Spiced to Death

by Peter King

  “Yes, absolutely sure.”

  “So we got ourselves two possibilities.” He drummed stubby black fingers on the metal table and it hummed softly in response. “One is that the murderer is so monumentally pissed off at you that the only important thing is to knock you off and soon.”

  I looked from him to Gabriella. She shrugged.

  “You screwed up the murderer’s chance to sell the spice,” she said. “What can you expect?”

  “I don’t think I like that possibility,” I said. “What’s the second? Am I going to like it any better?”

  “The second,” said Gaines, “is that the murderer is more concerned about the money.”

  “The million or two he can get for the spice,” added Gabriella. “Which means that he will concentrate on selling it fast. The question is, will he use you as the authenticator after you’ve double-crossed him?”

  “He or she,” grunted Gaines.

  “I do like the second possibility better,” I admitted.

  “But don’t rule out a smoldering resentment against you,” said Gabriella sweetly, “which may still exist. The person we’re talking about has killed two people already and won’t hesitate at a third. In fact,” she added and quite unnecessarily, I thought, “his motive in your case might be the strongest of all.”

  Hal Gaines nodded agreement, squinting at me. “Yeah, you’re still a vital pawn in the game.”

  “Hate being a pawn,” I said, “but vital—that’s not so bad.”

  “So whichever way our murderer goes, you’re in danger.”

  “He or she might want to eliminate you before the sale of the Ko Feng, afterward—or even at the same time,” Gabriella pointed out. I wished she wouldn’t be so analytical.

  The policewoman came in again with another folder. Through the open door, I could hear a voice being raised in what sounded like protest at police brutality. After what I had heard in the last few minutes, I was prepared to support a significant amount of it.

  Gaines skimmed through the folder, nodded and the woman left.

  “This charity clambake tomorrow,” Gaines said. “Everybody who’s anybody in the food business is gonna be there, looks like.”

  “Yes. I have an invitation and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Aside from that though, I really feel that in some way, the murderer is going to take advantage of it, use it as a screen. Why don’t we encourage him? Get them to call it a Ko Feng affair.”

  Gabriella nodded and Gaines shrugged. “Yeah, we can do that,” Gaines aid. “We already leaned on Marvell and New England Assurance to make no deals. That blocks off those two routes.”

  “And we’ll be there too,” Gabriella said brightly.

  “Both of you?” I asked apprehensively.

  “Yeah, undercover,” said Gaines, less enthusiastic.

  “We’ll also have some of our people among the staff,” Gabriella said.

  “You’re really giving me good protection, aren’t you?”

  “We don’t want it to look that way,” the Gaines said firmly. “We want you to look really vulnerable.”

  “We want to tempt the murderer into making his move,” Gabriella nodded in confirmation.

  “I get the idea,” I murmured, “and I’m with you all the way. How many people did you say you’re going to have there?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  YOU MUST THINK ALL we do in New York is eat and drink” said Henrietta Winslow. She had just introduced herself to me as a food writer for the Paragon magazine chain and she made the comment after observing that I was a visitor from England and asking what did I think of it. I took the question to mean New York and answered it accordingly, deciding to make no mention of murder, theft or Ko Feng.

  Henrietta accepted another martini from a waiter and embarked on the expression of opinions that would doubtless be organized into a column at some early date. Another waiter came within reach, carrying a tray of full champagne glasses and I accepted one.

  “You know, since the cocktail was first invented in the 1870s, it just grew and grew in popularity until—in the fifties and sixties—it was an integral part of American life.”

  “With only a hiccup during Prohibition?” I asked.

  She was a large lady with silvery hair. She smiled.

  “Prohibition made cocktails more popular than ever before. Maybe people didn’t drink as many but more people became aware of them. It wasn’t until the eighties that they declined.”

  “And what do you think that decline was due to?”

  “Well, for one thing the real drinkers went to straight spirits like the Absoluts, and people who were worried about calories or driving switched to wines.”

