Spiced to Death

by Peter King

  “You had no trouble?” I asked weakly.

  “None. You left a very clear trail for us.”

  “How about a cup of coffee? We could both use one.”

  We strolled back to the Framingham Hotel. I tossed a few nervous glances in all directions and almost had palpitations when an ambulance started up its siren but once settled in a corner booth in the coffee shop, I felt better.

  Gabriella took off her beret and shook out her luxuriant dark hair.

  “Do you have any idea how different you look in that beret?” I asked her.

  “Sure,” she said. “That’s why I wore it.”

  “The sweater and the jeans make you look different too but they don’t conceal you as much.”

  She smiled that delicious smile. “You’re back to normal, I can tell.”

  She regarded me for a moment. “You know, if I hadn’t thought that man had stabbed you, I would have caught him.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t oblige.”

  “It’s okay,” she said offhandedly. “It would have been a lot of paperwork—and I hate paperwork.”

  We both laughed and drank coffee.

  “Anything about him seem familiar?” she asked.

  “Yes. It was certainly the same man as the one who pushed me on the subway platform.”

  “But you didn’t recognize him at first?”

  “Not when I first saw him, no.”

  “It was the voice?”

  “Yes, and then something else, maybe the way he moved once he’d abandoned the old man guise.”

  “What did he say?”

  I told her.

  “Hm—so he thinks you and Renshaw stole the Ko Feng?”

  “Apparently. But then Gaines hasn’t given up that notion altogether either.”

  Gabriella pursed her lips. “He’s coming around.”

  “Speaking of coming around,” I said, “would you do something for me?” I handed her the package of King’s Balm that I had bought at the Spice Warehouse. “See that he takes two spoonfuls of this in hot water, twice a day.”

  She looked at me, surprised. “Are you a medicine man too? Where’s your wagon?”

  “I know something about herbal remedies and this one gives spectacular results.”

  “Why should you be concerned?” she asked.

  “I don’t like to see a man who can’t enjoy his food. This’ll help his dyspepsia.”

  “Why don’t you give it to him?”

  “He probably wouldn’t take it. From you, he might.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Okay.”

  “So back to what we were saying—I’m not off his list yet?”

  “You’re slipping down it.”

  “What do I have to do to get off it? Get killed?”

  “Don’t worry. You’re near the bottom.”

  “I seem to be on lots of people’s lists,” I said.

  Her dark eyes examined me thoughtfully.

  “Who else?”

  “Alexander Marvell.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Most of the restaurateurs I’ve talked to probably think so too.

  She smiled again. “You’re a really suspicious kind of person, aren’t you?”

  “Not really. You should see me on a good day.”

  She finished her coffee. “Maybe I will.”

  “What do you mean?

  “Maybe that good day is coming up.”

  “Tell me more,” I invited.

  “We’ve had a tipoff.”

  “About the Ko Feng?” I was excited.

  “Yes.”

  “Who was it?”

  “We get lots of tipoffs, of course. The NYPD recently loosened its pursestrings and made more money available for paying for ‘information received,’ as we put it on the books.”

  “And this is from somebody who’s tipped you off before? That means you know how reliable he is.”

  She nodded gently. “Worth following up anyway. What we need is a person who can identify the Ko Feng.” She gave me the full eye treatment. “Know anyone like that?”

  “I can think of one fellow—mind you, he’s kind of hard to get.”

  “I can handle that,” she murmured.

  “He’s English, too.”

  She shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Some Italians come close. Especially Italian girls.”

  She became all businesslike and it was back to Sergeant Rossini. “I’ll call you as soon as it’s set up.”

  “Will it be—well, dangerous?” I asked. “Not that it bothers me at all if it is,” I added hastily. “I just like to be prepared, that’s all.”

  “You’re carrying, aren’t you?”

  “Carrying? You mean a gun! Of course not.”

  A hint of a smile played around her lips.

  “You’re kidding, of course,” I said, relieved. “Anyway, how could I have brought one into the country? Metal detectors, X rays, all that stuff.”

  “As a detective, you could have got a pass that would let you—”

  “I’m not really a detective” I insisted. “I’m—”

  “I know.” She was smiling fully now. “You told me.”

  “I never carry a gun,” I said firmly.

  “I know the London police don’t normally carry but I would have thought that when you’re on a special case, you might make an exception.”

  “A special case to me is deciding if the green veins in gorgonzola cheese have been put there by corroding copper wire.”

  “They don’t!” She was astonished. “They don’t do that!” “They certainly do.” “Not Italians, surely! I can’t believe it!” I had the feeling that she was humoring me but as I looked at her pretty, animated face, I decided to let her continue …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “WOULDN’T TOUCH ANYTHING IN there if I was starving to death!” said Professor Walter Willenbroek.

  He had left a message stating that he planned on visiting me at my hotel at nine thirty the next morning. I was asked to let him know only if it was not convenient and his name was too well known for me to do that.

  His comment referred to the Framingham’s coffee shop so we sat in the lobby by a palm tree of dubious authenticity and in leather chairs of equally dubious origin.

