by Peter King
It was a working office and two people filled it, along with the usual office equipment for printing menus, correspondence, file cabinets, bookshelves and a cluttered desk.
When we were seated, I said, “Earl Whelan offered me the book—”
Her eyes widened. “The Belvedere book?”
“So he said. He showed it to me and I said it was a phony. I saw him by chance crossing Jackson Square later and followed him home.”
“I see. Do you really think it was a phony?”
“Pretty sure, yes.”
She looked down at her hands, rubbed her fingers together. “We hadn’t lived together, Earl and I, for some time. We had filed for divorce.”
“Was he obstructing the divorce?”
“Oh, no, not at all. We did have a life-insurance policy, though—on both of us. The police may think I killed him for that, wanting to get the money before the divorce was complete. But I didn’t … I couldn’t do that. I didn’t love him anymore and I didn’t like having to keep giving him money but I didn’t kill him—I couldn’t.”
It sounded to me like a sincere statement and I would have acquitted her on the spot. But I know I’m a marshmallow when it comes to women. Delancey would have shaken his head in despair at me.
“He was dead when you got there?” I asked.
“Yes. I was afraid that whoever had killed him was still in the house. I hurried out. I suppose I should have phoned the police before I did that. As it was, I came back here—I live upstairs—and the police called me first.”
It sounded logical to me, although I knew Delancey would have a tougher attitude.
“I had only been back here a few minutes when the phone rang and it was the police telling me about his death.”
“Where did he get the book? Do you have any idea?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Was he interested in that kind of thing?”
She was about to scoff but probably had been brought up not to speak ill of the dead. “The only thing he was interested in was making money,” she said, and kept all rancor out of her voice.
“It’s been suggested that he was a drug courier.”
“I don’t doubt it. He drove a cab for a while and I’m pretty sure he was running drugs then. He probably decided that a mule carriage was a better cover.”
“You mentioned your Witches meetings,” I said. “Are any of your members looking for the book, too?”
“Maybe all of them,” she said with a slight smile. “Elsa is now more likely looking for it for her own reasons, you haven’t been successful yet”—I blessed her for that “yet”—“so several of the Witches are trying a few approaches of their own.” She thought for a moment; she seemed like a very honest girl. “I think it’s all right to tell you this. I don’t see why it should be a secret. Jenny is certainly looking, so is Marguerite … Emmy Lou is not, I don’t think. I’m not sure about Della but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“A lot of lookers,” I commented ruefully.
“What do you think is in the book?” she asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“Some of the Belvedere family’s recipes must have value,” she said.
“Enough to kill for?”
She shuddered. “Surely not.”
“I also wish I knew where the real book is—if this one that he was peddling is a phony. Do you think Earl had the real one, too?”
“Well, I haven’t been able to go through all his things yet—the police won’t let me. I suppose if it’s there, they’ll find it.” She gave me a look of concern. “Have you eaten?”
“Very well. At the Bistro Bonaparte.”
“That means very well indeed. Marguerite does a wonderful job there. What did you have?”
I told her and she nodded approval. “Good choices. Real French Creole, just the style that Marguerite tries so hard to go for.”
“I hear great things about your place here, too,” I said. It was an exaggeration, but a pardonable one.
“So when are you coming to eat here?”
“How does the day after tomorrow look on your booking list?”
“For you, it doesn’t matter. We can accommodate you.”
“Great.”
“Lunch or dinner?” she asked.
“Let’s say dinner. I don’t know yet what my schedule is likely to be.”
“Fine—dinner it is. We’ll have some terrific specials lined up for you.”
We came back with me through the kitchen. It was quiet. She was the only one working at this time. The evening crew would probably be here in an hour or so but in the meantime, as I left her, she was looking over at the preparation benches, trying to find something to keep her occupied. I knew this was not a normal day for her—the owner of a restaurant does not chop her own onions.