  “You haven’t been diverted to either one,” I said. “You’re still a martini drinker.”

  “Always have been—always will be. They make a good one here too. Were you here at the opening?”

  We were at the Park Avenue Towers, one of the newer hotels in New York and the All-Charities Buffet was being held in the Vespucci Room. The decor was modern but not too severe and the murals depicted scenes from the discovery of the continent, evidently the work of a painter determined to erase the Columbus myth.

  “No, I missed it,” I told her.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “They had a martini bar where they’d mix it any way you wanted—exact amount of vermouth you asked for, any one of twenty or more gins or vodkas, however many olives you wanted—and you could pick five or six places where the olives came from—stirred, shaken or whisked, and you could even ask for fast or slow, gentle or vigorous…” She sighed in glorious reminiscence. “Still, this is a good one too” she said, looking fondly at her glass. I suspected they all were.

  “I come to this event every year,” she told me. “New York has more charity functions than Los Angeles has tremors. This is one of the best, though. All we seem to lack this year is the mayor and Rollerena.” That didn’t mean much to me but I decided not to ask.

  Lots of other people besides those dignitaries came to the event judging from the crowds now besieging the buffet tables. Corks popped, drinks fizzed, glasses rattled, conversation throbbed and delicious smells were in the air, sizzling meat, pungent cheeses, spices like ginger and curry and coriander.

  “I wonder why they’re calling this a Ko Feng luncheon,” she mused, only half to me.

  “It’s that spice,” I said. “You may have read about it.”

  “I know what it is,” she told me. “I’m wondering why this luncheon is named after it.”

  I could see the bald head of Alexander Marvell and I nodded in that direction.

  “The man who bought it is over there. He may know why.”

  She regarded him thoughtfully.

  “There might be a story in it,” I hinted and she promptly wandered over in Marvell’s direction, pausing to get another martini on the way. The buffet tables were enjoying a lot of business and I headed in that direction.

  Tiny buckwheat crepes heaped with caviar made a fine start and then as I took a tartlet of leeks, cheddar cheese, gruyère cheese and shiitake mushrooms, I found I was being hailed from across the table. It was Professor Willenbroek.

  “So the famous spice is back with us at last, is it? They’re calling this a Ko Feng luncheon.”

  “An adventurous spice,” I said. “Probably determined to make up for its centuries in Limbo.”

  “Ah,” he said vaguely. “So what’s Marvell going to do with it? Auction it off?”

  “He’s over there. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Believe I will.”

  He paused for a slice of pumpernickel with blue cheese on it then disappeared into the throng. Smoked salmon is one appetizer I find irresistible. Here, it was offered on slices of papaya, which accented the smoked salmon taste.

  I was sampling a grilled medallion of moist, rare venison on a toothpick with a square of chanterelle pasta when I heard another voice I recognized. I quickly completed my mental analys
is of the pasta—dried chanterelles had been worked into the dough—and looked up.

  Abraham Kefalik’s bulk strained against the dark suit, no doubt more accustomed to a chef’s apron. We shook hands.

  “Have you tried these snails?” he asked.

  I hadn’t but I did so now. They were wrapped in bacon and charbroiled.

  “No question about the garlic, the parsley and the bay leaves in the marinade,” I said. “But what else do you suppose is in there?”

  “Marcel Dracy at the Ile de France prepares them especially for this occasion,” he told me. “So I know how he does it. There’s nothing else but white wine and lemon juice.”

  “They’re superb—and surprisingly simple.”

  “Many of the best dishes are” he said, taking another snail. “Are the rumors true? Have you recovered the legendary Ko Feng?” He frowned. “Is it true that Willard Cartwright was killed? And that he had stolen it?”

  “I think all is going to be revealed today,” I conceded. “There will probably be a police statement and I understand that Alexander Marvell will make an announcement during this lunch.”

