by Peter King
CHAPTER TWO
I DON’T GET MANY easy jobs like this, I was thinking as I walked along looking for a streetcar the next morning. It didn’t have to be called Desire, that was too much to hope for and anyway, Tennessee Williams has had enough publicity. For a moment, I regretted that due to the unexpected nature of this assignment, I had not had the opportunity to reread John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces. It was, as I remembered, an evocative picture of New Orleans and its people.
Lunch the day before with Eric Van Linn had stretched out even further than the stingers. Born and raised in New Orleans, he was a bottomless source of information on the city and its denizens and he enjoyed telling tales both tall and terrifying. Still, all of them had the ring of “could be true”—and who could ask more than that?
This morning I was out early, enjoying the stark, deserted streets with a breeze off the Gulf of Mexico scattering crumpled sheets of newspaper and sending plastic cups rolling away merrily. I walked along Royal Street, the buildings washed in pastel colors in a sunlight that was eerie and opaque. The quiet was broken only by the squawl of a cat and the clattering of a shutter being pushed open, doubtless accompanied by a yawn. The smell of rain was in the air but Mother Nature had not yet made up her mind.
I walked more or less at random till I found a coffee shop that catered to the precrowd crowd. This time I had a regular brew that was noticeably superior to ninety percent of the coffee served in the country. I ate with it a beignet that a languid young woman told me was what everybody here ate. It was too sweet for a breakfast bun but the purveyors of such delights evidently think we need a massive input of sugar to start the day.
At the next table, a young man who kept dozing off and slipping from his seat had knocked back two brandies already and woke up long enough to order a third. A man in uniform, some kind of city employee, was the only other customer.
“Turn right at the signal—two blocks take you to the St. Charles streetcar stop,” the waiter said in response to my question. Van Linn’s offer of remuneration included “reasonable” expenses and I had no doubt that taxi fare would be considered such, but streetcars are a fascinating reminder of a bygone era and unfortunately not commonly found today. So I rode it out to Duvivier Street and a walk of four blocks brought me to the Armorers’ Hall.
It boasted a checkered career, according to the plaque outside. Originally a warehouse used to store ammunition during the War of 1812, it had been burned down—not by a well-aimed British shell, but by a careless smoker. It had been rebuilt as the three-story Bank of New Orleans and had an impressive gray granite front in what was called the Greek Revival style. The bank had been prominent in financing the digging of the New Basin Canal that connected with Lake Pontchartrain. When the bank moved its operations, the building fell into disuse for some years, then the Louisiana Central Trust Company bought it and added two more stories.
The building’s exciting professional life continued as a part of the Board of Trade activity, one of many structures taken over by that board during World War One. More rebuilding followed and the federal government occupied it until they remodeled it in World War Two, but only just in time for the war to be over. It was then appropriated by the city, named the Armorers’ Hall and used for veterans’ functions. More remodeling and it became a convention center and exhibition hall.
Four Corinthian columns in front gave it a look of prominence and I walked between them through tall glass doors and into a large lobby where women sat at desks checking names and dispensing large red-and-white tags.
THE BIGGEST BOOK AUCTION IN THE SOUTH, proclaimed a large banner, and posters listed contributing organizations and charities benefiting from the auction. I walked into the main hall. It was big as a cathedral, huge with steel beams high across the ceiling. Chairs were neatly arranged and quite a few people were here already. A few were seated but most were clustered in chatty groups, clearly previously acquainted. Around the walls were racks and shelves. All were stacked with books where prospective buyers could examine them.
Stacks of catalogs were on tables and a woman handed me one. I found the section covering books on food, and after some difficulty, reached an item called Kitchen Cookbook with the author given as “A. Belvedere.” Not a very enticing entry for a book that required my highly professional services.
A number of other books in the category caught my eye and temporarily diverted me. Sandwiched between volumes by Martha Stewart and Burt Wolf was a book with that famous name on the spine, of the grandmama of all cookbook writers—Isabella Beeton. Alas, it was a 1940 reprint but the content remained. Morton Shand was represented by his classic Book of Food, I was glad to see. Shand is peevish and controversial, insular and argumentative and amazingly narrow-minded, yet all of these characteristics are swamped by his encyclopedic knowledge. Those Rich and Great Ones by Henri was on the shelf, too, not in very good condition but at least that showed how many people had handled it and, I was sure, enjoyed it. Dozens of good stories there and all told with unflagging verve and wit.
A copy of Marion Harland’s Common Sense in the Household caught my eye. It is not exactly rare but it is a worthy addition to any culinary library and is exceedingly practical, full of genuine “common sense.” Then there was Paul Reboux’s Plats du Jour describing gastronomic adventures in Burgundy in the 1930s.
Edward Bunyard’s A Book About the Table is not rare, either, nor is it expensive but it is another of those books that should be on every cook’s shelf. Andre Simon’s cleverly titled Tables of Content did not have a dust jacket but it had the self-satisfied air of a book that doesn’t need one.
Dozens of other books on food and eating did not reach the same peaks of culinary knowledge but stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the same shelves anyway. Great names pressed against newcomers, East squeezed against West and old fought for space against new.
