by Peter King
A door slammed. Trouble was, I couldn’t tell where. It took me a moment to realize that if it had been the front door, I would have heard that tinkling bell. So there must be another door—well, obviously, there had to be a back entrance for unloading all these books.
I went back into the third room and there it was—it opened to a turn of the knob. An alley went all the way to the next street. Trash cans lined up and there were piles of cardboard crates and boxes. But no person or persons.
Going back into the room with the dead man wasn’t particularly pleasant but the body acted like a magnet. I thought about wiping the doorknobs and getting out of there, like any non—law-abiding citizen would. Had I picked up any books? I wondered. But leaving fingerprints would not be incriminating unless I did, indeed, duck out of there.
Being non—law-abiding is something I cannot readily contemplate. Besides, a check of cab drivers would turn up the one who had driven me here and, though he had not paid much attention to me (or the traffic, for that matter), he would probably be able to identify me. I reached for the phone, stopped.
A box of tissues stood on the edge of the desk. I took one and used it to lift the phone. At least, I wouldn’t obliterate any fingerprints that might be on it.
The food business is a multibillion-dollar industry and even the sedentary aspects of it that involve me often have contact with the seamier side. Crooks and criminals can be found in there just as in any business—a small percentage of those involved can always see a way to make more money by doing something illegal.
Unwittingly, I have been mixed up in a few of these and some have even involved a corpse or two. It was very rare that I had been in the position of calling the police upon finding one of them, though. The operator was polite and helpful and when I was promptly connected with the police department, they were the same.
I confess I was disappointed. It was the first time I had ever had the opportunity to say, “I want to report a murder,” and the sergeant who introduced herself was about as excited as if I had told her that my pet Pekingese was missing. She asked me to stay where I was until the police arrived, adding that they would be there in a few minutes. She was as cool as a dentist’s assistant making an appointment.
It was under five minutes, in fact. Two patrolmen in uniform came, looked at the corpse, checked my identity and made a phone, call. They moved around, looking at doors and windows, though one of them was in the room with me at all times. About ten minutes later, two plainclothes detectives came in.
“LieutenantDelanceyHomicide,” said the foremost of the two. The way he said it, it came out like one long word. He was short, light build, with a face that looked worn and tired. He had light-blue eyes that improved his appearance a bit and untidy dark hair that didn’t. He wore a gray suit that was far from new and a dark-blue tie that he probably got as a Christmas present. His ears were prominent and he moved his hands in an expressive way that was almost Italian. “Stickaround, I wannatalktoyer,” he said, and I knew he was not from Louisiana.
He motioned to the two uniformed men and they all huddled together. It did not take long for observations to be passed along and the uniformed men left. “Sergeant Zukowski,” the lieutenant said, jerking a thumb in that direction. I gave the sergeant a brief but friendly nod. He might have returned the nod but the energy it must have used was immeasurably small. He was a big, beefy man with an unexpressive face, though that might have been part of the job.
The lieutenant moved around the room, looking at the corpse, at the desk, looking at everything as if he were photographing it in his mind. Maybe he was. He went into the other rooms but the sergeant stayed with me. He was not too obvious about it but I was seldom more than five seconds out of his vision.
Lieutenant Delancey had no sooner rejoined us than the doorbell tinkled. Delancey ignored it but the sergeant went and came back with two men and one woman. They carried equipment of various kinds in leather sacks and pouches, and soon flashes filled the room while the other two were poking around all over, performing mysterious functions.
“Overhere,” Delancey said to me, moving his hands toward the other, book-filled room. We went into the comparative quiet, leaving the technicians with the body.
“Whaddayerknowaboutthis?” It was going to take me a little while to get accustomed to this condensed speech, I could see that. The general drift of his question was obvious, though, so I was saved from having to ask him to repeat it.
I told him about Van Linn first, hoping that the name of a prominent New Orleans lawyer would weigh in on my side. Too late, I realized that Van Linn might well be a defense lawyer and persona non grata with a police force that had been thwarted by him countless times. I went on anyway, telling him about the book, the auction and the reason for my being here in Gambrinus’ shop.
It did not sound too convincing to me—and I knew it was true. I could see why the expression on Lieutenant Delancey’s face was turning into a frown that, if not outright doubt, was certainly heavy on skepticism.
“A book? Telling me thisisallaboutabook?” There it was again, skepticism in his voice as well as his look. At least I was able to detect a couple of breaks in the continuity of his speech.
“Not just a book, Lieutenant. It may be a fairly valuable book. There may be a great story in it—how the Belvedere family built a restaurant dynasty—”
“But stillabook.”
“Some of the recipes could be valuable. One of the recipes was for oysters Belvedere, which was the one dish more than any other that made the name of Belvedere famous.”
I was losing ground with him, I could see that—at least, losing ground as far as convincing him that the book was important. Getting him to accept the concept that a recipe could be worth money might be an uphill battle. On the other hand, as far as communication was concerned, I was making rapid progress in learning to understand the lieutenant’s staccato approach to the English language.