There was just enough time left in the afternoon for one more step in the investigation. This one was not following anything like a straight course. Not that many of them do, but few had strayed this far out. My next move might not be rewarding but it could contribute a few facts.
My train of thought had been initiated by Lieutenant Delancey’s words—“Unfortunately, we can’t ask the last Belvedere what was in the book.” I added to them the words of the lawyer, Van Linn. He had said, “My client is very anxious to get that book and is increasing pressure on me.”
Who could be that anxious? The latest in the Belvedere line, Ambrose, was going to reopen the family restaurant. Did a competitor of the Belvedere dynasty want to preempt him and use their recipes? It sounded plausible. Or was it someone with a grudge against the family? That sounded just as plausible.
I had to start somewhere on this approach, so back at the Hotel Monteleone I looked through the yellow pages, ATTORNEYS covered dozens of pages but after them came all the specialists—accident, injury, bankruptcy, probate, estates, contracts, mortgages … The categories went on and on, even admiralty law and aviation. Several specialized in “Wrongful Death” which I supposed was a euphemism for murder.
I wanted to stay away from that so I settled on a Michael James and Associates and punched buttons. A pleasant female voice gave me a choice of several extensions but when I realized that she was strictly mechanical, I just picked one at random. I got the secretary of Mr. James himself and after making sure this lady was real, I asked to speak to him.
“May I ask what this is in regard to?”
Far be it from me to tell her never to end a sentence with a preposition, so I asked for Mr. James personally and said it was confidential.
“Much of our business is,” she told me. “I need to know a little more before I can connect you.”
“It concerns food.”
“Food?” She was blindsided by that answer, I could tell.
I repeated it. “Just a moment,” she said, coming back to say, “Mr. James is just leaving for a legal conference in Memphis. Can I connect you to his assistant, Mr. Purvis?”
I agreed. Mr. Purvis sounded like a young man but he had a confident tone and after we had gone through all that confidentiality business again, he invited me to come to their offices in the business district. He hemmed and hawed over a time but agreed he could spare me a half hour if I came right away.
It was an impressive office on two stories and I was led along a paneled corridor where Mr. Purvis was just replacing the receiver. He was young to middle-aged, some silver strands showing already but only adding to his prosperous appearance, and his college was Princeton, I noted on the diploma over his desk.
After we had dispensed with preliminaries, I began. “I was given Mr. James’ name because he has handled cases involving food.”
Mr. Purvis looked perplexed. “I wasn’t aware of that. Please continue.”
We did the confidentiality thing again. I came close to overdoing it but it worked. Mr. Purvis leaned farther onto the polished desktop in interest.
“You’re aware of mad-cow disease.”
That hit him
between the eyes. “Well, yes, I’ve heard about it, on the television. It’s quite a problem in Europe, isn’t it?”
“Ah, that’s the point—in Europe, yes. Up to now, that is.” I sounded suitably concerned and appropriately reluctant to voice such a major issue.
He picked up as I had hoped. “You mean we have it here, too?”
“The FDA says no, meat-marketing authorities say no, the Department of Agriculture says no.” I stopped there. Innuendo-loaded silence could sometimes be more effective than more words.
“But a problem is developing here?” Alarm tinged his question.
“I sincerely hope not.”
“Please go on.” His interest was bubbling away like a Cajun stew.
“I was given to believe that Mr. James’ experience in the food business would be invaluable and—”
He rubbed a hand along the desk top. “Who recommended him?”
“You mean he doesn’t specialize in the food industry? Mr. Martin James?”
He straightened. “Our Mr. James is Michael.”
“Oh, good heavens! Do I have the wrong office?”
“Just a minute!” Mr. Purvis picked up the phone and issued some brief commands. While we waited, we made some small talk about my recent arrival in New Orleans, how I liked it, the weather, had I been here before, then the phone rang. Mr. Purvis listened and replaced it.
“There is no Mr. Martin James listed as an attorney in New Orleans.”