  I knew of him, of course. He was as well known to anyone interested in food as Colonel Sanders, Milton S. Hershey or Betty Crocker. He was dapper in a lightweight linen suit that was as white as some of the bread that had made him a rich man. His tie was the light brown of one of his breakfast cereals and his shoes were the darker brown of another. His eyes were bright and lively as a squirrel’s and they never stopped darting everywhere. I found this a little disconcerting at first but I quickly learned that it didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention. His carefully groomed white goatee jutted out at a pugnacious angle. He must have been well into his late eighties but his skin was firm and smooth and his whole demeanor that of a man thirty years younger.

  His fascinating life story was partly common knowledge and the rest I had filled in from a visit to the library in the Hearst Magazine Building just off Columbus Circle. As a young man in Wisconsin, he had started work as assistant to the janitor at the Bayfield Sanitarium. He was fourteen years old and by the time he was twenty-one, he was a manager there.

  The sanitarium philosophy consisted of sunshine, fresh air and a nutritious diet. Bayfield in northern Wisconsin had a little of the first, plenty of the second and a dedicated employee in Walter Willenbroek who was determined to see that the patients got all they needed of the third. He was not hampered by restrictions which, half a century later, might have driven him into another career. As a result of the freedom given him by the sanitarium director, Walter spent his spare time (after a fourteen-hour day) experimenting with ways to make grains more healthy and more tasty.

  Hard work, determination and a normal amount of luck had produced a breakfast cereal that the patients loved so much that they asked fo
r it after they were discharged and told their friends and relations about it while they were still there. This led to the starting of a cereal company which expanded so quickly that it inspired dozens of imitators.

  Walter Willenbroek then showed that he was just as astute a businessman as he was an innovator. He not only encouraged competition but he helped it prosper. Then he stepped in, bought out the best and watched the others fade from the scene.

  From this base, he opened bakeries, supplying rolls for hot dogs and buns for subs and hamburgers. When the pizza craze hit the U.S., he was first on the scene to provide the dough. He knew how to turn adversity to advantage too and after he almost died from peritonitis, he set about creating a health food empire that provided everything from vitamins to energy-generating drinks for Olympic athletes.

  I hadn’t gleaned all of this from previous knowledge and a quick visit to a library. Walter Willenbroek was not at all reticent in telling me of his life and I was soaking up every word and using them to fill in the gaps. He had told me of his crusade to insist on the use of unbolted—that is, unsifted—whole wheat flour in the making of bread.

  “It took a brave man to square up to white bread,” he told me, sitting up ramrod straight with his white hair and snappy broad-brimmed hat catching stares from all who passed through the lobby. There could be few in New York City who hadn’t seen this man scores of times on television, wearing the same trademark outfit, tirelessly promoting his products.

  “Why, white bread was the symbol of Western civilization. Criticizing it was like criticizing motherhood or accusing George Washington of being a traitor.” He went on to tell me how he had made the first rye crackers and then built up a multimillion-dollar industry out of crackers of a variety of grains.

  “Not that I did all I did just to make money,” he told me. Passersby in the lobby were pausing to listen and whispers confirmed their identification of a man as well known as the president of the nation. “I always had the welfare of the public at heart. Spent time and money—yes, and a lot of effort too—in getting people to eat right.” He chuckled at the images that were running through his mind. “Like chewing every mouthful thirty-two times. That was important and I kept telling people so. Thought it was nonsense, some of them. I told them ‘One chew for every tooth in man’s natural complement of masticators’—that’s how I put it. ‘Stop digging your grave with your teeth,’ I used to say.” He chuckled again.

  The assistant manager of the hotel was having to move people on now, as they were blocking the entrance. He gave me a smile which I presumed was acknowledgment that he was enjoying the publicity even if residents couldn’t get in or out. There was no doubt that he recognized the famous professor.

  I recalled a phrase in one of the biographies in the Hearst library. It described Walter Willenbroek as being responsible, more than any other man, for making Americans “the most health-conscious nation in the world.” Like many a great man, he had not always been right. He was often accused of being a crank, expressing intolerance at one time or another of milk, eggs, pork, shellfish, and salt. But then he had been ahead of his time in most cases and right far more often than wrong. It had happened more than once that within a decade after one of his campaigns against some food or other, scientific evidence emerged supporting his prophetic views.

  His stream of recollections and anecdotes concerning persecutors, supporters, friends and enemies, famous and infamous, could probably have continued unabated all day as he was far from forgetful. He certainly wasn’t boring even if the flow was remorseless, but he knew exactly why he had come here.

  He rapped his cane on the floor twice as if to remind himself.

  “Now—this here Ko Feng thing.”

  I didn’t want to go public on the topic. When I waved to the manager and made a rueful face while regarding the avid listeners, he knew what I meant. A bellboy dragged over a large folding screen and the small crowd was dispersed.

  Restored to relative seclusion, I said, “Yes, Professor Willenbroek. I presumed that was what you wanted to talk to me about.”

