Spiced to Death

by Peter King

  “I might have added another day,” I said, “and done a bit of sightseeing. I love New York and haven’t been here for some years.”

  She seemed to reach some kind of decision. She leaned back and half pushed the notebook away in a gesture that might be meaningful. The police interrogation aura eased and she became almost friendly. More likely it was a technique, but she was very attractive and I didn’t want her thinking I was the kind of man who would steal Ko Feng.

  “What do you think happened to it?” she asked me.

  The world of music owes more to the Italians than to any other country and it has bestowed upon them more musical voices—a blessing which has spilled over into speaking voices too. Certainly, Gabriella Rossini had the kind of voice that was a delight to listen to and then there was that name …

  After these musings, I almost asked, “What was the question?” but I didn’t want to appear flip so I pulled it out of my memory and said, “I’m completely baffled. I don’t see how it can have happened. The chest was never out of our sight—”

  “What about during the drive from JFK to the bank here?”

  “True, we couldn’t see it but the back was locked. We made no stops except for traffic lights and no one could have forced the back without us feeling or hearing it.”

  “Other than Donald Renshaw, you had never met any of the others before?”

  “None of them, no.”

  “Did you know this bank?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone here?”

  “No, no one.”

  “You have a very interesting job,” she stated and if it was technique, she certainly knew how to move around.

  “I love it.”

  “It must have been an exciting moment when you tasted the Ko Feng. How long has it been lost?”

  “About five hundred years, maybe more.”

  She leaned forward and I thought I caught a whiff of perfume but perhaps not. That would really undermine the image of the NYPD.

  “What did it taste like?”

  “Indescribable, really. At first, there were hints of other spice tastes, then I felt I was mistaken and that it wasn’t similar to any other spice. It was unique and somehow powerful, yet subtle at the same time.”

  “Spices can be hard to describe, can’t they?”

  “Very. We have lots of ways of describing how wines taste but the language seems inadequate for spices.”

  “My parents have a restaurant in Greenwich Village.” Her tone was bordering on the friendly now but I kept myself ready for another of her shifts of emphasis. “I grew up there, so I love food. The idea of this Ko Feng fascinates me.”

  “Why do I think it’s an Italian restaurant that your parents have?” I asked.

  I had made the breakthrough after all. She smiled slightly and I had been right—she did have a lovely smile and even white teeth.

  “La Perla di Napoli it’s called. Open every day except Sunday. The specialties are scaloppine with mushrooms, saltimbocca and gamberi con aglio. Of course, they make all their own pasta.”

  “No piccione? What a shame!” I said.

  “In New York?” She raised those eyebrows again. “Pigeons are considered a menace not a food.”

  “I’ll have to eat there. Good saltimbocca is getting hard to find.”

  She nodded and the police persona returned. “Inspector Gaines wants you to stay in the city for a few more days.”

  “In that case, my address is going to change. My fee was on a daily basis and it’s not likely to continue so I can’t stay at the Courtney Park any longer.”

  “Here’s my card,” she said. “Let me know what your new address and phone number are as soon as you move.”

  “I will. At least, staying in New York a little longer will give me a chance to sample more of the wonderful cooking.”

  “Of all kinds. Naturally I’m prejudiced in favor of Italian. And I will need to talk to you again.”

  “Tell me,” I asked, “is evidence obtained while under the influence of minestrone admissible in court?”

  She smiled charmingly.

  “I mean, it doesn’t come under the Carmen Miranda act or anything like that, does it?” I asked.

  “There isn’t anything like that,” she assured me. She closed her notebook. “You can go,” she said.

  “You want me to go?”

  “You can go,” she repeated and I told myself that she was making that careful differentiation.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I AWOKE THE NEXT morning before eight, jet lag notwithstanding. I called room service and ordered a half grapefruit, scrambled eggs with ham, and coffee. I remembered that Americans specify the bread they prefer and asked for whole wheat. The hotel brochure promised room service within fifteen minutes. Then I called Don.

  We went over the events of the day before and agreed that it was hard to believe the theft had really happened. When would we hear about the Celestial Spice next? Don had a theory. “Do you recall what Peggy said when we were discussing the value of Ko Feng? She said putting a value on it was like putting one on the Mona Lisa.”

  “So?”

  “If the Mona Lisa were to be stolen, what could the thief do with it? There’s the old story about a recluse millionaire living in seclusion on a mountaintop and stealing it so that he, and he alone, can enjoy looking at it—but nobody buys that anymore. No—a more probable reason is ransom.”

  It did make sense. “Do you think we’ll be hearing from the kidnappers soon?”

  “It’s the best guess I can come up with,” Don said. “And kidnapping the Ko Feng seems like a better idea than kidnapping a rich man’s daughter or a champion racehorse.”

  “You may be right there,” I admitted. “You don’t have to feed the Ko Feng. Have you told Lieutenant Gaines about this theory?”

  “What do you think?” It was rhetorical.

  “I can just see his face if you did. He’d look as if he’d drunk a bottle of soy sauce.”

  “He’s the detective,” Don said. “If he hasn’t thought of the ransom idea, then he ought not to be running the Unusual Crimes Unit. They must get all kinds of weirdo crimes and bizarre motives. Ransom’s bound to be among them.”

  “Tell me something. Did anybody contact you once you had agreed to take on this job?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they do now.”

  “Neither would I. The two of us are prime suspects.”

  We chatted on for a while then I said, “I don’t suppose Marvell is going to want to pay me my expenses any longer. This hotel is $285 a night.”

