Sergeant: Got him safe, ma'am!
Radford: Go on, Mrs. Leslie!
Brenda: He went to the cupboard. He opened the door only partly, and—and slashed inside and dropped the razor. He came back with an oil-skin pouch. He put the money under a trap in the cork floor. It was done in seconds.
Todd: It's a pity I ain't got another razor. Old Scratch never misses with a razor.
Radford: Better put the cuffs on him, Sergeant!
Brenda: You see, I already guessed he was an accomplice of Morgan's . . .
Bill: You . . . what?
Brenda: Bill, you're so romantic you won't use common sense. He was reading an evening paper. With pictures of Morgan and you too on the front page. But he said he'd never heard of Morgan. You spoke first, so he knew you were the American. And he saw a way of killing Morgan for the money. If he just dropped that razor in the cupboard, the police would think it belonged to Morgan. I was so paralyzed I couldn't even scream. Somebody chased me; maybe it was the police; and I fainted in some old woman's room. I—(falteringly) Inspector, may I go to my husband now?
Radford: You may, Mrs. Leslie. With the apologies of Scotland Yard.
LEONARD PRUYN
Dinner at Garibaldi's
'Dinner At Garibaldi's' is a fine example of a story that hovers on the borderline of fantasy but (despite its central gimmick) doesn't quite cross over. Which is why we like it so much.
Not that either of us has anything against fantasy, or indeed science fiction—our respective shelves are stuffed with books of all genres, including those (incidentally, one of the few real arguments your editors have ever had has been on the merits or otherwise of Randall Garrett's Too Many Magicians:One thinks it's excellent, the other thinks it's punk—although not, to be fair, because of the Impossible gimmick itself). Early on, however, we decided to banish all entirely unrealistic elements from The Art of the Impossible—emphasis on 'entirely'. If it hadn't been reprinted so often, we'd both have enjoyed including Anthony Boucher's wonderful 'Elsewhen'. But that features a time machine, and although, in theory, time travel is practicable—at least, if time, as one theorist has it, may be likened to a boat drifting down a winding river (and thus you ought to be able to step off the boat at one of the bends and walk either backwards or forwards along the bank)—in practice, forget it. But if in a story an author makes out a good case for a particular impossibility and the gimmick works within the rules the author has laid down, and if, moreover, the gimmick in the end delights you because of the author's sheer brass neck—well, why not?
Leonard Pruyn certainly had cheek, whoever he was. Alas, he's proved untraceable, even though, back in the mid-1950s when the story was published, an editorial blurb referred to him as a fulltime writer. Not in the mystery field he wasn't (although he did later collaborate on a straight novel with the mystery writer Day Keene).
Which is a pity because he had pace, style and, on the evidence of this story, a fertile imagination. As for the gimmick itself, is it feasible? Who knows? Who cares! Feasible or not, the story works. 'Dinner At Garibaldi's' is a little gem.
JACK ADRIAN
I hated to admit it—but I had to. This was a case for Joachim. It wasn't Edmond Leffington's body slumped in the bathtub that bothered me. In the insurance game you see a lot of bodies, all just as dead—hanging from rafters, smashed to hamburger on city streets, black, bloated bodies dragged up from the bay—old ones, young ones, short, tall.
I guess you get to take a suicide for granted—or murder with a hatchet in the skull. Even the mean torture deaths don't bother you too much. It's all dirty and sticky. You get used to it: the smell of it and the touch of it.
And the reasons don't bother you either. You just find them out— because that's your job. Murders for loot, murders for love, hate. Suicides for the same. People who seem to have everything and cut their wrists in the bathroom, beautiful women with stomachs full of cyanide. Edmond Leffington's death wasn't strange there. Most people seem to die in the bathroom, or the bedroom.
It was the way he died.
I'd heard of rich men dying of starvation. But Leffington wasn't only rich—he was one of the best known gourmets in the country! And now he sat in a bathtub—dead, of malnutrition.
He had been our biggest client—worth almost fourteen million. The insurance coverage in this one man alone nearly built our company. And yet a mealy mouthed butler had just 'phoned to say Edmond Leffington was dead . . .
