Spiced to Death (15 page)

A basket of bread was brought and I had to exercise restraint and eat only a little of each kind. All were different shapes, some small buns, others flat cakes, others fingers and some even triangular. Different flavorings were used in each too—sesame seeds, poppy seeds, currants, celery, sunflower seeds.

Then came a fish course, tiny strips of sole marinated in garum, Ayesha told me, coming over to the table in between her ceaseless attention to all the other tables. In ancient Rome, garum had been indispensable to the chef—it was a flavoring liquid made from brine and crushed fish. It was strong enough to conceal the taste of meat that had hung too long or fish too long out of the water. Today it is made from anchovies, wine, honey, vinegar and spices, for though modern refrigeration and transport mean that the spoiling problem no longer exists, a properly blended garum gives fish a delicious flavor.

A tiny breast of pheasant came, accompanied by red currants and a sauce of chopped figs in wine. A portion of rice with it had slivered almonds and garlic.
Kosali,
a dish from ancient Persia, was next—pieces of spiced roast lamb rolled in rice and cooked over hot charcoal—an early form of barbecue. Then there arrived
mandaliya,
sausages made from entrails stuffed with marrow and spices and roasted. Next was a Roman favorite, pork with almonds and leeks, served with sautéed squash in a sauce of lovage and oregano …

It was at this point that I had to tell the waiter to stop. Ayesha came hurrying over to find out what was wrong and I explained that I didn’t have the appetite of an Oriental potentate.

Her eyes flashed. “But there is wild boar, there is venison, there is goose, there is”—she looked indignant—“there is sheep’s head …”

We both laughed.

“Next time,” I promised.

She looked disappointed but not ready to give up on me altogether.

“A little smoked cheese from the Caucasus, then some dates from Palmyra. Just to finish—these at least you can eat!”

I did, and drank a glass of a superb Muscat from Cyprus and two cups of thick sweet black coffee from Turkey.

I congratulated her on a magnificent meal and she beamed with pleasure.

“I can’t imagine how you can reproduce the ancient dishes so faithfully,” I told her. “And it’s even more remarkable that you can do it using the ancient cooking methods and equipment.”

“I could serve meals so magnificent that your mind would reel,” she said, pulling a chair over and sitting opposite me.

“You could?”

“Yes. If I had some Ko Feng.”

She raised her chin and stared at me boldly.

“When it is recovered, I hope you get some of it,” I said weakly. I was on the point of making a rash promise but I didn’t know if I could keep it and managed to substitute this watered-down statement just in time.

“Where do you think it is?”

She was leaning closer. Her knees were almost touching mine.

“I don’t know.”

“Who has it?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Then who do you think has it?”

“I have no idea—I can’t even guess.”

She leaned back, eyeing me with near contempt.

“You were there the whole time! You must have some idea!”

“I don’t. I wish I did.”

I didn’t want to abuse her hospitality, especially after such a magnificent meal, but it was time to go on the counterattack.

“When we talked at the Food Fair, I asked you if you had contracted to buy any Ko Feng. You said no.”

“I don’t believe I said that,” she replied with a toss of that gorgeous hair.

“You did. You said—”

“I said that I didn’t know that any contracts had been issued.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It is not.”

Our wonderful relationship was going sour faster than a bowl of goat’s milk in the noonday sun.

“Ayesha—tell me—were you offered any Ko Feng?”

Her strong bold features relaxed slightly. She waved imperiously to a waiter and pointed to my glass, then to herself. He returned at once with another glass and poured more wine for us both.

“There was no mention of a contract. Alexander Marvell contacted me two weeks ago and asked me if I would be interested in buying some Ko Feng if he brought some into the country. I was astonished, naturally. He told me that he expected to have some here and said I could have some of it. I was still astonished. He told me how he had come to find the crop and said that he had FDA approval. We discussed quantities and prices. He said that the amount coming in was limited and he didn’t know when there would be any more—if ever.”

She was not a sipper of wine. She threw it down with a regal gesture as if it were vodka and she was Catherine the Great.

“Did you talk to Selim?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What did you learn from him?”

“Nothing.”