  Kefalik rubbed his knuckles down his bushy black beard. I couldn’t tell whether he was contemplating the future of the Ko Feng or deciding which appetizer to go for next. It could have been both but all I could be certain of was his selection of a couple of baked clams. I chose an oyster in escabeche, a Galician specialty that I hadn’t tasted in some time.

  “I don’t suppose Marvell is going to let us have any Ko Feng,” Kefalik said in a disgruntled tone.

  By “us,” I knew he meant the restaurateurs and I was sure his supposition was right but it wasn’t the time for me to say so. I chose the diplomatic approach and said, “We’ll soon know what his intentions are.” He gave me a glance which showed he was wondering how much more I knew than I was saying, said “See you around” and wandered away.

  Two girls who looked like models came to the table, looking longingly at the items. “Dieting is just starving to death so that you can live longer,” said one. “It certainly seems longer,” agreed the other. They finally selected wild mushrooms rolled in olive oil with garlic and parsley.

  An Asian face approached, jovial and underpinned by a rotund body. It was Mr. Singyang. His eyes glinted with merriment as he feasted on a turkey roulade with a wafer-thin slice of prosciutto on it.

  “These are excellent,” he assured me. “We should make more of the turkey in our Chinese cuisine.”

  “Some restaurateurs think all they have to do is substitute turkey for chicken,” I said. “That’s a mistake. The turkey has a much higher fat content and also it needs to weigh more. Young turkeys are tasteless.”

  “Wild turkeys fed on berries are incomparable,” said Mr. Singyang. “They need to have that gamy flavor. Was it not Benjamin Franklin who lamented that the eagle was chosen to be the emblem of America when it should have been the turkey?”

  “I believe so, though we must admit that the eagle has more appeal.”

  “As does turkey for the table.”

  We laughed together and the social amenities dispensed with, I reminded him of our earlier talk.

  “The affair of the birds’ nests, yes, I remember. Of course it was five years ago …”

  “Since we talked, Willard Cartwright, who worked for Alexander Marvell, has been murdered. I was hoping you might have recalled something that might help. Shedding more light on the theft of the birds’ nests might lead the way to finding the killer.”

  “Most regrettable,” he murmured. I recalled he had said that before.

  “It’s more than that. It’s downright dangerous for me. As the man most likely to be called on to identify the Ko Feng, I might be next on the murderer’s list.”

  To his credit, he didn’t reach for another turkey roulade. He regarded me for a moment, then said, “The rumors are circulating wildly. It is being hinted that Cartwright was responsible for the theft of the Ko Feng.”

  “What’s your opinion, Mr. Singyang? Do you think that’s all they are—rumors and hints? From your recollection of the event five years ago, does it seem probable that perhaps they are true?”

  “Ah, very possibly so,” he purred. “One hesitates to speak ill of the dead, of course, but in this case the welfare of the living has to be considered.”

  It was as much of an admission that he had bought the birds’ nests as I was likely to get but I couldn’t resist going a step further as he reached for a slice of grilled portobello mushroom on a slice of dark, grainy Arab bread.

  “The living …,” I said reflectively. “Yes, that includes not only myself as a potential victim but also Cartwright’s accomplice, the murderer.” I gave him my steeliest gaze but it bounced off his armor.

  “I fear that I cannot offer any clue as to that person’s identity.

  Maybe he really hadn’t known who he was buying the birds’ nests from at the time. My guess was that he surmised it now and he was probably telling the truth when he said he had no idea who Cartwright’s accomplice was. I had the feeling that even if he knew more, he was not going to divulge anything. We sipped wine as each of us assessed the other’s answers.

  I think he would have liked another portobello mushroom but he knew when to move and he moved now, gliding away and greeting an old friend effusively.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE ROOM WAS CROWDED. I had to shoulder my way through and I almost collided with a serious-looking black man with heavy black-rimmed glasses. I didn’t recognize Hal Gaines at first—he could have passed for a college president.