I pored through them all, looking for A. Belvedere. He was not among those present. I realized I must have missed him—perhaps the cover was worn and the name unclear. I was about to start the search again when I received a bump on the hip.
“Sorry,” muttered the young woman who had bumped me. She didn’t sound sorry and she moved to push in front of me. Always the gentleman—and determined to be such here in a city of such cavalier traditions—I allowed her to do so. She was intent on a search of her own and I allowed her to pursue it. She was attractive, an inch or two above average height, blonde hair cut short and expensively, a tan dress with an autumn-brown knitted sweater and sensible brown shoes suggesting an active life.
She ignored my condescending smile and frowned at the titles. I resumed my search, once again without success. The young woman was equally unsuccessful, it seemed, for our paths kept crossing. At the third one, she gave a peevish sigh of frustration and walked with a determined step toward one of the women acting as stewards … well, stewardpersons, I suppose. I could hear most of the conversation, which was one-sided—it was a complaint that a book in the catalog was not on the shelves.
I was about to make a third try for my book when I heard her say, “It’s by A. Belvedere and …”
The book nearest my hand was Marcel Boulestin’s The Finer Cooking. I have a copy to which I refer often but on this occasion it was a convenient mask. I wasn’t looking at the words but concentrating on listening to the conversation.
“It should be there,” said the woman, a lively white-haired lady with a strong Southern accent—she said “they-ar.” She came over and perused the shelves, using a long forefinger as a probe. She came to the end, frowned and repeated the process. She looked at the catalog, frowned again and made a third attempt.
“Well, I don’t know …” she said. “Just a minute.” She hurried off and I focused on Boulestin’s words so as to not to attract the blonde girl’s attention. There did not seem to be too much fear of that—she was tapping an impatient foot, looking haughty and unconcerned about anyone else in the room.
“It should be here.” The white-haired lady was getting flustered now. She was obviously used to everything being in its place and an advocate of good order. A book not being where it should be disordered her universe.
“But it obviously isn’t. So if it isn’t here, where is it?” The blonde girl was getting annoyed at the book’s absence. I was equally concerned but the blonde was being forceful and displaying all those American feminine qualities that we have come to admire in women from Belle Starr to Eleanor Roosevelt to Ethel Merman to Germaine Greer. For the moment, I thought it better to let her spearhead the “where is this book?” movement.
“Let me go talk to Mrs. Gracewell.” The lady was eager to snatch at the opportunity to shift the problem to a higher level of administration.
Foot tapping continued. The blonde glared at anyone within range and I stayed at the limit of that range. She let out a periodic sigh of exasperation. At last, the white-haired lady came back accompanied by another white-haired lady, this one tall and commanding. I watched closely. This was going to be interesting.
“I’m Mrs. Gracewell.” She introduced herself politely but the blonde was in no mood for niceties.
“What is the matter with this place?” she demanded loudly. “I want to see a book you’ve put in your catalog. All books in the catalog are supposed to be on the shelves. This one is not on the shelves. This person has confirmed that.” She pointed an accusing finger and the unfortunate white-haired lady spread her hands in a gesture of admitted failure.
“So where is the book?” came the final broadside.
Mrs. Gracewell withstood the blast commendably. “I regret to say it’s been sold,” she replied.
The answer certainly hit me between the eyes. I even forgot to use the copy of Boulestin as a cover and lowered it. The blonde girl gave Mrs. Gracewell a withering look.
“Sold! How can it have been sold! The auction hasn’t started yet!”
The auction was, in fact, just about to start. A gray-haired man in a tuxedo had tested the microphone and adjusted it on the dais. Others went to and fro, bringing books and papers.
Mrs. Gracewell had clearly been on more committees than the blonde girl had eaten po’boy sandwiches. She remained unruffled as the blonde girl’s look turned on her. It would have curled the edge of a steel plate but Mrs. Gracewell was as unperturbed as if she had just heard that a coffee spoon was in the wrong place.
She gave the other a slight smile, not apologetic but with a tinge of commiseration. “This is a charity function, as I’m sure you know. It seems that earlier this morning, a person came in and made one of our volunteers an offer for the book. This lady reasoned that the amount offered was considerably more than might be realized at the auction. She sold the book.”
There it was, concise and unarguable. Well, it should have been but the blonde’s need for the book seemed to be immense. She harangued poor Mrs. Gracewell, who gave tiny nods of agreement and mini-smiles of sympathy. Finally, a shortage of breath produced a short break.
“The least you can do is give me the name and address of the person who bought it,” were the first words after the break.
Mrs. Gracewell hesitated. “Well, it may be considered confidential, I’m not sure—”
“Nonsense!” snapped the blonde. “This is an open auction. If the book were to be sold here, everybody in the room would see who had bought it. Give me the person’s name and address!”
Mrs. Gracewell thought for a couple of seconds. “Very well,” she said. “This book is clearly important to you so I see no reason why you shouldn’t know. Please come with me.”
