by Peter King
He nodded though he didn’t look as if he expected great results from this approach. I decided this was a good time to butter him up a little. “I must say, Lieutenant, that I appreciate your liberal attitude on this, I mean, letting me help in the investigation.”
“Ahh,” he said, “good way to keep an eye on you.” There was almost a grin there. “Anyway, I never could understand why Lestrade didn’t accept Holmes’s brilliance and make more use of him to further his career. Then, too, why didn’t Inspector Cramer accept that Nero Wolfe was a genius and just tag along with him instead of always trying to jail him?”
“Is that what you’re doing with me?” I asked. “Making use of my brilliance and genius?”
He shifted in the chair again. It was comment enough. “After all,” he went on, “John F. X. Markham, the New York DA, not only grabbed on to Philo Vance’s coattails and hung on, they were buddies. Even had breakfast together—”
“Fillet of white perch, tied with silk cord, dipped in batter, rolled in chopped almonds and sautéed in butter,” I contributed.
“Yeah, I guess you would remember that. I remember the murder methods.”
“You astonish me, Lieutenant. Not many real detectives read about fictitious ones.”
I recalled his previous comment, about a “labor of Sisyphus.” He was an unusual detective. “How are the law studies coming along?” I asked.
“Okay. I’m on schedule. I’m on torts now. Used to think they were something to eat.” He rose to his feet. “Gotta get along.”
“You going to do anything about Harburg?”
“I’m in Homicide, not Forgery—and the T-men have got enough on their plates without tossing a cookbook onto one of ’em. Still, I need to know who hired him to forge the book.”
I showered, then, while I dressed, watched part of a cop show on television but there was too much violence for it to be real. I took a taxi to the Café Cajun where Emmy Lou Charbonneau welcomed me. “Was hoping you’d come,” she said warmly. She looked delightful in a trim blue dress that avoided ostentation but had a distinct flair. Her brown hair and brown eyes were almost the same color, I saw now, and her complexion was smooth and feminine.
The restaurant had something of the intimate style of a Parisian sidewalk café, perhaps the kind that is more of a brasserie. Large black-and-white photographs on the walls depicted the New Orleans of the past and the red-and-white-checked tablecloths added to that impression. Tables were close together but that only helped the intimate atmosphere, and the noise level was tolerable.
It was early and seating was not a problem. “How about a New Orleans cocktail?” Emmy Lou asked.
“What do you recommend?”
“Sazerac? Ramos gin fizz? Mint julep?”
“Do people still drink mint juleps? I had the impression they went out with Scarlett O’Hara.”
“A few ask for them.”
“Tourists, you mean?”
“We try to call them ‘visitors,’” she said with her gentle smile.
I settled on a gin fizz and Emmy Lou sat with me after she put it on the table. “If it’s named Ramos, it must have a story behind it.”
“Oh, it does,” she assured me. “Henry Ramos came to New Orleans in 1888 and opened the Imperial Cabinet Saloon. This gin fizz was his specialty and it made him so famous that he had to sell the saloon and buy a bigger place. They say that during the Mardi Gras of 1915, he had thirty-five bartenders making this drink and the lines were out into the street, day and night.”
“You still make it the same way?”
“Certainly. Mix the white of an egg with an ounce of heavy cream, the juice of half a lemon, the juice of half a lime, two ounces of gin, and fill up with soda water. It needs shaking for at least three minutes to get this consistency.”
I looked at it—it was thick. “Everybody makes it pretty much the same way?”
“Pretty much, yes. Some put in a few drops of vanilla extract, some add a few drops of orange flower water. We don’t use either.”
I tasted. It was delicious. The gin fizz used to be popular in England but its popularity has declined. As I recalled, it was very similar to Henry Ramos’s drink but the heavy cream and considerable shaking made the latter richer and thicker.
She seemed inclined to chat so I asked, “Tell me about Cajun cooking.”