I took a taxi to the big brown stoned house and showed my I.D. to the cop at the door. The place seemed different from six months ago—guess I just missed Leffington. A nice guy, you couldn't help but remember how he looked: tall and friendly and red cheeked— like a skinny Scotsman. A man who loved good food—and plenty of it. Leffington never gained much weight and we considered him a good risk.
Now I followed the butler through the large dark rooms, still filled with those big antiques and paintings. There was money everywhere: in the thick oriental rugs, the leather chairs, and the high timbered ceilings.
The coroner hadn't arrived yet, and Leffington still sat propped up in the tub. The skin on his face and arms was emaciated, and the water against his bloated stomach. I put fingers to the grey flesh and closed his mouth.
When I asked the butler about the family doctor, he said there was none. I had forgotten that the old boy hated doctors. The servant handed me a routine medical report by the emergency physician. I scanned it quickly and couldn't believe what I read.
Starvation.
I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed—trying to figure this one out. I'd brought Leffington's file, and pulled it out of my briefcase. The butler was able to help a little, but none of it made too much sense.
Seems Leffington ate out most of the time—even breakfast. Our company examiner had put the kibosh on his eating anything between meals, so the old man had to depend on restaurants for nourishment. He was known to have gone over the deep end on this gourmet kick, and I actually believe he would have starved to death before he'd eat a bad meal. Leffington was a friendly guy, in his own way—but getting on, and a little eccentric. He'd inherited a mint of dough, played the stock markets, built up some real loot. A pretty solid character—and he liked to have his own way. He'd written a book once, called 'The Gourmand's Delight,' and every now and then he'd do a special food article for some small magazine or other. He was really considered an authority in the field. At home, though, he'd usually putter with an old vase, or something else in his collections—maybe catalogue those weird masks he had. His wife died years ago, and he didn't have many friends.
Spent most of his time, it seems, at a gourmet's club called The Epicure—sort of a hangout for old men and connoisseurs. The club was also a union for high class chefs and restaurant owners. Very exclusive place—the incomes of its members reported to run in six figures.
That's all I learned. It added up to anything but starvation.
Then I searched the house, but there wasn't much to find. Nothing that made sense, anyway. Just the antiques, the vases and the masks, a makeup kit, and some pretty good disguises. I wondered about the camouflage too—but, so what? It didn't fit together: eccentric old men never do.
That's when I first decided to see Joachim.
When they told me Joachim was out of town for the weekend, I went to the Epicure myself.
The club was downtown, near Wall Street, and very hard to get in. When the doorman found out I was representing Leffington's estate, however, he sent me straight to the director's office. It was an English job (which I knew Joachim would like), smelling of saddle soap and silver polish. A large brick fireplace stood in one corner.
Reginald Sims was the name of the director, and he sat behind a big oak desk covered with those German beer steins you saw before the war. The guy seemed to like me and tried his best to cooperate. Told me Leffington was considered the expert of the association and was always willing to experiment with new foods. I tried
to follow a lead there—but that's no way to starve. Also the doctor's report had made no mention of toxins or poisons—and, anyway, the autopsy had taken place the following day and confirmed the cause of death: malnutrition, pure and simple.
Sims said one thing, though, that made a lot of sense. Said for three months, Edmond Leffington had been eating at the same place. A restaurant called Garibaldi's.
I told Joachim about it the next morning.
Joachim Andreas is a guy you have to know to like—because he makes some people feel stupid. Also, he's not easy to describe—sort of a squashed face, with big black horn rimmed glasses and cropped hair. He wears expensive flannel suits, but floppy—and always a red tie. He's a corporation lawyer—gets good money, but doesn't need to work. Likes the good things in life, and has a taste for them.
He's also the smartest guy I ever knew.
He was in his workshop that morning, carving one of those tall skinny statues he does. After pushing aside the plaster and putty, I sat down on one of his work benches and told him the story. He listened patiently to everything I said, nodding occasionally, those big hands of his messing with some clay.
Joachim—like I said— is a strange guy. He didn't feel like talking. 'We'll discuss it at dinner,' he said. 'I'm busy now.'
