by Peter King
I maneuvered my way into the lobby and walked across to the bank of elevators. The lobby, too, was busy and all the elevators were on other floors. Someone ahead of me was impatiently pressing the button so I waited. Idly I glanced at the leaflet. Then it grabbed my full attention and I read it carefully twice. An elevator came, emptied, refilled and departed. I think another came but I was intent on the leaflet.
BE ON THE DELTA DUCHESS
10 A.M. SAILING
TOMORROW WEDNESDAY
TOULOUSE STREET WHARF
IF YOU WANT THE BOOK
I turned the sheet over. The other side was blank. I hurried back outside and most of the same characters were still there, with one exception—there was no sign of the man handing out the leaflets. I read it again. It was crudely printed in block capitals. I tried to remember the face of the man who had handed it me but all I had was a vague impression of an elderly, nondescript face.
I breakfasted on Texas grapefruit, two eggs over-easy, bacon, sausage and grits with two cups of well-chicoried coffee; I needed fortification for whatever the morning ahead was going to bring. I arrived at the wharf to stand in line and buy a ticket for the Delta Duchess.
Two hundred feet long, carrying over a thousand people, the paddlewheel alone weighs nineteen tons—how could I be unable to find a vessel that size? The lady who sold me the ticket said the Duchess was moored behind the Aquarium but all I could find there was the Mississippi River. I tracked down a portly young woman in a semi-police uniform and with a formidable-looking revolver in a bulging holster on her belt. “The Delta Duchess?” she said. “You’ll find her in front of the Imax theater.” I walked to the theater but again, no boat. I was at the stage now of calling her a boat when I know they liked to be called ships.
A young woman in the ticket booth at the theater said she thought I might find the Duchess “farther up.” This was not any nautical term I was familiar with but I assumed she meant farther up the river. The twists and curls of the Mississippi make it impossible to see which way is up, but there was a paddlewheeler tied up by Abercrombie and Fitch’s store and I walked close enough to see the name.
At last! She looked magnificent. The scene was like one from a hundred years ago—a giant behemoth from the past, tall as six stories, with flower-bedecked balconies, gingerbread trim and feathery-crowned smokestacks. I recalled seeing an impressive display of information on this and other vessels in the lobby at the Monteleone. Harbor cruises, river cruises, gambling cruises, dinner cruises, jazz cruises, dancing cruises, as well as others visiting plantations, battlefields and zoos—all were on offer. The gambling cruises seemed to be an exception in that they never left the dock. Presumably, gamblers don’t like to be confined.
All the others left the dock, though, some for two hours, some for half a day, others for the evening and some for three or four days.
The crew were all in smart white uniforms with blue piping though I looked in vain for cigar-chomping card sharks and a fiery Ava Gardner trying hard to hide her Creole origins. All the passengers stayed on deck as the steam whistle hooted and the vessel throbbed as the engines came to vibrant life. Orders were shouted, warnings against falling overboard were given out, lines were cast loose and we pulled away from the wharf. We leaned on the rails and waved good-bye to loved ones we might never see again—well, it didn’t take a lot of imagination to make that mental adjustment. The PA system belted out “Ol’ Man River” just to help us and, on the Promenade Deck, a steam calliope was happily piping out other tunes from Showboat through several dozen brass pipes.
I wandered around inside. The bars were open and a piano player was rolling his way through some soft jazz. Slot machines outnumbered passengers ten to one and dining rooms had window views of the river. We sailed blithely along, getting farther and farther away from the coast though still able to enjoy its endless panorama while the engines throbbed their faint but reassuring vibration.
The decor, I presumed, was that known as Steamboat Gothic and perhaps for the first time I could appreciate Mark Twain’s comment that “when I was a boy, I had but one permanent ambition—that was to be a steamboat man.” Outside, Stars and Stripes fluttered everywhere, shiny brasswork glistened in the occasional sunbeam, and wandering minstrel groups played mostly jazz. Inside, cut-glass doors and huge chandeliers sparkled like showers of raindrops while the parquet wood floors gave a comfortable homey feeling.
Now that we were “under way,” as we seafarers put it, I was able to give some thought to why I was here, especially as it entailed the next step. I viewed everyone on the vessel as a potential writer of the note that had “invited” me aboard but no one accosted me. I went back on deck where a number of passengers were taking photographs and using binoculars to spot landmarks. About a dozen cameras clicked away furiously in the hands of a Japanese contingent and I heard smatterings of Swedish from another group. Accents from all four corners of the United States contributed to a constant background.
We pulsed along. A half hour had passed and this was a two-and-a-half-hour cruise. I made myself available to being accosted on all the decks, in all the lounges and bars and rooms. I alternated between the inside and the outside. I loitered by every bank of slot machines. A weak sun was doing its best and the only breeze was that generated by the boat’s passage so it was pleasant on deck.
I did not expect to see such bustling activity on the Mississippi. Ships were everywhere, ships of all kinds. Tiny tugboats were heroically pushing long vessels, deep in the water, their decks crowded with long, green cylinders. Oyster dredgers, oil tankers, Liberty ships taking grain to the East, container ships—we passed them all. Some were coming into port and some going out—whichever way port was. I made a mental note to increase my knowledge of matters nautical.