“I’d be glad to—but first, let’s talk about the Belvedere cookbook and the murder.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I TRIED NOT TO LOOK startled and the best way to do that was to have another sip of the luxuriously rich gin fizz. I hoped it gave me the right air of nonchalance. “What do you want to know?” I asked in my best impersonation of Lord Peter Wimsey.
“It’s not what I want to know—it’s what I want to tell you.”
That surprised me, too, and I looked more carefully at the quiet, brown-eyed, brown-haired girl who had lured me into the limousine and into the Witches’ den. She sat there, demure as could be, hands clasped in front of her and leaning across the table to look at me intently.
“I will admit that progress in the case is not as rapid as it could be,” I told her. “Consequently, anything that you can tell me could be helpful, even important.”
“I’m sure that you got the impression when we—er, kidnapped you that we have a number of very talented women in the Witches.”
“Yes indeed, I certainly did get that impression.”
“Not only talented but successful.”
“You would all have to be,” I concurred. “I’ve spent enough time working in restaurants to know what a tough profession it can be.”
“And to achieve a level of success, it’s necessary to be determined and—at times—ruthless.” Her tone was still conversational but I felt a touch of ice in these words. I had another sip of Henry Ramos’s stimulating gin fizz. The direction her remarks were taking was becoming evident. It was not fully clear as yet but her final words had a sharp edge.
“Go on,” I encouraged her.
“We’ve been talking, the girls and I—”
“Inevitable.”
She smiled, showing her excellent white teeth. “Yes, we talk among ourselves a lot at all times, but now, with this happening, we talk a lot more. It’s more serious, too, now that it involves murder.”
I nodded. I sipped gin fizz and said nothing. Maybe that would bring her to the point.
“This isn’t easy to say and I suppose I’m not doing it very well but, well, here it is … We think that one of the Witches is mixed up in this.”
So there it was. No wonder she found it hard to say. They appeared to be a sociable and integrated group, all with a common goal, friends as well as part of the same service community. It would be hard to accept that one of them was … Was what? A murderer?
She must have seen in my expression some inkling of what I was thinking. “Perhaps not the murder,” she said quickly. “Well, not directly, anyway, but at least the plan to steal the cookbook.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked. Another sip of gin fizz was needed. This might turn out to be a three-gin fizz problem.
“It’s hard to say. Nothing specific—though maybe one or more of us does know something specific and doesn’t want to make it known,” she said with an apologetic smile. “When a number of women discuss a topic, it can be hard to know exactly who is saying what or how certain subjects came up.”
Either that was true, or suspicions had been voiced and Emmy Lou didn’t want to clarify them. “Do you want to identify any of the Witches? Any that might be mixed up in this?”
“Not right now. It’s too vague—but I thought you should know.”
“Anything else?” I asked her.
“Not at the moment,” she said cautiously. “If more concrete evidence comes to light, I’ll tell you.” Her brown eyes searched my face intently. “You’re working closely with the police, aren’t you?”
“Very closely,” I said confidently—for
the sake of her confidence as well as mine. “Just left them, as a matter of fact.”
“Do they tell you anything new?”
“Oh, I guess I’m supposed to give you a report, aren’t I? Well, there may be forgeries of the Belvedere book around.”
“Is it that valuable?” She sounded surprised.
“Maybe.”
She caught that implication immediately. “You mean there could be another reason for wanting it?”
I repeated the “secret recipe” idea but she didn’t look impressed. “I suppose that could be—I don’t know. It is said to contain the famous oysters Belvedere recipe. What else could someone want it for?”
“I don’t know, either—yet. But I’m working on it.”
“Good, now I can come to your question about Cajun food.” She sounded relieved that the difficult chore of receiving my report was over. “First, you know who Cajuns are?”
“Early French settlers, weren’t they?”
“That’s right. ‘Acadians’ originally, farmers from the south of France who emigrated to Nova Scotia in the early 1600s. They were driven out by the British a century later and made the long trek south to Louisiana. They settled along the bayous to the west of New Orleans and took up their traditional trades of farming, fishing and trapping.
