Roux the Day

by Peter King

  “Ever been in New York? Yeah, sure you have if you know Hal Gaines. You know Delancey Street?”

  “Anybody who’s a fan of Ella Fitzgerald knows Delancey Street,” I told him.

  “Well, that’s the Delancey I’m named after.”

  “I see.” I didn’t quite, but I have found that if you put the right uncertain inflection on the words, you can usually extract more information.

  “I was found in a crate in front of the Salvation Army welfare station on Delancey Street. There was no clue as to who I was, so they called me Patrick Delancey. It was St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “So you’re a native New Yorker—and that’s another song.”

  “Sure am.”

  “And now you’re in New Orleans. How did that come about?”

  “My wife was killed in a driving accident—Sixth Avenue—hit by a taxi trying to avoid a pedestrian out-of-towner.”

  “I’m sorry. Was that recently?”

  “Three years. I’m okay now but at the time I just couldn’t stand the thought of staying in the city any longer. I made a nuisance of myself till the commissioner agreed to a transfer to wherever the first opportunity came up. Happened to be New Orleans.”

  “I see.” I did, a little, but I was still wondering why he was telling me this.

  “And now you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this … Well, Hal Gaines said you were all right. Said to be straight with you and you’d be straight with me.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way—”

  “Hal also said you could be helpful.”

  Aha, here it came. “You mean we make a deal?”

  He gave me a reproving look. “I’m a cop. I don’t make deals!”

  “What about a quid pro quo?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Now you’re talking my language.”

  “I am?” I asked faintly.

  “Reason I know what that means, I’m in my third year of law school. I get some time off for day classes, attending court, sitting in on legal briefings and stuff—and I take evening classes, study on weekends.”

  “A tough schedule,” I sympathized. “I had to do my studying under similar circumstances.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, fortunately, cooking is an activity that goes on all over the world so I worked as a chef on a cruise ship. I stopped off at various ports and spent a few months in each, learning the local cuisine, then picked up another ship and went on. Made my way round the world that way—”

  “Must have learned a lot of different cuisines.”

  “I did.”

  “Not Cajun or Creole, though.” He finished his coffee and waved for a refill.

  “I know them from cookbooks, but this is a great chance to sample them firsthand—and from the masters.”

  “Okay, now, speaking of cookbooks …”

  I grinned. “You did that very cleverly, Lieutenant.”

  “I didn’t need to. I could have just asked you. Hal Gaines said you were the right guy to tell me all about food and eating and restaurants.”

  “Some detectives I’ve met wouldn’t have asked—they’d have told.”

  “Run into some toughies, have you?”

  “Yes, and the toughest was a woman.”

  Delancey nodded. “Figures.”

  “So what do you want to know about the cookbook?”

  “Anything that’ll help.”

  “Well, many cookbooks go back several hundred years. The oldest of all is probably the one written by Apicius giving the recipes of Ancient Rome.”

  Delancey looked fascinated. “Is that right? Gee!”

  “The one we have here isn’t in that category, of course. It’s not being sought because of its age but probably because it tells the story of the early days of the Belvedere family in the restaurant business. In the trade, it isn’t called a cookbook but a ‘chef’s book.’”

  “Why are chefs’ books that interesting?”

  I looked up from my eggs and ham. “Lots of chefs write down recipes. They are always making changes while they’re cooking, trying to improve, wanting to squeeze out that little extra bit of flavor. Eventually, the book becomes a compilation of their own favorite recipes, plus the ones that the restaurant features, and all the tricks, shortcuts, things like that.” I returned to the ham and the second egg. I had told him most of this at the bookshop but I was familiar enough with police procedure to know how they love repetition.

  Delancey’s worn face didn’t exactly light up with understanding. “So what’s so great about it? Why would anybody kill for it?”

  “The motive might not be that simple. The book could have value from a historical viewpoint. The Belvedere family is famous in New Orleans, after all.”

  He shook his head. “Try harder, you don’t convince me.”

  “Not enough motive for you?”

  “No. Oh, I know people do funny things, get fanatical about stamps and coins, paintings and sculpture—even had a case when I was in New York where a guy killed a woman because she was going to blow the whistle on him. Know what he’d done?”

  “No,” I said obligingly.

  “Stolen a design—a fashion design. Oh, sure, it was from a famous fashion house but imagine—committing murder for a skirt!”

  “When you put it that way, yes, it sounds absurd. But it’s a good comparison—people do get extremist about their job or their hobby, their business, their passion.”

  “They sure do,” the lieutenant said emphatically.

  “Did you solve the case?”

  “Sure,” he said laconically.

  “Put him away?”

  “Judge gave him seven to ten, he was out in four.”

  I finished the ham and eggs. I had just enough egg yolk to go with the last morsel of whole-wheat toast. I hate it when the final portions don’t balance out.

  “Must be infuriating when that happens—but then that must be why you’re studying law—why you want to switch from the investigative to the judicial side.”

  “Something like that.” He seemed uncommunicative on the subject. “Back to this book … it’s been in the family for generations, right?”

  “From the beginning.”

  “Okay. Now, how come it’s such a mystery—what’s in it? Somebody in the family’s gotta know.”