“How valuable?”
“Hard to say. A thousand dollars, maybe, give or take a—”
“Murdersbeencommitted for less.”
Another couple of minutes and I would have broken the code.
“I suppose so.”
“Thiswomanwhowasthere, at the auction. Gethername?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you thought she was coming here.”
I had it! Bletchley Park could not have been more elated the day they solved the Enigma puzzle. I was understanding every word without having to examine possible variants. The lieutenant and I were on the same wavelength!
“I thought she was. She got the name and address and she certainly left hurriedly.”
“Tell me about you.”
The lieutenant was not a native of New Orleans, that was plain. I would have guessed New York but that didn’t matter at the moment. We were speaking the same language. A fleeting thought went across my mind that perhaps he was having as much trouble with my speech as I was with his, so I kept it simple, fairly slow and enunciated carefully. I probably sounded like a Cotswolds shopkeeper determined to sell a priceless antique to a Japanese tourist.
I handed him a card. Better get this over as quickly as possible. The session began as anticipated.
“‘The Gourmet Detective’! You’re a detective?”
“No, I’m not a detective, I’m a food-finder …” I went through my whole explanation. “—Somebody gave me the nickname of ‘The Gourmet Detective’ and it stuck. It’s good for business but it causes problems when something like this happens.”
He seized on that like a hungry terrier on a meaty bone. “Things like this happen often, do they?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘often,’ but food and restaurant businesses turn over billions of dollars. That kind of money attracts criminals and even normally law-abiding people are tempted. Inevitably, some crimes are committed—thefts, substitutions and—”
“—And murders?”
“Well, yes, once
in a while.” I thought it was time to give myself a plug. “I have been able to be of help to Scotland Yard on more than one occasion.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. I have worked with Inspector Hemingway, among others.”
Delancey kept his light-blue eyes on me as he gave a slight nod. “You helped them.”
“Yes. They were cases involving food, and my job means I accumulate a lot of specialized knowledge. That’s how I was able to be helpful. I also helped Inspector Gaines of the Unusual Crimes Unit in New York not long ago.”
“Is that right?”
He said it again and I was about to assume it was rhetorical when he said, “Hal Gaines?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“Worked with him once or twice. I was with the NYPD.”
So I was right. He was from New York, and if he knew Hal Gaines, that could clear me.
“If you talk to him—you know, when you’re checking on me, give him my regards and tell him I hope the King’s Balm is still working.”
“King’s Balm?”
“It’s a herbal remedy I recommended, cured his stomach problems.”
“Yeah, well, about this book …” He combed his fingers through his untidy hair. It did not improve it. “You’re sure it’s not here?”
I looked around the room, thousands of books on racks, on shelves, on tables, stacked here, piled there. “I haven’t looked,” I admitted.
He gave me a rueful grin. “Guess not. Labor of Sisyphus, huh?”
That surprised me. He went on: “Give the sergeant a complete description of the book and where you’re staying. Meantime, you can go.”
“I’ll stay around a few days,” I volunteered. “Then you won’t have to ask me not to leave town. I’m at the Monteleone.”
“Nice hotel.” He gave me a nod of dismissal. “I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER FOUR
MY FIRST ACTION UPON returning to the “nice hotel” was to phone Van Linn. His response was predictably incredulous.
“Dead? Gambrinus? How can he be?”
“Not only dead but apparently murdered.”
Some spluttering came down the line. I told him the rest, such as it was. “You can expect a visit from a detective,” I told him. “I had to give him your name.”
“Well, yes, of course you did. But—my goodness, I can hardly believe it!”
“I couldn’t either. It was a shock, you can imagine.”
“Yes, yes, it must have been—” There was a pause and when Van Linn considered it had gone on long enough, he asked the question. “It—ah, well, it’s a little indelicate to ask, but I suppose there was no sign of the book?”
“Why do you suppose that?”
“Why? Well, I mean it’s what you went there for, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, and probably sounded testy, “but I wasn’t expecting a murderer to go there for the same reason.”
“Certainly not!” Van Linn said, and sounded emphatic.
“Tell me—did you have any idea that this book was going to prove this important to somebody?”
“No, absolutely not, but—are the police sure that the book is the reason for the murder?”
“You’ll have to ask them that.”
“I’ll do that.”
“In the meantime,” I said, “do you want me to keep looking for the book?”
There was a pause. “Yes, I’d appreciate it if you would. Be careful, though—I mean, it’s not so important that it’s worth risking your life for.”
“I have to stay in New Orleans anyway for a few days—so I’ll definitely keep my ears and eyes open. And I’ll be careful. Just one point—is there anything else you want to tell me?”
He didn’t hesitate with his answer as far as I could tell. “No, nothing. I assure you that I had no idea something like this could happen. I mean, murder … it—it’s inconceivable.”