That's all. I'm busy now.
He even burned me a little at times—but I knew he'd crack it. It was a matter of principle with him—not the pay. 'Where?' I asked. 'Garibaldi's, of course,' said Joachim.
And to think I'd considered The Epicure exclusive! This was like Tuxedo Park—not only expensive, but particular. It took every wheel I'd ever known to get us that reservation at Garibaldi's—even Reginald Sims couldn't do it. Actually, Joachim got us the reservation. But I'll bet he had a time too.
We arrived at eight o'clock, and were both bowled over to find it was only a twelve table room. Don't get me wrong—it was big—very big, and beautiful.
Garibaldi met us at the door. He was a short little man, with thick black curly hair and probably the longest moustache I ever saw. It was his eyes you noticed first, those deep Italian eyes, then the olive brown skin and the white teeth. He greeted us in a kind of syrupy European voice and led us through a gold and red velvet vestibule.
It reminded me of those huge empty villas of Florence. That was 1945—just after the war. But Garibaldi's—that was something: like the inside of a small cathedral right in Wall Street's high rent district. I checked around later and none of the tickertape boys had ever heard of it. Like prohibition days—that's what Garibaldi's was. The dining room had a black and white marble floor, great pillars supporting the ceiling, tables along a railing on one side, looking on a big photograph of Venice. The tables, on the other hand, were small and intimate like little boats bobbing on a big ocean.
I followed Joachim and Garibaldi to one of the little tables across the room. It was covered with fine embroidered linen, cut glass and expensive silver. Garibaldi clicked his fingers and a captain appeared from almost nowhere. Then Joachim ordered a light Johannisburger.
When I turned about I was surprised to find only four other people in the restaurant besides ourselves. Joachim looked at me. 'I spoke to Sims this afternoon,' he said. He allowed the captain to pour the wine. It sparkled in tall Czechoslovakian crystal. 'We'll have to search Leffington's place.'
I told Joachim I had.
'Then I'm afraid you must have missed something,' he said. He caressed the stem of his glass with the tips of his fingers—like that English actor Ralph Richardson would do. Joachim's a lot like him, in ways. Then he ordered dinner from an immense menu: Pheasants and turtle soup and soufflés and foods with foreign names I'd never heard of.
'Do you think he starved himself purposely?' I asked. Joachim leaned forward slightly. 'You know about Garibaldi, of course . . .'
'Yes—Sims said he was kicked out of the union—'
Joachim rubbed his nose and tasted the wine. 'There's more than that,' he said. 'More than mere professional pride—'
I was a little confused and waited for him to go on.
'The restaurant,' Joachim said. 'It has a reputation.'
I never got a chance to ask him what kind of a reputation. We were interrupted by the waiter as he rolled the tray to our table. It was the first time I'd ever had foie gras smothered in truffles—and it made the quick sandwich at the corner drugstore seem a litde sad. You don't forget the food they served at Garibaldi's.
Joachim ordered a special sauce; and I looked across the table at him, thinking what a mysterious bird he really was. Never have completely figured the guy out. Maybe I'll start on him, I thought, after this Garibaldi case is wrapped up. Sure—he was right—it was the restaurant. But how?
'We'll come here every day if necessary,' I said.
'That's just it,' Joachim said, with a flourish of his napkin. He pushed his soup aside and settled to a cigarette. 'We can't come here tomorrow.'
I was pretty surprised. 'Why not?' I asked.
'It's Garibaldi's gift,' Joachim said, with a trace of real admiration. 'He refuses to serve the same person more than once a week.'
'How exclusive can you get!'
Joachim laughed. 'Quite. But taste the wine again, my friend. And the hors d'oeuvres. I should judge the prices somewhat less than inexpensive.'
He always talked that way—the biggest snob you ever met. Highbrow, egghead—but smart, real smart. He always had to run things—a born ninety day wonder—the most selfish character I've ever heard of. But you let him, and like it. You end up respecting Joachim.
About ten thirty or eleven we were out on the street again, in those empty stone canyons. Wall Street is a lonely beat at night, you know. Joachim and I stood on the sidewalk for a long time, just talking and remembering the first experience of Garibaldi's. I could still taste the lavender sweet flavour of that Creme Yvette.