“And Abe Kefalik?”

“Nothing from him either. I didn’t know New Yorkers were so reticent.”

“If they do tell you anything, it will probably be the same as I have told you. Marvell offered to sell them some Ko Feng when it arrived. No contracts, no sales agreements, no purchase orders.”

“Have you been contacted since the Ko Feng was stolen?”

She looked at me suddenly. “No. Why, have any of the others?”

“They don’t admit it.”

Voices raised in argument could be heard at the back of the restaurant. Ayesha looked, brows furrowed. Lennie Rifkin came bustling forward, anxiously staring round the room. He caught sight of Ayesha and pushed between the tables. She was about to get up and go to him but a whim of obstinacy crossed her face and she settled back in her chair. She was giving me an adoring look and a wide smile by the time he arrived.

“I was looking for you,” he said in a petulant voice. “They need you in the kitchen. Ephraim isn’t happy with the
passum
—Vlad says it’s the same as always. Where have you been?”

“Right here,” she said carelessly. “Talking with my friend—you met him at the Food Fair, remember? He—”

“Yes, yes,” he said crossly, not even looking at me.

Ayesha smiled again. Addressing me, she said,
“Passum
is another of the sauces of the old world. It is made from dried grapes pounded in wine. It is one of the sauces we can reproduce with great accuracy. Vlad is our sauce chef—he has his off days like all of us but he is very good. Ephraim is our head chef and not easy to please. When something is not right, Ephraim likes to blame whoever is nearest.”

She laughed gaily. “I remember once when John Lindsay was dining with us. The chapatis were very salty and Ephraim grabbed our baker by the throat and—”

“Ayesha!” Rifkin was reaching a soprano level. “Will you stop gossiping and get into the kitchen! This is serious! Go in and talk to Ephraim and—”

“You talk to him. I am busy.” She leaned back in the chair again and sighed a big sigh.

“What!” Rifkin glared at her and his face turned a darker shade of olive.

“I’m busy.” She sprawled even farther back, tossed her head.

Rifkin struggled to control himself. When he spoke again, he was spitting out words like bullets. He had evidently given up talking to Ayesha and addressed himself to me.

“You may not know Clive Benson. He was food critic on the
Evening Reporter.”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He is an embittered man. If you meet him, don’t try to shake his hand. He has two broken fingers—makes typing on a keyboard very difficult. Why”—Rifkin opened his mouth as if he had just remembered something—“he was sitting in that very chair.” He pointed a finger at me. Without looking at Ayesha, he said to her, “Another of your friends, wasn’t he, my dear? Your very good”—he paused meaningfully—“friends.”

She ignored him and signaled to the waiter to bring more wine.

“Perhaps I leave early tonight,” she said to me. “We go to a nightclub, eh? You know the Copacabana is open again? A little tame for us, though—I think the Alley Cat is best. It is very …” She rolled her eyes suggestively.

This was probably not an unusual scene for Lennie Rifkin. He made a gesture of anger and said a word in Lebanese that I was sure was nasty, turned and stalked back into the kitchen.

Ayesha continued as if nothing had happened. “You are investigating this terrible crime, are you not?” she asked.

“Yes—well, I mean, I’m not a real detective but I’m helping the police investigate—”

“You are making progress?”

“We’re following up a number of promising leads,” I said. I had heard Sergeant Fletcher at Scotland Yard say that.

“So you expect to find the Ko Feng very soon?”

“Within ten days the case will be closed.” Well, that had been more or less what Gabriella had said.

Ayesha’s lovely eyes widened. She clasped her hands in a little-girl gesture. “That’s wonderful! Then we can have some!”

I maintained a discreet silence.

Ayesha was still enraptured, planning menus.

“It’s difficult to decide which dishes to use it with first. They have to be foods that are worthy of it—I mean, we don’t want to be putting it into bulgur wheat or moussaka or parsnips. But then on the other hand, although it might go well with goose, not that many people order it—no, I think we …”

I let her muse on, nodding here and there to show that I was listening. And I was. She was a storehouse of information on the meals of Rome, Greece, Persia, India and China, and I couldn’t decide which role she excelled in—the food historian, the chef or the beautiful woman.