I dined alone that evening. I felt I deserved some civilized sustenance after a shock like that. Having heard so much about the outstanding qualities of New Orleans cooking, I found myself in a quandary trying to pick a restaurant. I need not have worried. My first choice, Commanders’ Palace, was fully booked. So was my second choice, Brennan’s. The fact that I was a lone diner was not, I knew, to my advantage. Restaurants don’t like to put single diners at a table, it simply is not efficient for them. My third choice, the Court of Two Sisters, accepted my reservation.
It was a short and easy walk from my hotel and the leaded windows allowed a peek inside at a room filled with what looked like happy diners. Being alone, I did not expect one of the best tables and, in fact, I was seated in what looked like the Garden Room, next to the large courtyard—the largest in New Orleans, I recalled. A noisy group of Asians was doing their best to disprove the inscrutability label—at least it did if “quiet” came under the heading of “inscrutable.” I was at the next table.
The first course I ordered was turtle soup and, although I expected it to be clear like a broth, which is normal, it was thick with small bits of turtle meat. This was considered to be an aristocrat among soups in earlier days and was served at great ceremonial banquets and diplomatic dinners. The turtle was delivered live to the kitchen where a chef’s helper would wait until the turtle poked its head out from under its shell. The helper would then lasso the turtle and, with help, hang it from a high hook. The help was necessary, as turtles often weighed a hundred pounds.
The hanging, however, was not for killing purposes but for exposing the neck, which was slashed—all other parts of the turtle being so leathery as to turn even the sharpest blade.
Hammers, chisels and saws then reduced the creature to meat which was blanched and chopped fine, added to consommé with herbs and vegetables and cooked for hours. Modern kitchen technology has turned this procedure into a more clinical and less bloody scenario and taken all the drama out of it.
The shrimp rémoulade for the main course was blander than I anticipated but I reminded myself that every dish in New Orleans was not spicy. It is, of course, usually served as an hors d’oeuvre, but as the restaurant is widely known for this dish, I was determined to have it and at the same time, I was not prepared to give up the idea of the turtle soup. Creole mustard and Tabasco sauce are standard ingredients of this rémoulade but the spice chef must have had a light hand with the spices today.
The next morning, I came down to breakfast and was making my way across the brown-and-white-tiled lobby to the Breakfast Room when a folded newspaper waved at me. It was not unattended, of course. A police lieutenant by the name of Delancey was on the other end of it.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” I pronounced it in the American way. It was too early in the day for even minor complications.
“Heading for breakfast?”
Surely I was not going to have to go through this learning curve all over again!
“Yes, I am. Care to join me?”
“Nice of you, yeah, we can talk.”
Well, that was a relief. I had reestablished a common language already.
When we were seated, the lieutenant said, “I talked with Hal Gaines last night. He said you were okay.”
“Okay.” Was that all? But I just nodded.
“Scotland Yard said about the same thing so I wanted to tell you that.”
It wasn’t a rave review but it should keep me out of a lineup. “Good. I appreciate your telling me.”
The waiter arrived, poured coffee for us both and I ordered a half grapefruit, ham with two eggs over-easy, hash browns and wholewheat toast. The lieutenant wanted only coffee and waved away my invitation to eat. “Had a couple doughnuts at the station earlier.” He settled back in his chair and regarded me.
“Know Mr. Van Linn well, do you?”
“No, I only met him through this assignment.” I explained how it had come about and he nodded. The scalding-hot coffee did not bother him at all and he sipped it as if it were tepid.
“How a
bout Mr. Gambrinus?”
“I had never seen him until I saw him dead yesterday.”
He sipped coffee and appeared contemplative for a moment. Then he gave me a sharp look. “What would you say if I told you I talked to him last night?”
I stopped with my grapefruit spoon halfway to my mouth. “What did you use—a Ouija board?”
He shook his head matter-of-factly. “Just like I’m talking to you right now.”
“But you couldn’t have!” I protested. “He was dead, I’m sure of it.”
“How sure?”
“Well … certain sure.”
“Got any medical training?”
“No, some first aid …”
“Yeah, well …” summed up his opinion of my first-aid training. “No, I talked to him right enough. Point I’m making is, the body you found isn’t that of Michael Gambrinus.”
I ate more grapefruit. I needed it. “Ah, I see. The man I found was dead, though?”
“He was dead.”
“I suppose I jumped to the conclusion that the man I found was Michael Gambrinus,” I confessed, “because it was his shop and the man was sitting in his chair.”
“And you had never seen him before,” contributed the lieutenant. “I mean, neither of them?”
“Right. I was hasty. Sorry if I misled you.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I had a nasty moment when Gambrinus wanted to know what I was doing in his shop—but we straightened it out.”
“You’re being extremely civil about this, Lieutenant. Some detectives of my acquaintance would be livid.”
“Livid, yeah, well …” He seemed to be trying to decide if a better word would be more appropriate but either couldn’t think of one or didn’t want to correct me.
“But then I can see that you New Orleans police have many of the courtly and polite mannerisms of the South.” Was that troweling it on too thick? I would see.
“I may be in New Orleans but I’m not of New Orleans, if you get my drift.”
“Really. With a great name like Delancey? How can you get more Southern than that?”