I looked distressed.
“Perhaps in one of the outlying towns,” he suggested.
“Well, I thought—”
“But if we can help you, we’ll be pleased to do so. I doubt if any attorney really specializes in the food industry, not that I’m aware of, anyway. We have an excellent reputation here in the city.”
“Well, this could develop into an extremely important matter. The entire meat industry—”
I went on at longer length, though I could see that Mr. Purvis was hooked. Perhaps I was doing him an injustice but I fancied I could see large dollar signs flashing in his brain. Phrases like class-action suits were probably appearing in bright neon lights and newspaper headlines reading Bigger Than Tobacco were composing themselves.
Now I could get on with what I came for. “The restaurant belonging to the Belvedere family must have strong legal representation. Do you happen to have their account?”
He stared. “Surely they are not involved in the—”
“Not in any way—as far as I know.”
He flexed the fingers of his left hand. It seemed to stimulate his brain processes. “They are not one of our clients, no.”
“Who would be their competitors?”
“Surely you— Oh, well, you are new to the city, aren’t you? The Brennan family, the Chase family, the Patouts—”
“Do you represent any of them?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure that doesn’t matter. We may not have a share of the legal business associated with the restaurants in the city but we have an excellent reputation.” He turned fractionally pompous and I cut him off at the pass.
“That’s good to hear, Mr. Purvis. Then there will be no conflict of interest.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He managed a professional smile. “One of my regular golfing companions is also an attorney and his firm happens to handle affairs for the Belvedere family, as a matter of fact.”
“Really? Is he with an esteemed firm?”
“Oh, yes. You wouldn’t know the name, they have been in New Orleans a long, long time.”
“Really old?”
“Quite old, Van Linn and Associates.”
I left Mr. Purvis a little confused. He had not expanded his knowledge of mad-cow disease or whether it threatened the economic future of the South. In fact, he had learned nothing of substance and what he had learned, I had had him swear to secrecy. Phrases like “a serious situation involving grave international problems” had been enlisted into my arsenal. A parting word about “stopping in Washington, D.C., on my way back” probably left him with a certain impression, as I didn’t add that the reason was to change planes.
On the other hand, I had gained a priceless nugget of knowledge. I knew that attorneys were usually adamant in their reluctant to disclose clients’ names, and that had been why I had pursued this circuitous route. It had paid off and I now speculated over it.
So, Van Linn was the Belvedere family lawyer. So Ambrose Belvedere was his client who had commissioned the search for the elusive chef’s book—the book, supposedly full of secrets, that two men had died for. Ambrose Belvedere wanted to recover the book that belonged to his own family. That must mean he knew what was in it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT WAS LATE IN the day when I got back to the hotel, and I needed a little thinking time. I watched some mindless TV which did not disrupt my thinking in the least, had a leisurely bath and then faced the pleasant task of deciding where to eat.
I was trying to alternate the meals at the restaurants belonging to the members of the Witches and those restaurants for which New Orleans is famous. Tonight should be one of the latter. After reviewing the myriad possibilities, I settled on Galatoire’s. One of the traditional old-line New Orleans restaurants, I had made a reservation in the newly renovated second-floor dining room. This was a recent improvement, I understood, for reservations had not previously been accepted, much to the chagrin of many diners.
The mirrored walls and the brightly lit room had the look and feel of a Paris brasserie and the service was smartly attired and efficient. I started with the Oysters en Brochette then had the Crabmeat Sardou, both perfectly prepared and presented. The filet mignon Béarnaise was not perhaps typical Creole but it was done exactly as I had ordered it. I was tempted by the dessert card but resisted and settled for an Irish coffee.
Next morning, when I decided the hour hand had reached the time for all good lawyers to be in their office, I called Van Linn. This time, I beat him to the punch. “Sorry I don’t have definite news yet but I thought you should know that another copy of the book has been offered for sale.”