  I explained how Arturo originated the book, how Edgardo and Alfonso had continued it and then so had Ernesto until he had his medical problems and the book had gone missing. I told the lieutenant of the fame the restaurant had achieved.

  He listened attentively and nodded.

  “Oysters Belvedere—that was their specialty, huh?”

  “That’s right. One of the great dishes of American cuisine.”

  “I’m a meat-and-potatoes man, myself.”

  I had thought he might be. Hal Gaines had had similar culinary tastes and had tolerated me in New York because my knowledge of spices had been critical to the case. Gaines had suggested that Lieutenant Delancey should make use of me for the same reason—making it my part of the quid pro quo.

  “Think of oysters Belvedere as a Supermeatloaf to Die For.”

  He gave me a sharp glance to see if I was making fun of him, then his creased features eased into a small grin. “Now you’re talking my language.” At least he had a sense of humor. That would make it easier to work with him.

  “I take it you’re not yet into New Orleans food, then?”

  “All this Creole and Cajun stuff? Nah, tried a few but they don’t grab me.”

  “Maybe they’ll grow on you.”

  “Doubt it—anyway, tell me about that broad at the auction.”

  I told him all I knew.

  “So you think she went straight to Gambrinus’ bookshop?” he asked. He had asked me that before, too, but I was not going to remind him.

  “She was all steamed up to do just that.”

  “But you didn’t see her again?”

  “No, I didn’t—�
��

  He caught the slight hesitation in my voice. “Go on, what were you going to say?”

  “When I first found the body and was still staring at Gambrinus— well, I thought it was Gambrinus—I heard a noise—”

  “What kind of a noise?”

  “A sort of slithering …”

  “What, like a snake?”

  “I don’t know, it only lasted a few seconds. Then a door banged. I went to look. It must have been the back door, but whoever it was had gone.”

  He studied me keenly as I was talking.

  “The rustle of a woman’s clothes maybe?”

  “Could have been, I suppose.”

  He gave the slightest of nods. “We dusted the doorknobs,” he said. “The back door had smears, not enough to pick up. Nobody in the neighborhood saw anything useful. They’re all used to seeing people go in and out of Gambrinus’ shop and the other shops on the street.”

  “No trace of the book?”

  “Plenty of cookbooks but nothing like your description.”

  “What does Van Linn say?”

  “Mostly what you told me.”

  “The weapon?”

  “A thirty-two—no record on the rifling.”

  “Don’t some people call that a woman’s gun?” I asked.

  “Yeah, some do.” He looked longingly at his coffee cup. “Gotta go easy on this stuff. Sure would like another, still—” He pushed the cup out of temptation range. “Not much to go on, huh?”

  “The body,” I said. “You haven’t told me about the body.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “HIS NAME’S RICHIE MORTENSEN. He used to work for Gambrinus in the bookshop, then times got tough and Gambrinus had to let him go. That was a coupla years ago. Since then, Gambrinus has used him on a temporary basis now and then. He got him to go to this auction when something more important came up—”

  “You’ve checked on that, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah. A large library was up for sale in Biloxi so Gambrinus went there and sent Mortensen to this auction. Mortensen’s been to a lot of these, knows the ropes.”

  “Yet Mortensen was sitting in Gambrinus’ chair—”

  Delancey shrugged. “Looks like Mortensen went to the auction early to get a jump on the crowd. According to accounts, he was kind of a brash kid and smart at that stuff. Brought the book to the shop.”

  “And he was sitting in Gambrinus’ chair when someone else came in, shot him and took the book,” I said.

  The lieutenant eyed the coffee cup again but a steely look came over his face and he nodded. “Looks that way.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re a hundred percent convinced,” I said. In fact he didn’t, but I felt it was the right thing to say in order to get him to tell me more—if there was more.

  “At this early stage in an investigation, there’s lots of questions and theories. When we’ve got more information, I’ll know better.”

  I had to be satisfied with that. “Stay and finish your breakfast,” he told me, getting to his feet. “I’ll be in touch.”

  After he had gone and I had finished, I went out onto the sidewalk and surveyed the day. It wasn’t particularly bright. In the gutter across the street, green and gold glittered incongruously. I had to walk over and look. I realized what they were—the strings of beads that were thrown to the crowds from the Krewes on the Mardi Gras floats.

  Some gray clouds were hanging around up there, looking for a polo game to spoil. The passing traffic included a man standing on a two-wheeled cart drawn by two large Dobermans. Nobody seemed anxious to get in his way.

  A Jeep Cherokee with flames painted on the side thought about it, but discretion prevailed.

  I thought I heard my name called. I was deciding I had to be mistaken when I heard it again. It was a female voice but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, what with people coming in and out, staff wheeling trolleys of luggage and drivers ushering passengers out of the hotel.

  Taxis were lined up outside. Valets were helping owners climb in, a taxi was pulling away, then I heard the voice again. Back down the line of parked cars was a stretch limousine—one of those hybrid vehicles that look like two normal-sized ones welded together. It was of a cream color, and the windows were the kind of glass that looks dark from outside. A hand waved, beckoning.

