Spiced to Death

by Peter King

  “Right.”

  She seemed pleased at the way I was taking it.

  “I’m supposed to be back to do a job in Scotland,” I said. “I’ll fax them some data instead.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  I told her of the salmon poaching incidents and my anticipated appearance in court to give testimony.

  “Interesting,” she commented.

  “So’s this,” I said grimly. “And a lot more serious. Have you learned anything that I ought to know about?”

  “Renshaw was killed with a seven-millimeter bullet, fired from an automatic pistol, probably a Russian Tokharev or a Japanese ripoff. No prints in the office that are of any help. No witnesses out in the parking lot, no clues of any kind otherwise.”

  “This is a wild shot,” I said, “but I suppose you have considered checking on Sam Rong? He couldn’t have taken the Ko Feng back with him to the East, could he?”

  “We checked him thoroughly. We had his luggage searched when he arrived back in Bangkok. We checked him out there too. Nothing.”

  “I didn’t think so but I had to mention it.”

  “That’s okay. Shall we look at the menu?”

  The menus were written in a jokey style that fitted with the theme of the Bull Moose. Typical entries were:

  Alaskan Salmon Salad

  Tell us whether you want the small can or the large can

  Hudson Bay Hawk

  It tastes just like chicken, in fact, we cook it with tomatoes, onions and mushrooms so that you can’t tell the difference

  New Brunswick Stew

  Don’t ask what’s in it—believe us, you don’t want to know

  Yukon Sole

  Remember Charlie Chaplin eating “sole” in The Gold Rush? Well, ours may not be that tender but it’s cheap

  Gabriella and I were chuckling over every item. We worked our way through the menu. It had Quebec Quail—shot down while escaping to America; Great Lake Bear Steaks, Prince Edward Potatoes, Chased Goose and a long list of other humorous dishes.

  The wine list was not nearly as long. There were beers of many nationalities but the wine list declared, “You’re in luck—we have Baffin Bay Burgundy and Calgary Chardonnay—yes, both of them!”

  Gene came back to take our order himself. I ordered the Caribou Steak, about which the menu stated, “You can’t tell it from beef” and Gabriella went for the New Brunswick Stew. First, though, she interrogated Gene as efficiently as if he were a witness to a holdup.

  “The traditional Brunswick Stew used squirrel meat,” I reminded her and Gene replied, “We can’t get squirrels in New York so we have to use cats.” Finally, he broke down and admitted that they used only the finest sirloin of beef. He was about to leave when Gabriella asked him, “Any celebrities in here tonight, Gene?”

  He glanced around. “Sure, there’s Springsteen over there.”

  Gabriella half rose out of her seat.

  “Where? Where?”

  Gene pointed. Gabriella frowned.

  “That’s not Bruce Springsteen.”

  “Sam Springsteen. Comes in here all the time. Has a laundromat down on—”

  Gabriella gave him a slap with her napkin. “No, seriously …”

  “Okay,” Gene said, “let me see—well, there’s Betty over there—”

  “Bacall?” asked Gabriella excitedly.

  “No, Betty Barker, she’s assistant manager at the blue movie theater down the block—”

  “Get out of here!”

  When he had left, I said, “Gene must have been a lot of fun to live with—he has an unquenchable sense of humor.”

  “He sees the funny side of life no matter how grim it gets.”

  “How many of you were in that flat?” I asked.

  “Just Gene and I. We were together a little more than a year.”

  “Why’d you break up?”

  “That was when Gene met Terry. They decided to go into partnership in this place. That’s him over there”—she pointed to a tubby fair-haired man of about Gene’s age who was active at the cash register. “That was also the time that I got promoted to sergeant and could afford an apartment of my own. So I moved out and Terry moved in.”

  “You mean they wanted to live together and work together?” I was asking curiously when I saw the glance that Gabriella darted at me.

  “Oh, you didn’t know Gene was like that?” she asked. She stopped as the waiter came with the food and a carafe of Canada’s finest wine from Baffin Bay. When he had gone, she went on, “That’s why sharing an apartment with him was such a good arrangement. He had no interest in me—except as a friend, I mean.”

  “Ah” I said, relieved. The thought had been nagging at me.

  The burgundy proved to be an excellent California variety, merely masquerading as Canadian. Gabriella pronounced the stew almost as good as her father’s cassoeula, adding that the pig’s feet her father used gave it a different flavor. The menu proved to be right and my Caribou steak was as good as beef. That’s because it was beef, a tender juicy porterhouse.

  When I had finished it, I asked her, “You spoke about having me help in the investigation. What perilous assignment do you have in mind?”

  “My, my,” she mocked. “The burgundy must be strong. It’s making you reckless, isn’t it?”

  “Before it does that, it has to make me brave.”

  “What! After all those daring exploits with Scotland Yard?”

  “I’m a coward really,” I insisted. “After all, I’m not really a detective, you know. I’m a—”

  “I know. You told me. Don’t worry, we won’t send you out into the dangerous New York underworld without a bulletproof jacket and a SWAT team for protection.”