“You said the copy you saw was a forgery.”
“I’m pretty sure that the other is a forgery also.”
He grunted dissatisfaction. “Did you get anything out of Gambrinus?”
“Nothing useful. He made Mortensen sound a shade unreliable. He could have been mixed up in it.”
“My client is getting extremely anxious,” Van Linn said. “As I told you, we are willing to increase your fee for an early and satisfactory result.”
“You told me,” I agreed. “You didn’t tell me everything, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I might be able to operate more efficiently if I were to be put in possession of all the facts,” I said, sounding stiff and huffy.
“I’ve told you all that is relevant—”
“No. You haven’t told me that your client is Ambrose Belvedere.”
I would have had a little gratification if he had paused or hesitated but I should have known that he was too smooth for that. Years in a courtroom had trained his mind to think on its feet—or whatever the expression is.
“I have no reason to believe that your task would be made any easier if you knew the name of my client,” he said, slick as olive oil in a hot pan.
“I think it would. This is a Belvedere matter. It might become clearer if a member of the Belvedere family were able to tell us what could be in the book that is of such vital importance.” I was trying to sound irate but I didn’t want to go too far. That “increased fee” had not yet been quantified …
“I have discussed this with the client—” The son of a gun still refused to name him! I let him go on. “—and I am assured that the Belvedere family has no knowledge of what is in the book. Let me remind you—Ambrose had no interest in going into the restaurant business in his youth. He rarely visited it when his grandfather and his father ran it. He knew nothing about
its operations. He thinks he may have heard mention of a chef’s book, might even have seen it, but is not really sure. I see no way in which you might learn anything contributory.”
“I still think there might be something—perhaps without any realization of the existence of that knowledge—”
“I see no possibility of that.” Van Linn’s dogmatic and uncompromising tone left no room for further verbal maneuver.
I knew when to quit. “All right. I’ll be in touch.” I couldn’t resist one tiny face-saver. “If I do think of a question that he might be able to answer—” I could hear him preparing a negative and hurried to cut him off. “—I’ll call you and you can ask him.”
“Very well.” His tone was accommodating.
I had a little time before heading for the television studio so I did some local sightseeing. The Old U.S. Mint was first on my list. This, I learned, was built in the Greek Revival style and that made me want to see it—if for no other reason than to find out what Greek Revivalists built. Apparently it used to mint money for both the United States and the Confederacy, surely an open-handed policy.
The adjoining museum had a large exhibit featuring New Orleans jazz and it was inevitable that this should commence with Louis Armstrong’s first trumpet. I had missed Mardi Gras but I was able to see costumes and regalias worn then by famous “Krewes” and other memorabilia of Carnival traditions.
St. Louis Cathedral is the oldest operating cathedral in the U.S.A., it is said, and has some beautiful stained-glass windows and murals, though it is otherwise disappointingly ordinary. The Cabildo used to be where the Spanish government sat and is a comprehensive museum of life in early Louisiana. Its attractions include a death mask made of Napoleon by his doctor.
One area I particularly wanted to see was the French Market. Located somewhat naturally in the French Quarter, it has been there since the 1700s. It was a riot of color and aroma. Sheltered by its colonnade and its graceful pillars, the market glistened with the greens of avocados, lettuce, watercress, escarole, peas, string beans, broccoli and okra.
In contrast were the banks of grapefruit, lemons, oranges, limes, bananas, squash and carrots. Slashes of red came from peppers and radishes and melons were cut in half to expose their luscious pink interiors. Strings of garlic by the dozen dangled enticingly, flanked by shaggy brown coconuts, purple eggplant and knobby potatoes. Mirlitons were stacked high; they looked like oversized pears. Rows of fresh-cut herbs offered further temptation to the buyer. Racks of hot-pepper sauces from a score of producers filled shelf after shelf and their heat intensity ranged, so the labels claimed, from “hot” to “devilish” to “hellish.”