by Peter King
It couldn’t be. He was dead. He was, wasn’t he? Yes, he had to be; Lieutenant Delancey had told me that he had been identified. So if he was dead, what was he doing in a television studio? Several smart answers to that might be around but I could not lay hands on one at that moment.
I looked at him again. He had moved a bit and was now looking at me through the glass. When I had seen him in that chair in Gambrinus’ bookstore, his eyes had been closed in death. Death, I thought. What about that bullet hole in the middle of his chest? That was a sure sign of death, wasn’t it?
But now the eyes were staring at me with a feral intensity that I didn’t like. I moved to make sure and his eyes followed me. It was unmistakably me he was staring at, and now I saw his hand move inside the jacket—to come out immediately …
There was a gun in the hand. I was paralyzed. I tried to find a rational thought that would explain this. I was in a television studio—a man with a gun must be as common here as housewives at a Macy’s sale. Where were the cameras, though? None on him, that was for sure. On me? Yes, that must be it, they were filming me for a sequence that said, Pan to victim, show face full of terror. They had made a good choice with me—I must be showing more terror than all the Vincent Price movies ever made.
No, forget that, not a camera was on me. Hidden cameras? Don’t be paranoid. It didn’t leave me with much and none of that was reassuring. It meant that there was a man with a gun and he was looking at me. Worse yet, he was moving to the door of the tiny studio and coming out …
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE DOUBLE DOORS CLOSED silently behind me as I made an exit in what must have been record time. I hurried along a corridor, made a turn and hurried along another. I didn’t recall the geography of the place from when the little lady had escorted me in, but it didn’t matter. When you’re escaping from a dead man with a gun, all roads lead to safety.
I was puzzling over that paradox as I narrowly evaded a wheeled cart piled with mysterious-looking equipment. He couldn’t be dead or he wouldn’t be chasing me. But he was chasing me—ergo, he couldn’t be dead. But I had seen him dead and Lieutenant Delancey had confirmed it. … Was the lieutenant playing some devious game? The thought brought to mind recollections of a Charlie Chan movie in which the Honolulu detective had an actor impersonate a murder victim so as to get the murderer to confess.
No, I decided. That didn’t sound like Delancey’s style. He just wasn’t the Charlie Chan type. On the other hand, there was more to him than met the eye. Pay attention to getting out of here, I told myself. REFRESHMENT CENTER, said a large sign, and a group of men and women clustered around several vending machines.
It was far from a madding crowd but it would have to do, and as a temporary refuge it wasn’t bad. I squeezed in among these people who gave us all our news, our education and our entertainment. None of them paid me any attention.
My breathing was returning to normal and I was even contemplating getting a cup of coffee so that I could stand with it and really look like I belonged. The line was long—it must be that good New Orleans coffee—and I was looking for the end of it when I saw my nemesis down the corridor.
He was coming this way.
His hand was inside his windbreaker so he wasn’t attracting any attention—except from me. I looked for an escape route. Emerging from the crowd was not a first step that appealed to me and even after that, I didn’t know where to go. I huddled deeper into the coffee and Coke drinkers and edged over to get some extra cover from the potato chip, nacho, peanut and cookie buyers.
He was looking this way and that but as he came closer, he turned and disappeared down a side corridor that must have looked like a probable hiding place for his quarry. I seized the opportunity and dashed off in the opposite direction.
I didn’t really have a plan—other than my primary strategy of avoiding being killed. Several approaches suggested themselves. For instance, I could find a security guard and complain about a man with a gun running loose in the building. The only problem with that would arise if the guard asked if I knew the man and I replied, Yes, he’s dead.
I could just get out of the building and save Ms. Elsa Goddard for another day, when the outlook for escaping violence was more favorable. The faintest reek of timidity accompanied this—some might call it cowardice although I preferred “prudence.”
I could confront him, disarm him and—no, no, that was ridiculous. In the midst of all this mental turmoil, I found myself facing a bank of three elevators. This was not the way I had come in but that did not matter. I pressed the button and a door opened. I stepped in and went down to the ground floor.
People were coming and going and generally pursuing their business. It looked safe to get out of the elevator, but, before I could do so, a hand grasped my arm. I turned to see the one face I didn’t want to see.
“You killed my brother.”
The accusing voice should have terrified me but the funny thing was that the words came with a significance that was reassuring. His brother! So I had not been pursued by a dead man, after all! Well, of course not, that was absurd. Now, looking at this face, though, I could see that the mistake was understandable. This fellow and the one in Michael Gambrinus’s office did look very much alike. After all, I told myself, I had only seen Richie Mortensen dead and with his eyes closed. This man was a little different but the brotherly resemblance was clear.
The first thing to do was establish was my innocence. “I didn’t kill your brother,” I said to him firmly.
A young woman entering the elevator gave me a strange look.
“This is a funny place to rehearse,” she snapped. “Can’t you find a studio?”
“He was already dead when I went into the shop,” I said, putting all the conviction into the statement that I could muster and trying to ignore the young woman who was shaking her head and tut-tutting at my breach of broadcasting etiquette.