The blonde followed Mrs. Gracewell with an angry but elegant stride, leaving me standing there with the copy of Boulestin in my hand. I had several points to consider. Who was this blonde and why was Arturo Belvedere’s book so important to her? It had a certain historical value, that was sure, especially here in New Orleans—perhaps book historians were after it. But why this sudden interest in it? Presumably it had been lost for some time after Ernesto’s faculties had declined—so why now? The next question was, how could I get that name and address too?
I went out of the room just as the auctioneer was rapping his gavel and welcoming everyone. Several cubicles took up space in the anteroom. All were filled, noisy and busy. I stood for a moment, then the blonde came out of one of the cubicles. Mrs. Gracewell was saying something to her but I couldn’t hear what it was—no doubt a polite excuse or two although they were being wasted, as the blonde stalked out without a word or a backward glance. She was stuffing a piece of paper into her handbag as she left so she had presumably got what she wanted—well, after losing the book.
Mrs. Gracewell returned to the main auction hall to attend to other duties. I waited a suitable length of time, realizing during that time that I still had the copy of Boulestin in my hand. I went to the lady in the first cubicle. On her desk was a check with engraving in light purple. It was the only one I could see so I was sure it was payment for the Belvedere book and the one from which she had just copied an address.
The lady was tiny, birdlike and with a soft smile. She didn’t seem too devastated by the blonde typhoon who had just swept out; nevertheless, I gave her my best sympathy smile.
“Wow, glad to see her leave! What a terror!” I waved the book in my hand, a badge of authentication.
“A very dynamic lady. She must want that book very badly.” Her voice was soft too.
“Yes,” I agreed, then, as if I had just become aware of why I had gone into her cubicle: “Oh, Mrs. Gracewell is sure you got full ID on that check. I told her I was sure you had but said I’d confirm it with you.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” the lady said in her delicate voice.
“It isn’t?”
“No. See—” She turned the check around so that I could see it. “ ‘Michael Gambrinus, Bookseller’—well, I mean, he’s one of the biggest booksellers in the city, isn’t he?”
CHAPTER THREE
THE TAXI WOVE A dizzying route through the city. At least, it was dizzying to me because most streets seemed to be one-way and laid out like a crazy chessboard. So I just sat back and enjoyed the ride—well, I sort of enjoyed it. Many of New Orleans’ street signs are missing and the ones remaining are either hard to read or faded beyond sight.
Some old blue-and-white tiled signs had names that could be read only by pedestrians. In some neighborhoods, thin vertical metal strips nailed to telephone poles carried the names. These are really unreadable. A few street signs even point away from the traffic stream. All this seems to be carrying urban secrecy too far.
Riding a vehicle through New Orleans is a novel experience. We passed a mule-drawn buggy and almost terminated a zigzagging drunk. Drivers appeared to have their own rules and seemed to be determined to keep their intentions to themselves. The few times they used signals, they were completely misleading.
I was glad it was a short ride. I had a suspicion that I had been driven in two concentric circles and arrived in a location very close to where I had started but I said nothing as I was happy to alight safely.
The bookshop was on Carondelet Street. During the boom days of the mid—nineteenth century, this was the center for cotton. Shipping companies had their offices here, near the Cotton Exchange. New Orleans’ first skyscraper was built on Carondelet Street and, when bank after bank went up, the thoroughfare became known as the Wall Street of the South. I had learned all this from the pamphlets in the hotel and knew, too, that the street was named after the first governor of the French Province of Louisiana in 1791.
It was an upmarket location for a bookshop. The shop itself looked almost as vener
able as its prestigious neighbors, with its dark-green-painted wooden-framed windows and imposing door. The name, Michael Gambrinus, was in faded but legible gilt lettering and an old trigger-type bell pealed out with a tinny clang as I entered.
The atmosphere was musty but not ancient. It was a museum but not a mausoleum. Avalanches of books were everywhere. The basic layout was orderly and sections were marked by subject, but uncontrolled influxes of volumes had flooded the shop and exceeded sales. Many books looked quite valuable, and morocco-bound editions were prominent.
I could see no one, but a doorway led to another room that turned out to be almost as crowded and chaotic. Beyond it was a third room—the building seemed to go on and on. I saw yet another room and it seemed less crowded with books but more folders and files. Perhaps it was an office. Someone must be there.
“Anybody here?” I called, but no answer came. A massive carved desk had a large brass lamp, a brass-and-wood antique-style phone, and was piled with papers. A brass-and-mahogany plaque read, MICHAEL GAMBRINUS. Behind the desk, a computer screen was blank but beside it stood attendant equipment like a printer, a copier and a fax. But it was the desk that instantly reclaimed my attention …
A man sat in a large armchair, sprawled back. I went farther into the room—a patch of red gleamed in the soft light of the desk lamp. It was in the center of his chest.
I felt his wrist. It was warm but when I felt for a pulse, there was none. A round black hole in the patch of red on his chest was patently the cause of death. He had been shot, and very recently.
How recently? I wondered. Recently enough that whoever had shot him was still here? It was at that inappropriate moment that I heard a slithering sound …
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I froze, waiting for the sound again. If I could figure out where it had come from, I could move hastily in the opposite direction. All was still, though into the silence crept the faintest buzz of street traffic.