Another half hour went by and I was beginning to wonder. I picked out the busiest bar and had a glass of California Chablis. I drank it as slowly as I could, trying to be obvious. This was a distinct role reversal for me—most times when I am on a case, I am trying to be inconspicuous.
I went back on the Promenade Deck and made a circuit of the boat. I went on the next deck and did the same circuit but in reverse. I did not allow any possibility that I was not accessible to anyone on the boat. One man wandering alone caught my eye. He had a string tie and a Western-style jacket. Was he the one? I made sure he could see me but he made no move.
Did it have to be a man? A considerable number of women were already involved in this affair via those who called themselves “the Witches.” Could my mysterious contact be one of them? No one could have missed me. I had to be one of the more clearly apparent people on the Delta Duchess. I had gone everywhere I could to be seen.
The PA system fed us a steady flow of information on the vessels we were passing. One was a Ground Assault Transport Carrier just back from the Middle East and looking severely businesslike in its drab-gray paint job. Six railroads came into New Orleans, said the PA, and all brought goods in and out of the port. We passed more container ships and freighters, most flying the flags of Liberia, Cyprus and Malta. “Flags of convenience,” said the PA. Rust stains smeared their once-fresh paint and indicated countless thousands of ocean miles.
Twenty-five-foot-high levees protect New Orleans from flooding, as the city is below water level, we were told. Behind them, mile after mile of warehouses and wharves looked deserted but still saw use.
Some passengers were inside eating lunch—very Cajun and consisting of gumbo, jambalaya and red beans and rice. Most, though, were on deck and there were cries at the sight of red-and-orange flames flaring into the sky. A natural-gas plant, said the PA assuringly, burning off excessive gas pressure.
About an hour and three-quarters had elapsed and I was turning away from this pyrotechnic spectacular to head for one of the cafés to have a snack when a hand caught my arm.
“Let’s sit over here.”
It was a man’s voice, slightly grating and not overfriendly.
I turned. He was in his forties, with a face that had seen a lot, hard eyes and a tight mouth. He wore a plaid shirt, lumberjack type, well-worn jeans and heavy boots. A leather bag hung over one shoulder.
I followed him inside and he went toward a quiet corner but I motioned to a table that was surrounded by occupied tables. “This is better,” I said, and sat. I might not have been so affirmative but I was entering an impatient period and was still aware that one person had already been shot.
He hesitated then sat opposite. “Need to make sure I’ve got the right guy,” he said.
“If you’re a book lover, then you have.” I emphasized the “book lover.”
He gave a miniscule nod. He reached into the leather bag and came out with a book. It had a black cover and was about the same size as a hardback but not as thick. It looked worn and the cover was dog-eared.
“This is what you’re looking for,” he said.
“Is it?” I asked. “I’d have to see it first.”
He hesitated then put it on the table, opened it and turned it to face me. He held it down tightly with both hands, one on each page, but so that I could see most of the text.
It was not easy to read but I could see that it looked exactly like a chef’s book. The recipe on the pages that he had opened was for Venison Chaurice.
“What’s ‘Chaurice’?” I asked.
“What?”
“‘Chaurice.’” I pointed. He looked. A dubious expression came over his face. He shook his head. “Don’t matter.” It mattered to me. The word was a corruption of chorizo, Spanish for “sausage.” Why didn’t he know that?
He turned pages. The next recipe was for Baby-Back Ribs with a Clover Honey Sauce.
“That’s not a New Orleans recipe,” I said. I made it sound conclusive even though I knew that it most definitely was a New Orleans recipe.
“Sure it is.” But he looked uncertain.
Did he really know? I pushed a little further. I read a few lines and shook my head. “It’s good but it’s not authentic.”
He was confused. “Whadda you mean, not authentic? Sure it’s authentic.”
I adopted the pained look that experts use when someone challenges their authority. I half rolled my eyes to heaven in a gesture that intimated all the culinary secrets were up there. I added a shrug for good measure.
“Show me some more.” I felt that would be establishing who had the control in this encounter, important as it was to do that early.
He turned pages. I read and shook my head. “More.” He turned more pages. This was a method of cooking red beans and rice. I looked bored. “Anything on shrimp?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” His eyes narrowed. “Listen, do you want this book or not?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it’s a phony.”
He sat back, closed the book and pulled it out of my reach. His eyes burned.
“Do you have the real one?” I asked. It was pushing my luck but it seemed like a good move.
“This one’s real,” he said harshly.
“Let me see it again.”
He debated then put it within reach but again kept both hands on it. I motioned for him to turn pages. Gumbos, jambalayas, oysters, muffalettas, smoked fish, stuffed eggplant—all Cajun dishes, certainly.
I went through it as fast as I could. One page had only notes that were a reminder to change the cooking sequence on a recipe for redfish and add certain spices.
“Someone’s fooling you,” I told him. “This really is a fake.” I waited.
“You don’t want to buy it?”
“Of course not. Why should I buy a fake? Bring me the real one and we’re in business.”