“Anyway, I had never met him, I had no reason to want to harm him.”
“That book.” That was all he said. At least he didn’t pull out the gun, although one hand remained menacingly inside his jacket. I looked him in the eyes. They were dark and, at the moment, threatening. He had the slight stubble of a beard on his face, a long but strong chin, and was in his mid-thirties.
The woman got out of the elevator at the next floor and shot us a final look of reprimand. “I had been to the auction to buy the book,” I went on, determined to get in all the points of view that might save my life. “I was told it had been sold already. I found that it had been sold to a Michael Gambrinus so I went right away to his shop. I found your brother dead in Gambrinus’s office—I didn’t know who he was, of course. In fact I thought he was Gambrinus—I called the police right away and told them that.”
His eyes searched my face. I must have looked honest to him; at least, his aggressive attitude relaxed a little. Most satisfying, he still did not pull out the gun. “Look,” I told him, “let’s sit down and talk about this.” I didn’t wait for him to agree. I just went to the one of the oases that dotted the lobby—a small round table with chairs around it. I sat in one of them. He hesitated then did likewise, half facing me.
I went over my story again, filling in bits like Van Linn’s name, emphasizing his importance as a New Orleans lawyer, telling who I was, why I was in New Orleans—trying to submerge him in corroborative detail that might help push me out of the line of fire.
I must have been more convincing than I had even hoped. He asked a question or two, nothing relevant to the death of his brother or my possible culpability, which was encouraging. I thought I saw a glimmer of doubt in his expression.
“Were you close to your brother?” I asked.
He looked away. “We didn’t see each other too often.”
I toyed with the idea of suggesting that he might be considered a suspect himself, but some very wise person writing mystery novels once said, “Never antagonize a character with a gun,” so I didn’
t say that. The more I talked to him, though, the less resolute he seemed. It began to look increasingly as if his original attitude had been strictly impulsive.
He didn’t strike me as the type to want to kill someone in revenge for his brother’s death on sentimental family grounds, and I started to wonder if there was something else, some other reason for his attitude.
“You know about the book?” I asked conversationally.
He looked, well, not alarmed but certainly nervous at the question. “Most people in New Orleans know about the Belvedere family,” he said.
He was about to go on when a voice called out, “Why, hello, Larry! You’re early.”
It was a voice I had heard before and I was putting a name to it as she came into sight. It was Elsa Goddard—she of the combative attitude at the book auction, the designated buyer for my favorite group of lady chefs and kidnappers, “the Witches.”
She looked very fetching yet businesslike in a blue silk blouse, a russet-brown skirt and a short, darker brown jacket. She wasn’t the type to surprise easily but she looked just a touch taken aback as she saw me. I watched recognition creep into her face.
“My goodness!” she said. “Isn’t this fortunate? How did you know about the show?”
“Hard to keep anything quiet in New Orleans,” I told her heartily. “You know how this stuff gets around!”
“This is great,” she replied in a tone that didn’t quite reinforce her words, but then her professionalism kicked into high gear. “I was only expecting Larry for the show, but now I can put the two of you on!”
She was looking from one to the other of us. She sensed the tension and a mounting amusement showed on her face. “Oh, Larry, don’t tell me you accused him, too, of killing your brother!”
He looked slightly embarrassed. “I had the idea it might startle one of you into admitting something incriminating,” he admitted, and Elsa laughed.
Meantime I was wrestling with another angle. “Show?” was the best I could manage.
“The story of the Belvedere chefs’ book, its place in New Orleans cooking history and the startling murder which may be connected with it.”
“Oh, I can’t contribute much to that,” I said modestly. “You’ve got the right man in Larry here, though. I know he has some strong thoughts on the murder of his brother.”
It was a cat-among-the-pigeons idea. I could have added Larry is ready to shoot anybody he thinks is a suspect, but I didn’t want to toss in too much drama and break up any intelligent aspect the show might have.
Larry Mortensen looked vaguely uncomfortable but said, “I didn’t really want to do the show but Elsa convinced me that it might bring new information on Richie’s murder.”
Elsa seemed to relish the effect her summary of the show was having on both of us and said enthusiastically to me, “But of course we want you on the show, too. At the auction, I didn’t know you were a food expert. You can be helpful in telling the people out there all about the book from the point of view of an outside authority.”
She glanced at her Rolex. “Less than an hour. We’d better get along to the studio, get you into makeup right away.” She looked at our clothes with a touch of disdain, Larry’s then mine. Her nose wrinkled. I already knew that tact was not her strongest point so I was not surprised when she said, “I’m sure we can find something for you to wear.”
A murder is the caviar on the toast for the media—for a couple days after it happens, at least. The technical crew was efficient, the wardrobe lady was accommodating and the makeup people did the best they could with the two of us, spending most of their time on Elsa. She looked radiant when they had finished, almost overpoweringly glamorous at close personal range but certainly just right for the cameras.
