by Peter King
“You designed this yourself?” I was amazed. “It’s so professional.”
“Everything you see.” She nodded. “Of course, the French influence is strong in the city and it prevails in many New Orleans dishes but we make a specialty out of that and keep as many traditional dishes as we can, but stay up-to-date at the same time.”
A waiter in a smart white jacket came and Marguerite suggested Kir Royales. “Perfect,” I agreed.
“You know,” she went on, “classic New Orleans cooking is one of the most distinctive regional cuisines in the country. The Creole cooking is more haute cuisine compared to Cajun, which is more the country style. Creole cooking started with French cooking techniques and then they modified them in accordance with the Spanish, African and Indian seasonings that were already in use locally. We use only fresh ingredients and a dish is taken off the menu any day they are not available.”
“The traditional local cooking must have been the very slow kind,” I said. “Wasn’t that a challenge—I mean, to fit it into modern restaurant demands?”
“It was. You’re right, in the old days, dishes would cook for hours. Everything is cooked to order here. Pastas and vegetables are all cooked al dente. Meats are lightly grilled or sautéed. Most of our fish dishes are cooked at very high heat for a very short time.”
“Of course, you’re very fortunate in having such a huge variety of ingredients. You have an unusual amount of seafood plus lots of game.”
“Which brings us to the matter at hand—what would you like today?” She smiled invitingly, clearly proud of her role.
I skimmed through the menu. “The crabmeat Louis catches my eye,” I told Marguerite.
“It’s extremely popular. A Creole twist on a classic French dish. The Louis dressing—onions, green pepper, chili sauce, yogurt and mayonnaise—is blended till smooth. Salad greens and crabmeat are piled on top with slices of cucumber, celery, melon, carrots and pineapple.”
“Sounds good—but then there’s the crawfish bisque.”
“We make it the authentic way, starting with live crawfish. It is mainly a conventional bisque except that we make a roux in the Creole style, cooking it till it is a rich mahogany color.”
“Then you have here ‘Buster Crabs.’ That’s a new one on me.”
“They are a Gulf specialty, though similar to the soft-shell crabs from Chesapeake Bay. We fry them quickly in a little oil so that they are crispy outside, juicy inside. We usually serve them with Choron sauce.”
“It’s a tough choice.” I meditated briefly. “I think the crawfish bisque, though.”
She smiled in approval. “And to follow?”
I narrowed down the many pages to three possibles: Trout in Leek Sauce, Pompano en Papillotte, and Veal Creole. “I’m passing over the Duck in Cherries,” I said. “Duck is a favorite of mine, but while I’m here I’m going for the more strictly local dishes.”
She nodded. “The three you’ve selected are all in that class. The pompano especially is very typical of our Creole/French approach. You’re probably familiar with the classic old French recipe in which the fish is heavily sauced. We’ve streamlined that into a technique where we steam the fish in its own juices in the paper bag, then serve a light hollandaise-type sauce with it.”
“You’ve sold me on that one,” I said. “Much as I hate to pass on the other two.”
I sat back after that excellent meal and sipped the last of the wine, a fine Puligny-Montrachet. Marguerite returned and sat opposite me. “You’ve done an extraordinarily good job here,” I told her, “in the cooking and the presentation as well as in the restaurant itself.”
“You know,” she said, “in the old Southern mansions, the lady of the house would put on banquets for fifty to eighty people, many times a year. She would plan and organize the entire affair, all while running the place—which in many cases was a plantation. I like to think that I’m carrying on that tradition.”
“You certainly are,” I said sincerely.
“I’ll give you a few minutes before mentioning dessert,” she smiled, “and that will give me the opportunity to talk to you. I had two reasons for inviting you. The most important, of course, was that I wanted you to sample my wonderful restaurant—”
“And it is,” I agreed.
“Thank you—and second, I wanted to tell you that I have been offered the book.”
“The Belvedere chef’s book,” I said slowly. I saw no need to tell her that Elsa had already told me of the offer.
“Yes. This man phoned me and offered it to me.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked him questions about it.”
“Did he answer them?”
“Yes, although not fully and not too convincingly. He wanted to meet with me and show me the book.”
“Did he say how much he was asking?”
“He said twenty thousand dollars.”
“Are you going to meet him?”
“I was—but I thought it over and decided I should talk to you first. Have you made any progress in your search?”
The waiter came and brought a complimentary entremet. These are very French, the word means “between courses” and they are intended to cleanse the palate of one dish before the serving of the next. The concept arose during the reign of Louis XV, for it was at his court banquets that as many as forty courses would be served. Many of these might leave a taste in the mouth that would linger and affect the taste of the next course. This “entremet” was just a small scoop of water ice with a watermelon flavor.
“A very civilized idea,” I complimented Marguerite.
I ate it slowly, giving myself a chance to compose an answer. The waiter returned promptly just as I finished and took the glass.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been offered the book, too.”
She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “The same way?”
“No, I was shown the book.”