“But I’ll decide,” she concluded firmly. “As soon as you get me some Ko Feng, I’ll decide. And now, I must get back to the kitchen. Your dinner tonight is, of course, with my compliments.”

I started to object but she cut me off with one of her imperious gestures.

“No, no, it is the least I can do for the man who is going to get me some Ko Feng.”

I had to admire her technique. I thanked her profoundly and congratulated her again on the food and the presentation.

“If I were a food critic, I’d give you five stars,” I told her, “even if I had to dictate the review.”

She looked puzzled.

“Clive Benson,” I explained. “The broken fingers …”

“Poof!” She shrugged carelessly. “It was only his left hand.”

I was about to say “Good” but instead I asked, “What time are we leaving for that nightclub—the Alley Cat?”

“I have much to do in the kitchen. Perhaps another time …” She flashed a dazzling smile as she rose to escort me to the door, no doubt considering it more than adequate substitution.

A diner at a table near the entrance caught her eye. “Why, Basil! Darling! I haven’t seen you for—”

I left but she was too engrossed to notice.

I
T WAS COOL AND
breezy but not unpleasant. Cabs were passing by and it didn’t look as if it would be long before I caught one. Several restaurants were in this area and customers were entering and leaving.

Sure enough, a cab came along within a few minutes and dropped me off in front of the Framingham Hotel. It was not late and people were on the street, some in pairs, some in groups. I was going in to the hotel when I heard a faint cry.

Tales of muggings sprang to my mind immediately but I could see no sign of anything like that. A couple walked by, heedless of any disturbance. I was about to go on when I heard it again. Then I saw the source.

A very old man at the curb was tapping around him with a white stick. No one was paying him any attention and I went to ask him if I could help.

“The crosswalk,” he mumbled. “Where is it?”

He had a white beard and was enveloped in an old dark cloak. He tottered uncertainly as he flailed with his stick.

“Just along here a little way,” I told him. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

I walked him in the direction of Amsterdam Avenue where the crosswalk was about thirty yards away. He wasn’t very steady on his feet and I took his arm. When we reached the corner, the nearest people were on the other side of the street. He took a step off the sidewalk and I grabbed him to stop him falling. His cloak opened and my breath froze in my throat as he pulled out a wicked-looking knife. He was a mugger, after all.

He swung the knife so that the point was only an inch from my stomach.

“You haven’t heeded the warnings, have you?”

His voice was no longer feeble. It was the voice of a younger man and what’s more, it was vaguely familiar. My mind still on muggers, I was trying to think who had warned me about them when he moved the knife in a terrifying manner.

“You’ll have one more chance. When you’re asked where the stuff is, you’d better be ready to tell.”

“Stuff?” I asked stupidly but I was stalling for time because it was becoming clear what he meant.

“The spice” he said venomously. “The spice!”

I tried to see his face but the white beard was thick and bushy and I couldn’t make out any features. Some people have distinctive hands and others can recognize people by their hands but his didn’t look familiar. Furthermore, one of them had a dangerous-looking knife in it and that was enough to drive all other thoughts out of my mind.

“You’ll be paid. Just hand it over when and how you’re told—you’ll be paid for it. But no tricks.” The knife moved again. “Remember what happened to your partner.”

There was a shout from across the street, and from a handful of pedestrians coming toward us a girl emerged, breaking into a run. The man turned to look and that was my chance to grab his arm and take the knife away from him. I didn’t do it, though. I don’t like violence and I don’t like knives. I don’t know any unarmed combat and anyway, I’m a coward.

The girl was close now and she had obviously seen the knife. She pointed as she ran and shouted again. The man gave me a push and I fell into the road. He turned and ran off, long legs pounding. The girl had a horrified look on her face as she reached me.

“Are you hurt?” Clearly she thought that when the man had pushed me, he had stabbed me with the knife.

I was winded but I dragged myself to the curb and sat there, trying to get more breath. The girl wore tight blue jeans and a form-fitting black sweater with metallic letters proclaiming
SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY
across the breasts. She had a black beret and strands of dark hair straggled out of it.