When we were properly positioned, the cameraman and the young woman with authority over the lights had a few minutes of moving and jiggling so as to get rid of shadows and glare. Another young woman threaded a cord up our sleeves and clipped a mike onto our lapels. There was a countdown, red lights flashed, and a musical fanfare blared out then died away as a plummy, unseen voice introduced Elsa.
She was good at her job—poised, charming, eloquent and exuding a completely different personality from the brassy broad who had been at the book auction. She began by outlining the history of the Belvedere family in New Orleans and relating the success story of their restaurant. “The Book” she described briefly and went on to refer to the murder in Gambrinus’s bookshop.
From then on, the program slid downhill on a slippery slope. I was asked to contribute on the theme of chefs’ books and I mentioned a few. Elsa asked me about famous recipes and I explained that the concept had all been well exploited by today’s marketers. I mentioned Kentucky Fried Chicken which contained only a mix of common seasonings, then went on to an account of Coca-Cola and the alleged “secret” formula that was kept in a safe and was known only to two people. I talked about the sauce on the Big Mac, which is really only Thousand Island dressing, then Elsa eased me out of the spotlight for a commercial break.
Larry Mortensen went into the hot seat next, but Elsa didn’t give him a roasting; it was more of a “heat gently at very low temperature.” Some TV interviewers would have torn him apart but she was surprisingly gentle—another contrast to the abrasive personality I had seen at the auction.
Elsa wrapped up with a couple of police comments about “pursuing valuable leads” and a promise to TV watchers that she would continue to follow this “fascinating real-life crime.”
Television cameras don’t move around; their subjects do. When we went dark for another commercial, Larry and I were whisked out of our chairs and replaced by a couple of local politicians and an engineer to discuss some problem in which the Mississippi River was threatening part of New Orleans. Elsa was focusing on the effect on the river’s supply of seafood and what was being done about it.
Larry and I watched this from another corner of the studio but before this segment was over, he touched my arm and whispered, “I’m outta here. Sorry if I scared you back there. Maybe my method wasn’t so good.” Before I could tell him that—subject to a count of possible gray hairs which I didn’t have yesterday—no harm was done, he was gone.
I stayed for the remainder of the program. Lights and chairs were being dragged into position for the next hour’s startling revelations and the studio looked temporarily forlorn. Elsa exchanged a few words with a man with Rastafarian whiskers then caught sight of me. She came over. At close range, her makeup looked garish but exciting.
“Not a bad start on that story,” she said breezily. “Let’s hope there are more developments in the next few days.”
“Just no more murders,” I said fervently.
She nodded but I didn’t think her heart was in it. “Well, I’m glad you came,” she said. “Your contribution to the program was great.”
“Good,” I said. “I stayed on mainly to ask you one question.”
She smiled brightly. “What’s that?”
“When I went into Gambrinus’s office and found that body there, you were just leaving. How long were you there and what did you see?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHILE I HAD BEEN watching the argument over the Mississippi River and its fish, my thoughts had been straying to the imbroglio in which I was caught. A bold stroke was needed if I was going to achieve any progress and make Lieutenant Delancey proud of me.
Someone had been in Gambrinus’s office seconds before me, I was convinced of that. I had heard a door slam and that door led to an alley and a quick escape. Had that person been the murderer? It was not certain but that person had not waited to be caught in the same room with a dead man, whether they were innocent or guilty.
A point on which there could be no doubt was that Elsa Goddard had left the book auction all steamed-up to go to Gambrinus’s shop. She had evidently not told the police this, which suggested a fear of being accused. So I settled on this bombshell tactic and stood w
aiting to see what her reply would be.
She was cool as ice. “What did I see? The question is what—or who—did you see? It couldn’t have been me, I wasn’t there.”
How far did she want to carry this? I went a little further. “I just caught a glimpse of you leaving,” I prevaricated. “You were in a great hurry—and no wonder! Found in a room with a recently deceased man! I presume you got the book?”
“I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t get the book.” Just in time, she remembered to add, “—And I wasn’t there.”
“So who did kill him and get the book? If we assume it wasn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” She paused then said, “You haven’t told the police about this wild idea of yours. Why not?”
“Lieutenant Delancey and I are working both sides of the street on this.” I thought I had heard that expression on television once and it sounded appropriate now. I hoped I was using it in the right context so I added, with an undertone of pomposity, “He’s pursuing some lines of investigation and I’m pursuing others.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re working with the police?”
“Within my limited capacity,” I said modestly.
That didn’t intimidate her—she wasn’t the type to be intimidated by anything less than a starving tribe of cannibals. She did regard me with a little more respect but she wasn’t going to let go easily. She said, “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Ask the lieutenant.”
She looked as if she had every intention of doing so but her voice was sharp as she asked, “How are you so sure it was me?”
“Your perfume,” I said.
“I don’t believe I was wearing perfume that day, I—” She stopped.
“It doesn’t matter. Just tell me about it—and let me say I don’t think you killed Mortensen.”
“I heard the front doorbell and I thought you were the murderer coming back,” she said, and her voice was normal now. “I wanted to stay and get the story but the body had a bullet hole in the chest and I didn’t want to be caught by the murderer.”