This was not going according to plan—I could see that in his face. Whoever had briefed him had not done an adequate job. Of course, I would have been less certain if I had not been in Herman Harburg’s forgery room, and therefore was half prepared for this, but I still would have been highly skeptical. I put on a rueful, sorry-about-this expression.
“We can make a deal on the price,” he offered hopefully.
“No way,” I said. “This book isn’t worth anything. You must know that.”
He glared, looked at the book, then grabbed it and stuffed it back into his leather bag. He stood up angrily and stalked off.
When we docked, I looked but saw no sign of him. I found a public phone and called Van Linn. “Do you have news?” he wanted to know.
“Negative news,” I said. “I was just offered the book—”
He was sputtering congratulatory words before I could stop him.
“—Unfortunately, it was a phony.”
“A phony?”
“A fake, a forgery.”
The temperature of his voice dropped. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, about as sure as I can be.”
“Who was this person who offered it to you?”
I explained the circumstances. “But how could you know it was a forgery?” he demanded.
“I have had occasion to talk to people in the forgery business,” I said delicately. “I am sure of it.”
“But maybe you should have bought it,” he argued. “If it’s a copy, it could still contain the …”
“Go on,” I urged. “It could still contain what?”
“Why, the original contents.” He was covering up well.
“No. I would say that this copy was forged by a person who did not have the original.”
“Then how could you know that it was not the original?”
“That’s what you hired me for.”
“I think you should have bought it,” he said sulkily.
“Believe me, it was a phony.”
He heaved a sigh of great dissatisfaction. “So here we are, no further ahead.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It’s possible that whoever has this phony copy also has the original.”
He thought that over. “What makes you think that?”
“I’ve been very busy on your behalf. I’ve gathered a lot of information. Most of it suggests that the person who commissioned the forging of the copy I saw this morning, also has the original.”
Van Linn digested that for a moment. “I was going to call you anyway,” he said. “My client is very anxious to get that book. My client is increasing pressure on me and I’m passing that pressure on to you.”
“I’m doing all I can—”
“My client is willing to increase his fee considerably and I’m willing to pass much of that increase on to you.”
Was he repeating “my client” because he didn’t want to identify his gender? Perhaps he didn’t want to say “he.” I thought back to Emmy Lou’s words. Perhaps it was more likely that he didn’t want to say “she.” There were, after all, more women involved in this than men so wasn’t “she” more probable?
“I’ll press harder on this,” I said. “I’m going to talk to Michael Gambrinus today. I have a suspicion he knows more than he has told.”
“You think he’s involved in the crime?” Van Linn sounded doubtful.
“Maybe not. I hope to find out.”
“Very well. Keep me informed.”
He hung up before I could pin a statistic to his mention of an increase in my fee.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE BOOKSELLER DIDN’T SOUND ecstatic when I told him I wanted to come over and talk to him but I didn’t leave him much choice.
He was a burly, bearded man and his fuzzy old green sweater added to his bulk. His hair, once red, was now faded and heavily streaked with silver.
I came right to the point once we had exchanged introductions. He was sitting in the same chair where I’d found the body that I had presumed to be him. I sat opposite and looked at him over several small piles of books older than the two of us put together.
“As I found the body, right in that chair where you’re sitting, I feel a certain responsibility to clear myself of any complicity.” Perhaps that wasn’t
altogether true but I felt it better not to claim too close an association with the police. I might learn more this way.
“Richie Mortensen had previously worked for you, I believe.”
His voice was deep and mellow: “He came to me a couple of years ago. He’d worked for a small publishing firm here in New Orleans and was fascinated by books. I hired him and he was very useful—at that time, I had a lot of business overseas and organizing the packing and shipping was getting to be too much for me. Richie took care of that side of the business.”
“You found him reliable, honest?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why did you get rid of him?”
“Currency exchange rates shifted the wrong way and my overseas sales dropped. I didn’t have enough work for him here in the shop so I had to let him go. It wasn’t exactly precipitous. I had to cut him down to four days a week, then three, then when I told him of the possibility of going down to two days, he said he’d rather leave altogether and look for another job.”
“He did that?”
“Apparently he had a hard time finding just what he wanted. I called him in for special occasions—when I had a signing to put on, when I was going to be out of town for a book fair, that kind of thing.”
“He wasn’t doing anything else, then? He hadn’t found another job?”
“Just a few days here and there, apparently, temporary jobs.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair.
“On this occasion, you had already planned to go to the book auction and bid for the Belvedere book, hadn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You specialize in cookbooks?”
“No—oh, we have quite a number in stock but I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life so I knew about the Belvedere family. I thought a book that was so much a part of New Orleans’ history would have considerable value.”
“But you went outof town when you knew the auction was about to be held?”
I half thought he might take umbrage at that provocative deduction but he didn’t. “I had made a bid on the private library of a wealthy landowner in Biloxi,” he said. “I bid low but, to my surprise, I was the lowest. I was sure I could make a really good profit on it but naturally I wanted to see it before closing. The auction here was less important so I called Richie and had him take my place.”