  “Brilliant,” I told him. “All done with a pair of glasses.”

  He nodded. “Everybody on our hit list is here.”

  “I had an idea …,” I said.

  “Yeah? What?”

  “I’d better not tell you, you’d only laugh.”

  “Then why’re you telling me?”

  “Just to make sure you’re keeping a close eye on me.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s that dangerous?”

  “Maybe not much more than being here.”

  “Then go for it,” he grunted. He clearly believed the risk was justified.

  “You’re looking quite relaxed for such a serious occasion,” I said.

  “Yeah, Gabriella gave me this stuff that completely cured my stomach. I feel great.” He gave me a strange look. “It’s some kind of herbal junk. You know anything about that?”

  “They’re doing wonderful things out there in the jungle,” I told him. “Is Gabriella checking the door?” He nodded and I left him to look for my favorite policewoman. I was waylaid, first by some crabcakes that were not as delicious as they looked—too many red peppers overpowered the delicate crab. Then Selim Osman appeared, anxious for news of the Ko Feng.

  “The case should be wrapped up very soon,” I told him as we shook hands.

  The case, in fact, had slipped from news prominence, pushed into near obscurity by the Headhunter, as the press styled him. The bloodthirsty American public gives serial killers the same adulation as baseball stars and soap opera heroes and this one—who cut off the heads of his victims and mailed them via Federal Express to the home of the police commissioner—was getting all the notoriety.

  “An arrest is imminent, is it?” Selim Osman murmured.

  “And followed by ‘The stolen goods were recovered,’” I told him.

  “Congratulations.” His eyes searched my face as he waited for more.

  “When the announcement appears, the police will deserve most of the credit,” I said modestly.

  I left him sampling thin slices of smoked swordfish on brioche and finally spotted Gabriella disengaging herself from an admiring group of men. It was easy to see why. She was wearing a dress in a shiny material of midnight blue. It was tight around the waist and built up to a plunging neckline and a padded bodice—though on second viewing, maybe it wasn’t padded.

  “Terrific disguise,
” I told her.

  “The wardrobe department didn’t have much else in my size.” Her eyes sparkled—she must have been in the makeup department too.

  “I hope it has room for a weapon.”

  “Of course,” she said demurely but didn’t enlighten me. I studied her again and shook my head.

  “Amazing,” I said and she laughed.

  “Nothing from the main entrance?” I asked her.

  In our discussion that morning, Hal Gaines had told me of the equipment they had installed here. It was essentially the same as the device used at airports as a metal detector and this modification was built into the door frame. Every guest entering was asked to sign the register and this enabled the smiling blond receptionist—a police technician—to read the monitor out of sight below her desk and associate it with the name. The meter was set to identify anything with the metal content of a Tokharev automatic—keys, coins and jewelry would be passed.

  “Nothing so far,” said Gabriella. “Everybody who has come in up to now is clean.” She looked around the room. “But there’s someone here who is really furious at you for fouling up a sale.”

  “I think so too. I can’t believe whoever it is could resist this occasion.”

  “Both for a final chance to unload the Ko Feng and to complete your termination.”

  “Police jargon can be so comforting. It’s so impersonal.”

  She was eyeing the nearest table of food but she said, “See that balcony up there? We have two people scanning the crowd. And two of the waiters are ours.”

  “Let me get you another glass of champagne. It’s the least I can do.”

  She smiled fetchingly. “No, thanks, I’ve had enough—besides, it’s just ginger ale.”

  She surveyed the room. “Seen your insurance girlfriend?”

  “Kay Grenville? I hardly know her. Anyway she wouldn’t even alibi me. What kind of a girlfriend would she make?”

  “I’d like to find out what kind of an accomplice she’d make.”

  It took a few seconds before the full import of her remark sank in. “Accomplice? Her?”

  “She was at the Spice Warehouse at the time of both murders.”