by Peter King
“She left just before Renshaw’s murder,” I said.
“She left you. You can’t be sure she left the warehouse.”
I said nothing. I was thinking that Key Grenville had also been at that illicit sale of nefarious foodstuffs at the church and by her own admission had also been at the Marvell laboratories in New Jersey though she had neatly dissociated herself from any responsibility in it.
Gabriella was eyeing me suspiciously. She really was getting to know me too well—she must have been having lessons from Dr. Li.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.
“Well, I just can’t think of her as an accomplice.”
“Just because she’s—”
“No, no, you’re right,” I assured her. “Investigate her by all means.”
“You know that insurance might be our killer’s way out—if a deal can be struck.”
“Yes, that’s true. Carry on, Sergeant.”
She gave me one more uncertain glance before sashaying off in search of her victim. I watched her with approval. There was no doubt about it—her entire appearance was a wonderful disguise. But as far as carrying a concealed weapon, I would need a lot of convincing.
It was then that I saw a tall figure towering over those around him. It was the last person I had expected to see here—Dr. Li of the Methuselah Foundation. He saw me at the same time, he excused himself and approached me, hand extended.
“It is gratifying to find you so well,” he greeted me and I supposed that by “well” he meant alive. “Rumor has it that you have recovered the Ko Feng,” he went on. I gave him my most implacable look. “I rarely attend this function,” he continued, “although naturally I am fully in sympathy with its laudable aims.”
That confirmed my surprise at seeing him here, though the question that followed was entirely predictable.
“What does Alexander Marvell plan on doing with the Ko Feng now, do you suppose?”
I didn’t correct his misapprehension. “I think he intends to enlighten us on that point before this luncheon is over.”
Dr. Li nodded gently. His black mustache had the same carefully trained droopy angle as before but it was those jade green eyes that held my attention. As I looked into them, I felt as if I were sinking into a pool of seductively warm water. Then an idea struck me and I looked briefly away to clear my head and avoid that hypnotic gaze so that I could frame my words.
“Dr. Li, I am sure you are still interested in obtaining some Ko Feng.”
“Of course.” His reply was prompt and he bowed from a great height, emphasizing his words.
What I wanted to say wasn’t coming easily and I fumbled for the right way to say it. “When we talked earlier, I was—er, impressed with your ability to—well, sort of see into my mind.”
The ends of his long black mustache twitched slightly in what I was sure must be a smile. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said modestly, though there wasn’t a grain of humility in his voice, “but there are some techniques practiced in the East that are not widely known in the West. I am familiar with a number of these.”
I took that to be a yes and went on. “There are others here today who, like you, would very much like to get hold of some Ko Feng. I’m sure you know who these people are.”
He nodded and I thought I detected a glint forming in those strange green eyes. “I have reason to believe that one of those killed Renshaw and Cartwright and stole the Ko Feng,” I continued. “What I was wondering is this—while you’re circulating here today, could you probe a few minds and perhaps identify some guilt, you know—some anxiety, apprehension even … ?”
It was a clumsy way to put it but surely Dr. Li had been in New York long enough to be able to translate my blunt words into a more subtle form so that he understood what I was saying? Maybe he had, I thought—the glint in his eye was as near to a twinkle as I was likely to see.
I pressed on before those eyes swallowed me up because I had to look at him while I was saying all this. “Your interest is, I realize, mainly in the Celestial Spice. But a double murder is more important and I’m sure you would wish to use your powers in such a—well, laudable aim.”
Those twin beams of his eyes were drilling into me. Was he trying to discover if I knew more than I was telling him? More to the point, was he learning anything?
“Don’t expect too much,” he said blandly and turned off the current.
He walked away with his long stride and I watched him, curious to see whom he approached first but I lost him in the crowd, despite his height. Well, it was worth a try …
A woman with masses of blond hair piled high went by with an elderly man who had the honest look of a politician. “But how can it be the best restaurant in New York City when it only has fourteen tables?” the woman was asking loudly. “Because it has fifteen chefs,” replied the man patiently and I recognized the place they were talking about. A waiter came, bringing a huge tray piled with new delights and as he unloaded, I studied him briefly, wondering if he was “on our side.”
I spotted Professor Willenbroek and Kay Grenville talking together and tried to get close enough to hear their conversation but the sharp-eyed professor saw me and waved me toward them.
We exchanged pleasantries. The professor wore a light linen suit that probably served him well in the Central American jungle while Kay had on a summery, daffodil yellow silk suit and pale gold earrings.
“We were discussing the Ko Feng,” said Kay.
“Interesting subject,” I agreed.
“Does Marvell have it back?” the professor wanted to know. “There are rumors around that he does but I asked him and he was very evasive.”
“Evasive?” said a new voice. “Must be talking about politicians.”
A smiling, diminutive man with a German accent stood there and the professor introduced him as an eminent New York restaurateur. Kay Grenville knew him already, it seemed. We chatted for a few moments. The man wanted Professor Willenbroek to appear on his weekly television show but his words were not persuasive enough.
Still smiling, he took the arm of the professor and steered him away. As they left, Nelson Keyhoe of Keyhoe Chemicals, the man with eight thousand products and a place in the Fortune 500, came up, greeting Kay and then me with handshakes.