“So they were accustomed to living off the land and they were adaptable at making use of whatever was there to cook and eat. They found the slaves cultivating okra which they had brought with them from Africa so the Acadians incorporated that into their cuisine. They eagerly took the peppers and spices that the Indians used and they kept their French roux and their French method of cooking everything the long, slow way. Being from the south of France, they tried to grow grapes but the soil and climate weren’t suitable so they grew sugarcane instead.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “Now, tell me, how does Creole fit into this?’
“The French and Spanish took turns in governing Louisiana and were concentrated in New Orleans—their cuisines blended into one, and by the turn of the nineteenth century, that had become Creole cooking.”
“Didn’t some West Indian influence creep in there, too?”
“Into Creole cooking, yes, it did.”
“But you prefer to specialize in Cajun?”
“Yes. Creole cooking has had a lot of exposure and lots of people outside of New Orleans cook that style. Cajun isn’t as well known.”
“Paul Prudhomme has done a good job promoting it, though.”
She smiled. “He certainly has—his blackened redfish is one of the more famous Cajun dishes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Fish from the Gulf of Mexico are coated in hot spices and then seared quickly on both sides in a very hot cast-iron pan. This blackens the skin and seals in the flavors, leaving the fish moist and tender.”
“What’s his secret?”
“Two secrets; the first is the spice mixture and the second is to have the pan extremely hot, much hotter than is usual in pan cooking.”
“Do you cook this?”
“Oh, yes, it’s become a part of New Orleans cuisine. Customers would ask for it if it weren’t on the menu.”
“And the secret of the spices?” I pressed her.
She smiled again. “Ah, the spices! We use a mixture of garlic, paprika, cayenne pepper, chili powder, celery powder, onion, basil, oregano, marjoram and salt and black pepper. Every chef here uses these basically. The proportions vary only slightly.”
“The cooking itself is very simple, isn’t it?”
“All Cajun dishes are. Some people think that for a dish to be good, it has to be complicated. Cajun cooking has disproved that. We tended to forget that the early Cajuns—Acadians—were very simple people. They lived off the land and spent virtually all their days getting food either by hunting or trapping or fishing and then spent the rest of the day cooking it.”
She sounded passionate on the subject and I told her so. Her brown eyes glowed with pleasure and she went on. “It’s such a shame to lose the beauty of Cajun dishes by adding powdered onions or powdered garlic—they taste of chemicals. And you can’t use commercial blends of herbs—you have to mix your own. What’s the point in taking the trouble to find fresh fish if you’re going to spoil it by using powdered and dried ingredients?”
She stopped abruptly. “Enough! You want to eat, don’t you?”
“I have to admit that you’ve got my taste buds quivering for Cajun food,” I said. “Now what’s really, typically Cajun?”
“Well, I suppose you should start with a gumbo.” She was emphatic, didn’t hesitate a second.
“I’ve had gumbo a few times,” I said. “The last time was in Florida.”
“Florida! Pah! They can’t make gumbo in Florida!”
“How do you make it?”
“There are basically two types,” she told me. “Okra gumbo and filé gumbo. Okra is used for flavoring and for thickening both. Filé is ground sassafras; this does both of those two but it also darkens and enriches. Many chefs use only one or the other but we often use them together.”
“Right, I’ll start with a gumbo. Is it always seafood based?”
“Good heavens, no! We use alligator, rabbit, raccoon—depending on what we’re able to buy.”
“You’re kidding! Do people eat those?”
“Tourists—visitors—love to go home and say they ate alligator gumbo,” she giggled. “Beef, chicken, veal, turtle, ham too, of course—and oysters by the ton.”
“What’s on today? Anything exotic?”
“Oh, you’re adventurous? That’s good but I’m sorry to say today’s choice is limited to mixed seafood or oysters.”
“Okay, I’ll take the oyster gumbo.”