“Then you saw the person who had it?” She leaned forward in rapt attention.
“Yes, his name is Earl Whelan.”
“He told you that?” Her voice rose.
“No, it came out later.”
“So what happened? Did you buy it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It was a phony, a fake.”
“How did you know?” There was that question again. I was ready for it this time, though.
“I’ve seen a lot of chefs’ books before. I knew this one wasn’t authentic.”
Her eyes were searching my face intently. She had been hanging on every word. “Amazing,” she murmured.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s having a hard time selling it. Such a famous, valuable book and nobody wants to buy it.”
“Nobody? Has he offered it to others besides you and I?”
She was a sharp girl. She’d picked up on that right away. I avoided the question, though, and instead of answering, I said, “He won’t be offering it to anyone else. He was murdered last night.”
Her mouth opened then closed. She shook her head very slowly. “Another murder?” she murmured.
“It was on the news this morning.”
“Is that how you heard about it?”
“No. I found the body.”
“Oh, you poor man!”
“It seems to be one of the hazards of my business.”
“But if he was murdered last night, when did he try to sell you the book?”
I explained—all the way from the paddlewheeler to the mule-drawn carriage. Described that way, it sounded a little silly but I gave it as much gravity as I could.
“How terrible for you! Look, you need some fortification after that—no, no, you must,” she was saying in anticipation of my head shake. “I have just the dessert for you. You’ve probably heard that bread pudding is one of the most popular New Orleans desserts. We have our own version of it. We make it into a soufflé and serve it covered with a bourbon sauce.”
<
br /> She excused herself then returned at once. “It’s a dish that has to be served the second it comes out of the baking oven. But you won’t have to wait. Two of them are in various stages of baking right now. You’ll get the first to come out.”
Her flawless features were accentuated by her serious demeanor resulting from the tragic news. She shook her head sadly. “It’s hard to believe, so much bloodshed. Over a book, too. Tell me—if the book you and I were offered was a fake, where is the real book?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Do you think it’s still around?”
“I think it must be.”
“Then why aren’t they trying to sell it?”
“Maybe they are—in a different market.”
“But surely this is the best market,” she argued, “right here in New Orleans. The home of the Belvedere family.”
“That’s a good point. It should be the best market, you’re right. Maybe we’ll see it beginning to appear now.”
The bread-pudding soufflé arrived at that moment, steaming gently. It was light and frothy and bourbon never tasted so good. It satisfied the desire for a sweet finish to the meal but was not cloying or overrich.
When Marguerite told me to be careful as I left, I was in too euphoric a mood to even contemplate danger.
On a corner near the Bistro Bonaparte was a drugstore and there I sought a phone. The lieutenant answered promptly. “Yeah, fewthings weneedto talkabout,” he said, but his verbal shorthand no longer fooled me and I understood every word. I told him where I was.
“Lee Circle? It’s not far from where I am. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes. There’s a coffee shop by the northwest corner.”
I was there first and had just had time to inhale the chicory aroma from my coffee when Delancey arrived. He sniffed. “You like that stuff?”
“Chicory? Yes, I do. I don’t suppose it pleases your New York tastes, though.”
“Not me,” he said emphatically. He made sure that the waiter understood his desire for “real” coffee.
I leaped in with the query that was uppermost in my mind. “You’ve talked to Leah Rollingson, I take it.”
“Just came from there. She says her husband was still alive when she left him.”
“Husband!” It took me a few seconds. “She’s married to him?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t miss the inflection in my words. “They don’t seem too compatible—that what you’re thinking?”
“Funny thing, marriage,” I said. “It’s hard to see what some women see in some men.”
“And vice versa,” he agreed. “I never talked to him so I couldn’t comment on a personal basis, but from his record, he sounds like a poor choice of a husband. Evidently she found that out but not in time. They had filed for divorce and weren’t living together.”
“So what was she doing there at his place?—if you can call it that.”
“Yeah, it’s a dump. She felt sorry for him, she said, went to see him once in a while, usually ended up giving him money. Speaking of money, there’s a big fat life-insurance policy on him.”
“So you’re saying she had a good motive for killing him?”
“One of the best.”
“But why would she shoot him when they were already planning a divorce?”
“Didn’t I just tell you why?”
“The policy, you mean?” I was skeptical. “She doesn’t seem like the type.”
“Hey,” Delancey said, “if I had to list all the nice ladies I’ve had to book for murder, when I got to ten, I’d have to take off my shoes and socks and still call for an abacus.”
“So you really believe she’s guilty?”
“‘Believe’? Who’s talking about belief? I’m a cop, not a religion.”
“Then do you think she did it?”
“I’m not a philosopher, either. I just collect facts and make deductions.”
“The press must have a tough time with you,” I told him.
“As do I with them. That’s why the NOPD has PR.”
“You must get gut feelings sometimes, though.”
“No, Don’t have the guts for it.”
I grinned despite the seriousness of the subject. “Then you decline to make a statement at this time?”