It was when we moved down the street toward the light of a magazine stand that I noticed I was hungry. Seemed strange after such a big dinner—but I soon forgot it. Had a sandwich before I went to bed. Wondered what Joachim really thought about all this by now. He had rejected the idea of suicide.
We returned to Leffington's house next morning. It looked more cheerful now, with the big rooms full of sunshine. Joachim said he'd look upstairs, and I left him to return again to that famous green tub. The bathroom was empty, however—and I wandered about the first floor rooms, looking at Leffington's pictures. Then, in the back hall, I stumbled into a sort of library, or study—a dark and creepy place, like being in a wax museum with nobody around. There was some Swedish stuff Leffington had collected. All along the walls and shelves he had them piled: old wooden drinking bowls and strange looking coffee pots. At one corner of the room I found some of that famous Scandinavian glass they talk so much about—hand cut wine glasses and decanters, and some bowls and vases that looked very modern. I was amusing myself with rocking an old cradle, when I heard something behind me . . .
I turned around quickly and saw what looked for all the world like a short arrogant Russian count, standing in the open doorway. He wore a high hat, cutaway morning coat, striped trousers and the most dignified goatee you ever saw. But he also had on thick horn ¬rimmed glasses, and I began laughing. Joachim could be very corny at times.
He took me through the rooms and we found disguises in places you'd never look. Not the amateurish junk I'd found first visit. But inside the false bottom of a grand father clock, for example. Here there was the entire outfit for an Indian prince—complete with red turban, silk robes and shoes.
'I guess we can have lunch at Garibaldi's tomorrow, after all,' Joachim said, stroking that beard he'd put on.
I, of course,—being stupid—asked why. He explained that we could go in disguise—as maybe old Leffington had done. And since Joachim didn't care, Mr. Bartlett, department head at my insurance company, was very impressed with this my latest discovery.
'By the way,' my sculptor friend said, as w
e were leaving. 'It wouldn't do any harm to study up on the culinary arts this evening.' He scratched that Ukrainian goatee. 'We may be spending a good deal of time at Senor Garibaldi's.'
Much to the alarm of my wife, I studied recipes that evening.
I met Joachim at Roth's the next morning and we had vodka martinis before going to Garibaldi's. Joachim sat next to me and I watched him in the mirror across the bar. He looked a little tired and beat, and his hair wasn't combed flat. Joachim always looked sloppy in the mornings—pale and unhealthy, about ten years older than 35. But me, well, I'm eternally young. Like my wife, Martha, says—all I need is Joachim's brains. We've had him over to the house for dinner a few times, but he turns down most invitations. My wife's always nice to him, but I also think she's a little afraid of him, calls him 'a strange duck.' She had a real weird dream about him once in which he beat her up. The loony boys would say she's in love with him—but I don't think so. Kind of glad Martha doesn't like him too much, understand he's death on women.
Anyway, we had this drink, then went over to Leffington's place and got into our costumes. Joachim was dressed as a big shot Texas oilman, with white boots and a hundred dollar Stetson. He got me fixed up as a pinched little Boston tycoon—pinstriped suit, even complete to watch chain. I really felt silly until I looked in the mirror; they were good disguises. Anyone would have thought I was sixty, at least. Joachim told me to act like sixty—and to remember enough about fancy menus to read them right. Then he made a 'phone call about the reservation's at Garibaldi's and we left.
Luncheon was something to remember—I remembered enough about Europe to know that. First, it was exotic. Like the snails they tried to serve us on furlough in Paris. Only this was good.
I started lunch off with a bottle of Spanish muscatel—that real cool sweet wine I'd had once in a little town just outside Barcelona. Joachim told me sweet wines are not fit drink for meals—but I didn't care. I'd carted Martha all over New York and never could find that wine. This was the real thing. I made up my mind right then—next visit to Garibaldi's I'd have some of that white Orvieto wine we'd bought from a little old lady at a station, when we were on the military train to Rome. I'd searched for that too. As I said, Garibaldi's was really something. But let me tell you about the luncheon.
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