“Rumors say that Marvell has recovered the Ko Feng.” Keyhoe looked from one to the other of us, his military manner demanding answers.
“Miss Grenville can probably tell you more,” I suggested. “She has her finger on the insurance pulse.”
“Nothing to report,” she said sweetly.
“Tell me,” Keyhoe said, “is it true that in most cases like this, the insurer is found to have stolen his own goods?”
Kay turned her most innocent gaze on him. “Why, Nelson, that sounds like an accusation!”
“Not at all,” he said gruffly. “Just talking in statistical terms.”
“Well… it does happen,” Kay said cautiously. She waited until Keyhoe had neatly swept a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed them to us. “Nothing specific?” she asked archly. “Just statistical?”
He adroitly scooped a third glass from the tray and studied the rising bubbles. “I found it strange …”
“Found what strange?” Kay asked when neither she nor I could wait any longer.
“At JFK. It was Willard Cartwright who came out to collect the Ko Feng.” Keyhoe edged nearer a table where an array of Indonesian satays had caught his eye. He selected one—it looked like a pork cube, probably marinated in soy sauce and spices then grilled and offered with peanut sauce as a dip. I took a chorizo sausage wrapped in a corn crepe. Kay declined.
“Go on,” she urged.
“What I mean is—we have this romantic story of Marvell discovering the field of Ko Feng, all mystical aura and the wonder of the East. So is he burning with impatience to get hold of it? No, he sends Cartwright to get it.”
There was a silen
ce in our group. It contrasted with the hubbub of voices around us. Keyhoe had a point… and it hinted at Marvell as engineering the theft with Cartwright as his accomplice. Gabriella’s suspicion of Kay came to mind and there was a reasonable fit between the two theories—Marvell could collect the insurance and sell the Ko Feng too. He no longer had to split it with Cartwright—what were his plans for Kay? Or was she involved?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“WHAT ARE THOSE?” Kay asked. She indicated a display of puff pastries.
“They’re different kinds of cheese. There’s mozzarella, that’s bel paese, then feta, can’t mistake that one—it’s Norwegian mysost—and those on the end are probably goat cheese.”
She certainly wasn’t worrying about Marvell’s plans or whether they included her. All I could see was a very attractive woman eating puff pastries. A man with an Italian accent descended upon her in midbite and they exchanged pleasantries. Keyhoe was nodding to a couple he recognized and I chose the moment to disengage.
A platoon of waiters swept in, carrying aloft trays exuding a delicious aroma of ginger and garlic. The buzz of conversation had risen several decibels—perhaps in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed.
“I heard somebody say Daniel Boulud was here,” commented a tall woman with spiky hair.
“I thought I saw David Bowie,” said her companion, an ample redhead clad most unsuitably in a clashing red dress. “Are you sure that’s not who you mean?”
Another group was discussing restaurant reviews. “I gave up reading them when Ed Koch started writing them,” said a bearded man. A large woman in canary yellow was asking a waiter if there were any mussels. He indicated a table. “I had some of those,” she said. “They’re too salty.” She looked around. “What about shrimp?” Again he pointed but she shook her head. “I can’t eat them with heads and tails on. What about oysters?”
“With or without pearls, madam?” he inquired, deadpan.
I strolled by a sextet arguing about chicken farming and the conditions therein but none of them looked as if they had ever seen a chicken farm. Raised voices caught my attention and I closed in to investigate. A small bustling lady in an unsuitable flowery dress, a glittering necklace and a loud voice was speaking.
“They really shouldn’t serve those at affairs like this,” she protested.
“Which?” I asked.
She pointed to strips of sirloin steak, probably marinated in soy sauce, sesame and garlic.
“And those,” she said accusingly, indicating an array of meatballs which appeared to represent the cuisines of half a dozen nations. Some looked Persian with a curry sauce while others looked like Danish frikadeller. Those in a tomato sauce were most likely Turkish kofiesi, then there were Greek kefthetakia flavored with fresh mint, Moroccan kefta with marjoram, cumin and coriander, and Indian kofte in a rich korma sauce, Kashmiri style. The similarity in the names was interesting and someday I intended to track back and see which came first.
“We objected last year but they ignored us,” said the lady.
“‘We’ being who?” I asked.
“The New England Vegans,” she explained. “We tried again this year but they didn’t listen. Have you seen our T-shirts?” she asked.
I was obliged to admit that I didn’t think I had but to be on the safe side I asked her what they said.
“They say ANIMALS ARE OUR FRIENDS—DON’T EAT THEM,” she told me. “We wear them every time we go to the supermarket.”
A tall skinny man with thinning white hair spoke up in a loud voice. “You should be a lot more concerned on health grounds,” he proclaimed. “Beef is a killer—worse than AIDS, Oprah says so.”
“What does she know from beef?” another equally strong voice demanded.
“She’s writing a book on it,” said a tiny woman supportively. “Must know a lot about it.”