  “I do want to do what I can,” I told her earnestly. “I want to help find Don Renshaw’s killer. I didn’t know him that well but we were in this Ko Feng thing together. Send me anywhere.”

  I hoped I would be able to behave as intrepidly as I sounded. The kiss she gave me when we parted would have inspired Sir Galahad but he had the advantage of a suit of armor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BREAKFAST AT THE FRAMINGHAM Hotel was served downstairs only as there was no room service. The facilities were a long way short of the luxury at the Courtney Park Hotel but then so was the tariff. I didn’t like the look of the food they were serving so I walked north and watched for something better. No city in the world has more places to eat than New York and I found a diner on the next block.

  When Walt Scott opened the first diner in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1872, he had no idea what he was starting. It was a humble establishment—a wooden wagon with holes in the sides. Scott handed out chicken sandwiches through the holes to the night shift workers, his initiative being prompted by the fact that nothing in Providence was open at night. Fifteen years later, the first walk-in diner opened in Worcester, Massachusetts, and customers sat on stools and ate sandwiches, pies and cakes, and drank coffee.

  Diners shot up all over the country and became an integral part of the eating experience. They survived for decades but in recent years the diner has been emulating the dinosaur and the few that are left are rarities.

  Like this one. However they fared during the rest of the day, this place put on a breakfast that would provide endurance for hours. Eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, waffles, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash-brown potatoes with lots of toast and coffee were the standard breakfast here but there were a dozen or more side dishes to add if you were hungry. I had forgotten too how speedy and efficient the service is in eating places like this.

  I was on my way to see Peggy at the Spice Warehouse and after paying the very modest bill for my ham and scrambled eggs, I set off toward the subway station. This wasn’t entirely for economical reasons. I had always had a sentimental affection for the subway and longed to try it again and see how much of the affection remained. Its reputation had declined owing to muggings and vandalism, I knew, but this was past the co
mmuter hour and I wasn’t going to be deterred by the media. I had a map of the city which I had bought at the airport and knew that there was a station at the Museum of Natural History nearby and it was a direct line.

  There was only a moderate flow of passengers going down the steps and I bought my token and went to my platform. It was fairly quiet, some graffiti, a few candy wrappers blowing but not as bad as I had expected. Down at the far end of the platform, I could see a uniformed policeman. Nearer to me, two women were discussing the price of shoes at Bergdorf-Goodman, a studious-looking youth was immersed in a large paperback, a man in a black suit and a black hat was reading a newspaper and two girls were in a giggly conversation. All was very safe and normal.

  A distant rumble gave notice of an approaching train. Time was eroded second by second then the push of air from out of the tunnel swept along the platform and the awaiting passengers shuffled positions. The sound of the train mounted in volume. Everyone took an impatient step or two forward and the train came out of the tunnel like a roaring lion.

  Brakes hissed and metal squealed on metal. The train was still moving at a fair speed and it loomed larger. It came closer—and I felt a strong push in the middle of the back. Arms flailing, I fell from the platform and all I could see was the front of the train, growing enormous, filling my entire vision.

  The next thing I knew I was standing on the platform, heart racing. The man in the black suit and hat who had dragged me back still had one strong hand on my shoulder. He was bearded and had thick glasses. The two women gave me curious looks, the youth was still immersed in his paperback and the girls were still giggling. All of them boarded the train after a few people got off.

  “Thanks,” I said weakly.

  “New York is dangerous place,” the man said in an accent that I didn’t recognize. His voice was thick as if he had throat trouble. “Is necessary to be friendly—to be helpful. If you are asked, you should respond.”

  I didn’t understand but I was too concerned getting my nerves under control to think about it. The doors clashed and the train pulled out, rumbling and rattling as candy wrappers flew like mad butterflies. The platform cleared and quieted. The policeman was nowhere in sight. There were just the two of us. It was only then that the thought hit me. The same hand that had dragged me back must have been the same one that had pushed me.

  I tried to see what the man looked like but the thick glasses with heavy rims, the beard and the black hat pulled down made it impossible. He spoke again.

  “When you are asked to cooperate, you must do so. When questioned, you must answer. Withhold nothing. Tell what you know. You will be wise to do this—next time when there is a push, there may not be a helping hand to save you.” His accent had evaporated. He turned and walked down the platform. The policeman reappeared and the man walked straight past him. I had a momentary idea of calling out but there seemed no point.

  I gathered my wits as I waited for the next train. The policeman gave me a searching look as he passed me but it must have been only because I was still on the platform when everyone else had left.

  I was musing over the warning I had received—if that’s what it was.

  Be friendly, helpful and respond, he had told me. Cooperate, answer and tell what I knew. There was an echo there of Marvell’s words when he had told me that he didn’t believe my protestations of innocence. Someone else was going to pressure me to tell them where the Ko Feng was. But was it someone else? Or had Marvell himself sent an emissary to do it?

  There had been something about that accent that had bothered me—but what? Was it one I remembered? Passengers drifted onto the platform. I eyed them all suspiciously, picked a place to stand near the wall and when the next train came, I boarded it in the middle of a group of Japanese tourists. When I alighted, it was in the middle of another group of Japanese tourists.