  “You tested it, tasted it, all that sort of thing, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Said it was genuine.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then it disappeared.” He looked at me accusingly.

  “I know. I was as appalled as you are. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t understand it—I still can’t.”

  “Know the history of Ko Feng, do you?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Amazing spice.”

  “Several of the spices of the ancient world were.”

  “We don’t have them anymore. We have Ko Feng. Or did have.”

  He could have added, “Until you lost it, you jerk.” He didn’t, though, and I mentally thanked him for that. I wondered if he did think I had “lost” it—or was he here because he thought I had done more than lose it?

  Like steal it?

  I was getting tired of protesting my innocence but he had no way of knowing that. I was about to go into my James Stewart impersonation of a man falsely accused of a crime when he stared at me keenly and said, “You look like an honest man to me. Wouldn’t have got where I am if I wasn’t a good judge of men. Renshaw must have thought so too—he was the one who brought you here, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. That’s why I’m staying here in New York as long as I have to—to help the police find out the truth.”

  “Hmph.” He appeared to be debating with himself. It was the first moment of silence since we had shaken hands. Finally, he said, “I was offered the Ko Feng, you know.”

  I was dumbfounded. Eventually, I found some words.

  “You were?”

  They weren’t the greatest of words but they were the best I could manage upon hearing this startling revelation.

  I asked the big question. “Who offered it to you?”

  “That’s the funny thing. I don’t know. Well, maybe that’s not so funny—he wouldn’t want to identify himself, would he?”

  “When did this happen?”

  “About two weeks ago. I thought he was some kind of crank. I didn’t know that Marvell was bringing the stuff in—he didn’t announce it till the last minute. I expected Marvell to call me and ask if I wanted to buy any. He didn’t, though, so naturally I started to wonder what was going on after I heard about the stuff being stolen.”

  “This means that the person offering it to you planned on stealing the Ko Feng,” I said slowly. “To approach potential buyers after the theft wouldn’t carry any conviction—all kinds of weirdos claim to have committed major crimes. But by offering it before the theft …”

  “That’s what I thought.” Professor Willenbroek nodded briskly.

  “If you’re offered it again, will you buy?”

  “Don’t believe I will.” He rapped his cane sharply on the floor. “Don’t hold with encouraging wrongdoers—especially murderers to boot.” He eyed me. “I suppose there’s no doubt that the man who stole the Ko Feng also killed your friend Renshaw?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Can’t say it isn’t a temptation, though,” he said ruminatively.

  “Ko Feng would be a valuable ingredient in some of your health foods, wouldn’t it?”

  “Certainly would. Maybe you know this but a couple of thousand years ago, spices weren’t used that much for cooking. Their main uses were in ointments, curatives for whatever ailed you, pick-me-ups and drugs and medicines of all kinds. They were the ingredients that cured people and helped them live happier lives.”

  “Just as you’re doing today with your health foods.”

  “Precisely,” he snapped. “I’m not one of those old fogies who doesn’t believe in trying things. When I heard about this Ko Feng, I thought to myself, Here’s something I’ve got to have. And if it’s only ten percent as good as its reputation, then it’s something I want.”

  I didn’t like his implication
when he said that Ko Feng was something he had “got to have” but I took it to be a figure of speech.

  “They used Ko Feng in Babylon—did you know that?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And China, and Egypt, and naturally in Rome.”

  “Yes. All of the pre-Christian civilizations made extensive use of it. Alexander the Great is said to have taken it regularly and made it a part of the diet of his officers. The Emperor Charlemagne was a firm believer in it too and so was King Roger when he led the Normans in that amazing invasion of Sicily around 1000 A.D.”

  “You’ve done your homework, I see.” He nodded approvingly.

  “Which products do you plan adding it to?”

  “Don’t know that there’s any of them wouldn’t benefit from it. Take breakfast cereals for instance.” He snorted indignantly. “These lists that some outfits show on the box—all those vitamins and minerals! Why, they’re a joke! Wouldn’t be surprised if one part per million of Ko Feng didn’t do far more good!”

  I smiled.

  “You’re certainly a believer in Ko Feng.”

  “Belief,” he said. “Belief—it’s a wonderful thing, belief. I’ve always believed in it!”

  “Because,” I reminded him, “we don’t have any knowledge of Ko Feng that is the result of scientific research.”

  “No. But don’t think that those ancients didn’t know a thing or two about nutrition. They had to—did you know that every work battalion that built the pyramids had its own nutritional expert?

  “I didn’t know that,” I admitted, “but I’m not surprised.”

  “The ancients had a lot of extremely valuable herbs—ginseng, yohimbe, gingko biloba—now there’s a good example for you! Five thousand years gingko biloba’s been around and people have sworn by it all that time. Scientific research has only just proved that it contains heterosites, the most powerful energizers known to man.”

  “I don’t doubt that Ko Feng is going to prove one of the greatest nutritional benefits to mankind. First things first, though—and top of that list is to get the Ko Feng back from whoever stole it.”

  “You’re the detective,” he said, though I could have wished that he’d put more conviction into the statement.