, “You can’t tell it from beef” and Gabriella went for the New Brunswick Stew. First, though, she interrogated Gene as efficiently as if he were a witness to a holdup.

“The traditional Brunswick Stew used squirrel meat,” I reminded her and Gene replied, “We can’t get squirrels in New York so we have to use cats.” Finally, he broke down and admitted that they used only the finest sirloin of beef. He was about to leave when Gabriella asked him, “Any celebrities in here tonight, Gene?”

He glanced around. “Sure, there’s Springsteen over there.”

Gabriella half rose out of her seat.

“Where? Where?”

Gene pointed. Gabriella frowned.

“That’s not Bruce Springsteen.”

“Sam Springsteen. Comes in here all the time. Has a laundromat down on—”

Gabriella gave him a slap with her napkin. “No, seriously …”

“Okay,” Gene said, “let me see—well, there’s Betty over there—”

“Bacall?” asked Gabriella excitedly.

“No, Betty Barker, she’s assistant manager at the blue movie theater down the block—”

“Get out of here!”

When he had left, I said, “Gene must have been a lot of fun to live with—he has an unquenchable sense of humor.”

“He sees the funny side of life no matter how grim it gets.”

“How many of you were in that flat?” I asked.

“Just Gene and I. We were together a little more than a year.”

“Why’d you break up?”

“That was when Gene met Terry. They decided to go into partnership in this place. That’s him over there”—she pointed to a tubby fair-haired man of about Gene’s age who was active at the cash register. “That was also the time that I got promoted to sergeant and could afford an apartment of my own. So I moved out and Terry moved in.”

“You mean they wanted to live together and work together?” I was asking curiously when I saw the glance that Gabriella darted at me.

“Oh, you didn’t know Gene was like that?” she asked. She stopped as the waiter came with the food and a carafe of Canada’s finest wine from Baffin Bay. When he had gone, she went on, “That’s why sharing an apartment with him was such a good arrangement. He had no interest in me—except as a friend, I mean.”

“Ah” I said, relieved. The thought had been nagging at me.

The burgundy proved to be an excellent California variety, merely masquerading as Canadian. Gabriella pronounced the stew almost as good as her father’s
cassoeula,
adding that the pig’s feet her father used gave it a different flavor. The menu proved to be right and my Caribou steak was as good as beef. That’s because it was beef, a tender juicy porterhouse.

When I had finished it, I asked her, “You spoke about having me help in the investigation. What perilous assignment do you have in mind?”

“My, my,” she mocked. “The burgundy must be strong. It’s making you reckless, isn’t it?”

“Before it does that, it has to make me brave.”

“What! After all those daring exploits with Scotland Yard?”

“I’m a coward really,” I insisted. “After all, I’m not really a detective, you know. I’m a—”

“I know. You told me. Don’t worry, we won’t send you out into the dangerous New York underworld without a bulletproof jacket and a SWAT team for protection.”

“I do want to do what I can,” I told her earnestly. “I want to help find Don Renshaw’s killer. I didn’t know him that well but we were in this Ko Feng thing together. Send me anywhere.”

I hoped I would be able to behave as intrepidly as I sounded. The kiss she gave me when we parted would have inspired Sir Galahad but he had the advantage of a suit of armor.

B
REAKFAST AT THE FRAMINGHAM
Hotel was served downstairs only as there was no room service. The facilities were a long way short of the luxury at the Courtney Park Hotel but then so was the tariff. I didn’t like the look of the food they were serving so I walked north and watched for something better. No city in the world has more places to eat than New York and I found a diner on the next block.

When Walt Scott opened the first diner in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1872, he had no idea what he was starting. It was a humble establishment—a wooden wagon with holes in the sides. Scott handed out chicken sandwiches through the holes to the night shift workers, his initiative being prompted by the fact that nothing in Providence was open at night. Fifteen years later, the first walk-in diner opened in Worcester, Massachusetts, and customers sat on stools and ate sandwiches, pies and cakes, and drank coffee.

Diners shot up all over the country and became an integral part of the eating experience. They survived for decades but in recent years the diner has been emulating the dinosaur and the few that are left are rarities.

Like this one. However they fared during the rest of the day, this place put on a breakfast that would provide endurance for hours. Eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, waffles, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash-brown potatoes with lots of toast and coffee were the standard breakfast here but there were a dozen or more side dishes to add if you were hungry. I had forgotten too how speedy and efficient the service is in eating places like this.

I was on my way to see Peggy at the Spice Warehouse and after paying the very modest bill for my ham and scrambled eggs, I set off toward the subway station. This wasn’t entirely for economical reasons. I had always had a sentimental affection for the subway and longed to try it again and see how much of the affection remained. Its reputation had declined owing to muggings and vandalism, I knew, but this was past the commuter hour and I wasn’t going to be deterred by the media. I had a map of the city which I had bought at the airport and knew that there was a station at the Museum of Natural History nearby and it was a direct line.

There was only a moderate flow of passengers going down the steps and I bought my token and went to my platform. It was fairly quiet, some graffiti, a few candy wrappers blowing but not as bad as I had expected. Down at the far end of the platform, I could see a uniformed policeman. Nearer to me, two women were discussing the price of shoes at Bergdorf-Goodman, a studious-looking youth was immersed in a large paperback, a man in a black suit and a black hat was reading a newspaper and two girls were in a giggly conversation. All was very safe and normal.

A distant rumble gave notice of an approaching train. Time was eroded second by second then the push of air from out of the tunnel swept along the platform and the awaiting passengers shuffled positions. The sound of the train mounted in volume. Everyone took an impatient step or two forward and the train came out of the tunnel like a roaring lion.

Brakes hissed and metal squealed on metal. The train was still moving at a fair speed and it loomed larger. It came closer—and I felt a strong push in the middle of the back. Arms flailing, I fell from the platform and all I could see was the front of the train, growing enormous, filling my entire vision.

The next thing I knew I was standing on the platform, heart racing. The man in the black suit and hat who had dragged me back still had one strong hand on my shoulder. He was bearded and had thick glasses. The two women gave me curious looks, the youth was still immersed in his paperback and the girls were still giggling. All of them boarded the train after a few people got off.

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

“New York is dangerous place,” the man said in an accent that I didn’t recognize. His voice was thick as if he had throat trouble. “Is necessary to be friendly—to be helpful. If you are asked, you should respond.”