  The Spice Warehouse was doing a roaring trade. Some of it was undoubtedly sensation-seekers but a good number of previous customers had come to offer their condolences and ask what they could do to help.

  “There can’t be any more generous people in the world than here,” Peggy said, her mouth twitching with emotion. “They’re wonderful, they really are. Even ones I don’t know by name but have only seen here in the warehouse a few times—even they want to do what they can.”

  Her sister-in-law was there and learning the business fast. The line at the checkout was long but—strangely for New York—no one was complaining.

  “I’m trying to get the office in order,” Peggy told me. “It’s coming along well but there are a couple of things Don was doing that don’t make sense. I wonder if you’d mind …”

  I helped her to straighten out a shipment that was overdue from the Philippines and promised to find a source of chile pequins, a small but fiery member of the chile pepper family. Mexico is virtually the only source but unusually severe weather conditions last winter had caused a shortage. It was possible that one of the smaller supplying countries might be able to fill the gap.

  She was already in the warehouse and busy catching up on orders. I encouraged her to keep as busy as she could and told her to call me if there was anything at all I could do. She assured me she would.

  “And if you think of anything that might be helpful—no matter what it is or how irrelevant it may seem—be sure and call me, will you?”

  “I will,” she said. She seemed to hesitate.

  “Go on,” I urged. “Is there something?”

  “It can’t have any meaning …” she said slowly.

  “Tell me.”

  “When you called the evening before—well, before Don was killed, you said he sounded strange. He went out right after that and said he was going to the library.”

  “Go on, Peggy,” I urged. “Was that unusual?”

  “Well, yes, it was—especially at that time of the evening.”

  “He didn’t say anything about why he was going?”

  “Not a word. Just that he didn’t know how long he’d be.”

  “Is there a library near you?”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Do you think he went there or to the main library?”

  “He must have gone to this one. He wasn’t gone long enough to go much further.”

  I asked her for its location and she gave it to me.

  “Does it mean anything?” she asked tremulously.

  “I don’t know but if it does, I’ll find it,” I said firmly. “Now, one more thing—did Don ever prepare any King’s Balm?”

  “Yes, he did. He had quite a devoted following for it among the regular customers.”

  “What did he put in it? Do you know?”

  “Fumitory and gentian. He’d tried variations on that combination but found those two to be the most effective by far.”

  “Can you let me have some?”

  That transaction completed, I told her again to call me if there was anything at all I could do. She nodded and then was called upon to help with the lengthening line at the checkout where even the sympathetic New Yorkers were getting impatient. I headed off for the library.

  A friendly lady with a pronounced Scottish accent was in charge of the reference desk and after we had exchanged vital data on place of birth, how long we had been here, what we were doing here, her acquaintance with London and mine with Scotland, we got down to business.

  I described Don and she remembered him at once.

  “He wanted to see copies of the New York Times from five years ago.”

  “The New York Times? Did you have them?”

  “Five years ago? Och, that’s easy.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “All of them?”

  “Do you have an idea which issues he was particularly interested in?”

  Half an hour later, I wasn’t much wiser. I had been through every page of every issue for the first three weeks of the month of May, which it seemed were the ones that Don had zeroed in on, and I could find nothi
ng to suggest what Don might have been interested in. I ploughed on doggedly and my persistence was rewarded—during the last few days of the month, there had been a theft at JFK.

  There were a couple of reports on progress in the investigation that followed and I went into newspaper copies for the month of June to see if there was any further information but could find nothing. The Scottish lady showed me where the copy machine was, changed some coins for me and I copied all the relevant paragraphs.

  There wasn’t a great deal to the story. At first, it had received a full treatment because it had been mysterious. The aircraft had landed, been unloaded, the shipment had been examined by customs and cleared. It had been loaded onto a vehicle bound for a New York warehouse—but when the vehicle arrived, the shipment was gone.

  The shipment had consisted of birds’ nests.

  I could see why Don had been interested in the story. It was a very close parallel to the disappearance of the Ko Feng. But what had made him look for it in the back issues of the Times? Had he known it was there? He must have—he was able to find it. I took the copies, thanked the lady and headed for the subway station. Then I thought better of it and chose a busy intersection to hail a cab back to the hotel.

  There was a message for me at the desk. I was to call Dr. Li at a Manhattan number. I went up to the room but first I called my favorite New York police person. She was out in the field, I was told. I explained who I was and added that it was important I talk to her in connection with one of her current investigations. I was told to wait and within a few minutes, she came on the line. It was an exceptionally noisy one and Gabriella said, “I’m at Kennedy airport. You can probably hear all the planes and trucks. You’ll have to speak louder. Is it important?”

  “It is,” I said. “An attempt was made on my life this morning.”

  There was a shocked silence, then “What!”

  “Well, sort of…”

  She sighed, an exasperated sigh that I heard clearly despite the bellow of a climbing jet. “Look, if this is some kind of gag just to get to talk to me, I don’t find it—”

  “No, it isn’t. Listen, Gabriella—this is what happened …” I described the incident on the subway platform as briefly as possible, not omitting anything and repeating the dialogue almost verbatim.