I tore myself away before that party got rough. I listened to one group debating the conditions under which snails were raised, another where a tariff on rice was being proposed, the argument being that the United States could easily produce all the rice the country could eat and much cheaper and better quality than the imported product. Irradiation of food was rearing its ugly head again but I was determined not to get involved in that.
I scanned the room. I couldn’t see either Hal Gaines or Gabriella. It was just as well. I would probably hear some earthy New York epithets if I said, “Oh, by the way, I’ve just enlisted the help of a Chinese hypnotist.”
A figure materialized by my elbow. I turned to see Alexander Marvell.
He looked as if he needed a truckload of good cheer more than my conventional greeting. His face was grim and uncompromising and I prepared myself for some harsh words but he was remarkably civil. He even asked my opinion.
“Are we going to have some resolution of this dreadful business at last?”
“I really think so,” I told him sincerely. “In fact, I could almost say I’m betting my life on it.”
He grunted. It was hard to distinguish whether it was skepticism or sympathy for my vulnerable position.
“Something I’ve always wanted to ask you,” I said. “Why did you send Cartwright to JFK that day? I would have thought you couldn’t resist being there yourself when flight 227 touched down.”
He glanced at me briefly then looked away. “I had urgent personal business,” he said.
“Oh,” I said as if I understood. “But then you had every reason to trust Cartwright, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Misplaced trust as it turned out.”
I wondered if Gabriella had checked out the alibis of the key people at the time of the theft. It was unlikely she hadn’t… but Marvell was looking at me with what amounted to suspicion in his eye.
“I want to ask you a question,” he said in a voice that hardened suddenly.
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you phone the Mecklenburg Botanical Institute?”
“In San Francisco?” It was a silly response. I knew quite well where they were but I was puzzled.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“They say you did.”
I was still puzzled. “You’ve talked to them? They told you this?”
“I had to call them on another matter and they mentioned it.”
I shook my head firmly. “I haven’t called them.”
He was unconvinced. “They told me you did.”
“It wasn’t me—they’re mistaken.”
He gave me a glare of incredulity and stalked away.
When I caught sight of Gloria Branson, I had the distinct impression that she saw me and turned her back, but I approached her anyway. Her back view was almost as good as the front. She wore a white dress with a sort of crimson sash and looked spectacular, but her handshake was cold.
“I heard you had gone back to London.”
“An exaggerated report, premature,” I said, wondering why the frosty reception. “I have some unfinished business here that hopefully will be taken care of today.”
“Do you?” Her tone was uninterested and her face like alabaster—and just as immobile. Then it struck me why she was behaving like this.
I was at a loss to know what to say but it didn’t matter because she turned back to the people around her, ignoring me completely. One of them, a woman with gold-rimmed glasses that must have consumed a couple of nuggets, gave me a look of sympathy just as I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Still investigating and authenticating?” It was Tom Eck. I shook his hand; in the other he held a floweret of broccoli. “Have you tried these? They are really superb.” He nodded to a nearby table and I took one. I didn’t notice any taste.
“I’m still on the case, yes.”
“Any luck?”
“Some,” I admitted. I looked around. “I need another glass of wine—ah, over there.” He strolled with me and I took a glass from the table. Eck looked over the foods adjacent and took
a slice of avocado with Parma ham and curried mayonnaise on it.
“I was talking to Kay Grenville just now,” I said. He nodded with casual interest.
“Going to pay out, is she?”
“I doubt it. It’s still very early anyway.” I took a slice of the avocado too. “What’s your experience of insurance companies paying on claims like this?”
“They pay out millions every year.”
“Do you think their own investigations turn up anything that the police haven’t?”
“Some things, I suppose, but nothing major.”
A face behind me caught Eck’s attention and he introduced me.
“Bengt Johannson, BJ Vitamins.” He was a blond, blue-eyed sturdy Viking type and promptly launched into a discussion on the vitamin content of the foodstuffs on display, although I was trying to get away.
“You could eat here all day and not get enough vitamins,” he stated solemnly. “Vitamin additives are essential—and don’t be misled by people who tell you to avoid synthetic vitamins, they’re just as good as …”
I finally managed to break away and went in search of Hal Gaines or Gabriella. They had said they were undercover and at the moment they certainly were. I couldn’t see them but seemed to have no trouble finding others. I saw Ayesha but got only a wave. At least that made up for the withering stare from Lennie Rifkin, who was close by her side. Mr. Koo was eating artichoke mousse on toasted Syrian bread and declaring his intention of giving it a Chinese twist. I thought I saw Salman Rushdie with Cher but it seemed unlikely. The vegan lady intercepted me and initiated a discussion on Buddha and whether or not he was a vegetarian.
I would have enjoyed that at any other time but I was desperately anxious to find Hal Gaines or Gabriella and tell them that I knew the identity of the killer of Renshaw and Cartwright and the thief of the Ko Feng.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE TWO OF THEM were hard to find. I was still searching when a waiter stopped me. “The lieutenant’s looking for you,” he said and pointed to the balcony. “The Atlantic Room up there.”
I hurried up the stairs. The Atlantic Room was a large conference and lecture room, one of a dozen or so. I went in. The room was in near darkness and I stopped abruptly as the door was pulled out of my hand and closed behind me.