“I’ll make one to you: I don’t think she did it.”
That surprised me but I was quick to say, “I don’t, either—and I did tell you I heard someone in the house.”
“Sure. I don’t work like Maigret or Poirot; I don’t have the brain for it. But I get there.”
That told me a lot about him. Most American cops know Columbo and Kojak but it would take a reader of mystery novels to be able to categorize the French and the Belgian detectives so readily. Not only that, but he pronounced their names properly. This wasn’t the moment for a discussion of mystery stories, though I mentally filed the subject for a future date.
“I think that damn book of yours is behind this,” he said.
“The Belvedere chef’s book? Even before you know how much the life-insurance policy is worth?”
“It’s not a matter of the amount. That’s a bum lead. There’s something in that book that you either don’t know or are not telling me.”
That took me by surprise. “I absolutely assure you, Lieutenant, that I have kept nothing back from you.” I put my most assertive and honest demeanor into the statement. “I’m beginning to think you may be right. There must be more to this book than just a regular chef’s book. I wish I knew what it is. I really don’t.”
“You said something before about a secret recipe. Care to expand on that?”
“Oysters Belvedere—that was the dish that made the restaurant famous back then. Other restaurants have their secrets, too, of course. Antoine’s had theirs for snails Bourguinon, Commander’s Palace has theirs—they all do. Betty Crocker’s cake mix, Arby’s sauce—they’re both supposed to be secret. Planet Hollywood’s Chicken Crunch has been copied by dozens of competitors but none of them has got it right yet. Soy sauce was a revelation to the Western world when it was introduced in the late forties and early fifties. It wasn’t just a flavoring sauce like horseradish or mustard or Worcestershire—in addition, it enhanced flavors, it didn’t hide or subdue them. Kikkoman dominated the world market because they used a microorganism, a proprietary mold culture; they still do, in fact.”
“A good chemist could analyze ’em,” Delancey said contemptuously.
“No, no, it’s not that easy. You can’t analyze an inorganic substance that way. Oh, you can identify many of the chemical components but it’s the way they are put together that is hard to reconstruct. Nor can you tell the cooking sequence. For instance, some herbs have to be added early so as to absorb their flavor, others must be added late or they give a bitter taste.”
“I asked you this before—” said Delancey. “How could any recipe be worth killing for?”
“That’s the problem. It doesn’t seem likely.”
“So there’s something else—and the big question is what?”
“Right. I’m glad you brought up this subject of the book, anyway. There’s something I wanted to tell you about it—it’s turned up twice.”
He wiggled fingers at me. “Okay, give!”
I told him of my experience on the Delta Duchess and of Marguerite’s phone call. “So perhaps you’re right and the book is the crux of this whole mess.”
“But you said you thought the book was a phony.”
“I still believe so.”
“Did the broad from the Witches think so, too?”
“If she did, she didn’t tell me.”
He shook his head, perplexed. “That forger, Harburg … I told you we checked him out further, didn’t I? Anyway, he’s got a clean sheet. I talked to a couple of our people who have experience in that area. There was a time when a few forgers were operating in New Orleans—”
“You mean in areas other than currency?”
“Ri
ght. Naturally, stocks and bonds took priority so books didn’t get a lot of attention—but don’t tell any taxpaying book lovers I said that. A few of them were nailed, though, and I guess that discouraged others.” He shook his head in aggravation. “Unfortunately, we can’t ask the last Belvedere what was in the book.”
“I haven’t asked you about the gun yet,” I reminded him.
“It’s not the same weapon that killed Mortensen,” he said. “We’re still checking, but so far, it’s not on record, either.” He drank his coffee in one gulp. “Gotta go. Wanna tell me your movements so I’ll know where to go to find the next body?”
“I sincerely hope that won’t happen. Two bodies are enough. If I find a third one, even you will have difficulty believing me.”
“You can say that again.”
I left on that unpromising note.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE WIDOW WAS MISTY-EYED but flashed me a wide smile. I concluded that the tears were due less to grief than to the more immediate and powerful aroma of freshly chopped onions.
“I’d better not shake hands with you,” she said, “or you’ll have the Monteleone smelling like an onion farm.”
“You know where I’m staying?” I asked in surprise.
“Oh, your name comes up quite a lot in our meetings. We know a few things about you.”
Leah was a very attractive woman and the Asian influence was just enough to give her an exotic look. She kept her hair straight but not cut too short, wore eye makeup that almost reduced the tilt to her almond eyes, and had a wide mouth that was rare in Asians.
“I came to say I’m very sorry about your husband. I don’t know if the police told you, but I found his body.”
She nodded soberly.
“I also wanted to tell you that I saw you leaving his place before I went in. I was obliged to tell the police that, especially as I had another person with me. He was a carriage driver and would have been able to identify you.”
“That’s all right,” she said softly. “The police told me that I had been seen. I didn’t know it was you, though. How did you come to be there?” She pointed to an office area near the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Let’s go in there and sit.”