  I walked down to it, puzzled. Perhaps Eric Van Linn had commandeered it or borrowed it—maybe he even owned it. I could not think of anyone else I knew in New Orleans who might be here to pick me up—or, more to the point, anyone who knew me.

  An attractive young woman in a trim suit stood by the open door of the limo. As I approached, she smiled gaily. “We’ve been waiting for you,” she said, and motioned me into the vehicle. I peered inside. Four other women were in there, all just as attractive, and all were smiling a welcome. The woman on the sidewalk took my arm and eased me through the car door. Willing hands inside grasped me and drew me in. I sank onto a soft leather seat in the spacious interior, arranged so that there was lots of legroom and we all faced each other.

  Conflicting perfumes from the ladies mingled pleasingly with the lemongrass aroma that was evidently dispensed by the vehicle’s air-conditioning system.

  The young woman who had called to me climbed in beside me, the door slammed and we pulled out of line and snaked out onto Royal Street as smoothly and silently as a Rolls-Royce. In fact, it probably was a Rolls-Royce; the engine was softer than the purr of a week-old kitten.

  I looked at the faces. The woman who had called me from the sidewalk had light-brown hair, a wide mouth and restless brown eyes that looked as if they might betray every emotion. Another was a shiny-haired blonde with an ample figure and a come-hither look, while the next had an almost Asiatic appearance, smart clothes, carefully coiffured dark hair and a self-confident demeanor. The fourth had black hair and long black lashes and an almost perfect array of features. The fifth had the stylish look of the Italian females you see stalking past the fashion stores along the Corso in Milan.

  “Delighted to meet you all,” I said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” I looked at them in turn, wondering which was going to be the spokeswoman.

  It turned out to be the fourth one.

  “We have just kidnapped you,” she said.

  After the understandably protracted pause, I laughed. It was a very short laugh. “I can’t think of anybody who would pay anything for me,” I said.

  “We think you have considerable value,” the Asian-looking girl said in a soft voice.

  “That’s nice of you.” Naturally, I wasn’t going to antagonize any of these charming creatures, certainly not until I found out whether they were pussycats or tiger cats.

  Whatever brand of feline they were, they were eyeing me as if I were a particularly delectable species of mouse. I was growing more uncomfortable by the minute as I waited for them to burst out in fits of giggles and tell me it was all some kind of joke; I didn’t really care what kind—any kind was fine with me as long as it was a joke.

  But no giggles came and they all looked so serious—smiling but still serious—that my nervousness ballooned. I had to say something. I said, “You know, I’ve never been kidnapped before.” Not brilliant but anything would do as a trigger.

  “Not many people have,” said the shiny blonde.

  “Do you do this sort of thing often?” I asked. It sounded like a question that P. G. Wodehouse would have Bertie Wooster ask, and I was aiming for an effect a lot more solemn than that.

  “We’ve done it two or three times before,” said the brown-haired, brown-eyed damsel, and the way she said it was almost convincing.

  It was time to break this deadlock. “Now, come on, ladies …” I tried to avoid a cajoling tone and did not want to be patronizing, either. “You don’t look or act like kidnappers, and anyway, kidnapping went out of style with the Lindbergh case. In my instance, it would be downright unprofitable and you all look like you know the NASDAQ from a backpack
. Now, tell me what this is all about.”

  While I was giving this spiel, an unnerving thought was creeping in. I was already involved in a case where a man had been murdered over a cookbook. Was it the kind of case that might support a kidnapping as well? Could this incident possibly have some connection with the Belvedere chef’s book? If it did, it was no joking matter.

  “Here we are,” said the girl who might be part Asian, and the limo stopped. All the time we had been chatting, the vehicle had been sliding almost noiselessly through the New Orleans traffic, almost without a tilt or a bump, as smooth as warm cream. The girl who had ushered me in from the sidewalk was the first out. I was motioned to follow her, and the other three followed in such a manner that, without seeming to, they surrounded me. It was not exactly militaristic but it was certainly efficient. If it was true when they told me they had carried out two or three kidnappings before, they were fast learners.

  We were in … well, not exactly an alley but a street as narrow and unimportant as it can be before it is designated an alley. It was neat and tidy, though, and looked to be the backs of buildings which must front onto a larger street. The shiny blonde opened a steel door that was not locked although it had a formidable padlock. We went in, our circular formation transforming into a line order, then, inside the door, I inhaled …

  There was no mistaking that odor—we were in a restaurant. It had that solidly comforting smell of a superior restaurant, too—no garlicky overtones, no rancid-fat undertones but a nicely rounded, richly satisfying, good food smell.

  I was instantly reassured. This was familiar territory. I felt I was on safe ground and I couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

  Our squad marched past the kitchen but I didn’t get enough of a glance inside to see much. I got a glimpse of the main dining room and it looked pretty classy though it wasn’t open yet, shrouded in a curtained gloom. We went up a flight of stairs and into a private dining room. It was intended for banquets and had one large table that was fully occupied once we sat down—about fifteen women were already there.

  The black-haired miss with the almost perfect features opened the proceedings. “You’re probably wondering what this is all about,” she said, and I didn’t answer. It had been the understatement of the year.