“Good choice. Now, for the next course—take a look at the menu.” She handed me one, it had large cardboard sheets of a yellowing color that looked convincingly antique and was printed with elaborate curlicued lettering. The dishes included Crawfish Pie, Speckled Trout in Rum, Fish Stuffed with Rice and Pecans, Cajun Chicken with Yams, Meatloaf Abbeville, Jambalaya with Andouille Sausage. “And today,” said Emmy Lou, “we have Smothered Quail.”
“You’ll have to explain that one,” I told her. “The society for the protection of birds might object to that technique.”
She smiled. “Smothering is a New Orleans technique of cooking. It’s really braising, first quickly and at high heat then very, very slowly for a long time at very low heat.”
“Just my style,” I said. “It’s rare these days to find slow food. I’m sorry to say fast food has outstripped it.”
“Good choice.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll pass your order to the kitchen. Another gin fizz?”
“I believe so.”
With the gin fizz, Emmy Lou brought me some Cajun Paté. It was different from most French patés, more like Jewish chopped liver. Thyme, bay leaf and Tabasco sauce gave it a savory taste and with it came Melba toast strips.
The oyster gumbo was excellent, the oysters just beginning to curl at the edges and there had been no skimping on the oyster liquor. Regular onions as well as green onions and chopped green peppers swarm in the gumbo. At the table, a little rice was spooned into the serving bowl, the oysters were placed on that and the gumbo ladled over them. I knew that it was standard to use three kinds of pepper in the cooking—red, white and black.
The smothered quail was more than up to expectation. The cooking technique had brought out sweet, subtle flavors in a way that no other method could match. The gravy was naturally thick and far superior to the usual prepared gravy. With it, I had a side dish of red beans and rice, another Cajun specialty.
Emmy Lou came to the table afterward and pulled up a chair. “Louisiana is sugarcane country,” she said, “so we have wonderful raw sugar that we can make use of—pecan pie, bread pudding, chocolate fudge cake and calas are the most popular Cajun desserts.”
“What is that last one? I don’t think I know it.”
“Calas are rice fritters, made with sugar and eggs.”
“I’d better try those.”
I did, they were tender and sweet, and their golden-brown color made them very appealing.
I congratulated Emmy Lou on a superb meal and she glowed with pride. As I finished my thick black coffee—with chicory, of course—and said good-bye to her, I could not help wondering how much more she knew than she had told me. If she didn’t know more, she—and perhaps some of her fellow Witches—had suspicions. Were they too loyal to voice them?
CHAPTER TWELVE
ON THE WAY BACK to the hotel, I found myself periodically assailed by strains of jazz spilling out on to the sidewalk. Some of it was down-home traditional Dixieland stuff, some if had to be more R&B but there was also what sounded, to my not-well-accustomed ear, like the cutting-edge contemporary variety. As New Orleans was claimed to be the birthplace of jazz, I had to do a little sampling.
Funky Butt’s on Rampart Street was the first to bring me in and I stood at the bar nursing a beer while a cornet player blew his heart out. Jason Marsalis, youngest member of the talented musical family, came on then with a vibraphone, an instrument I didn’t recall seeing since Ritz Brothers movies.
Down near the river, the Dragon’s Den enticed me with its unusual location above a Thai restaurant. An Eastern theme prevailed and it looked as if it was pretending to be a turn-of-the-century opium den.
When I finally got back to the Hotel Monteleone, it was after midnight but it was as busy as midday. Cars were arriving and leaving, limos were gliding to and fro—although none drew me in—and people were gathered in knots and groups in the lobby and outside.
A saxophone wailed somewhere—do saxophones ever do anything but wail? A woman plaintively waved a sign for a tour group, looking like a Bo-Peep who had lost her flock. A man in an old gray suit and a straw hat was handing out leaflets and a couple swayed, hanging on to each other for stability.
The man with the leaflets thrust one at me and I shook my head. I had to sidestep a quartet arguing over their destination for the evening and there he was again—the man with the leaflets. This time, he pushed one into my hand before I could refuse.