  “I don’t suppose he will. He isn’t the easiest of men to get along with—I certainly wouldn’t want to be in Cartwright’s shoes. Marvell’s probably got him in the roasting pan right now and is turning up the temperature.”

  “His opinion of us isn’t likely to be much higher,” I added.

  “Well, at least we declared the Ko Feng genuine,” said Don. “He must be thankful to us for that.”

  “And then it was stolen from under our noses. He won’t thank us for that.”

  “We weren’t hired as security guards,” Don argued.

  “Is he reasonable enough to take that into account?”

  “Aye, there’s the rub. Reasonable is not one of the first adjectives to come to mind when you’re dealing with Alexander Marvell. You’ll soon find that out when you talk to him.”

  “I have to, I suppose?”

  “No way you’ll be able to avoid it. I expect to hear from him any minute—literally. You’ll probably be included in the invitation—if you can call it that. In the meantime though, back to your question … The answer is no, I don’t think he’ll spring for any more nights at the Courtney Park.” He paused, thinking. “Listen, there’s a place over on West Seventy-third Street, not far off Central Park. I’ve put visitors in there a few times when they weren’t on a first-class expense account. It’s okay and reasonable. It’s called t
he Framingham Hotel. It’s one of those conversions from an old apartment building.”

  “It sounds good,” I told him. “Inspector Gaines told me to stay around a few days so I hope it isn’t any longer than that.”

  “And that cute sergeant? What did she tell you? The two of you seemed to be getting on very well when you came out of that interrogation.”

  “I always try to cooperate fully with the police,” I said virtuously.

  “Especially when they’re policewomen … Is she interrogating you again today?”

  “We don’t have any plans for it. I keep seeing these posters about this International Food Fair and I thought I’d go take a look.”

  “I was thinking of putting in an hour or two there myself, but I can’t. I’ve got a visitor this morning and another this afternoon. Give me a call later.”

  I had a shower while waiting for breakfast and was astonished to find that the powerful aroma of the Ko Feng was still on my hands. After thirty minutes, the breakfast had not arrived and I called room service.

  More than forty-five minutes had elapsed before the meal did arrive. Service in New York had deteriorated since my last visit. At $285 a night, I expected better than that and I said so when I checked out. The clerk apologized and said it was because they had a lot of guests. I suggested that as this was a hotel, they should expect guests. My transatlantic sarcasm went over her head as she was too busy adding to my bill 8.25 percent sales tax, 6 percent city occupancy tax, 5 percent state occupancy tax and $6 for delivering breakfast. So not only was service down, but prices were up. Frank Sinatra might sing of the city that doesn’t sleep but anyone who did sleep certainly paid dearly for it.

  I took a cab to the Framingham and checked in. The room was half the size and about half the price, and I got a 15 percent discount by taking the room for a week. I took out some business cards and wrote the address and phone number of the Framingham on the back. Then I took a cab to the Javits Center and the International Food Fair.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT HAD ONLY BEEN open a few minutes but already it was fairly crowded. I skimmed through the catalog and picked out a few names that were familiar. The nearest pavilions were those of Japan and the West Indies and I chose to start with the latter.

  Many of the islands were represented, the biggest and most colorful booth being that of Jamaica. Tables were set out under palm-fronded roofs and a realistic stand of sugar cane swayed in the breeze from hidden fans. Music from steel bands throbbed softly and despite the early hour, a bar was dispensing rum drinks. A snack bar and a restaurant were preparing typical Jamaican specialties and tempting aromas were drifting out.

  There were strips of curried goat for the more adventurous American eater, Jerk Chicken for the lovers of the hot and spicy, beef patties and spareribs for those who wanted more familiar food. The national dish, Salt Fish and Ackee, was on display—the salted cod was mixed with red and green peppers and ackee, a Jamaican fruit. Slices of pawpaw, pineapple and mango were on most tables and it all looked irresistible. But I managed to resist and moved on to the Middle East pavilion.

  Persia had a large display. As food disdains political boundaries, the change in name to Iran was ignored. In any case, the home country played little part in mounting this display, which was put on by American establishments. Lamb tongues simmered in a rich sauce under the eye of a swarthy chef in a clever duplication of a Persian kitchen. I asked him what was in the sauce.

  “Advieh,” he told me. “A spice mixture containing cumin, coriander, cardamom and cinnamon plus secret ingredient.”

  “And what is the secret ingredient?” His grin widened. “If I tell you—is no secret. No, I tell you—is rose petals.”

  “Aren’t they lost with all those other spicy ingredients? Don’t they overwhelm it?”

  “No, no, they give it fragrance.”

  He may have been right. Certainly the aroma was different and I knew that the Persians had traditionally used rose petals in many of their dishes.

  The next stand was a spectacular reproduction of a restaurant front in the Middle East and had an eye-catching sign: PHOENICIA. Beneath it, another sign said FOOD IN THE STYLE OF THE ANCIENT WORLD. The front was half cut away so that the visitor could walk in, and the interior was half restaurant and half kitchen. I was admiring the ingenuity of the layout when a woman came out of the kitchen, saw me and walked toward me.

  She had a bold, hip-swinging gait that emphasized her voluptuous figure and long legs. She had jet black hair held in a golden band and her skin was a pale olive color which almost shone. Full red lips and a bold nose were noticeable only after you had looked at her eyes. I had heard eyes referred to as “almond” but had never before seen any that truly deserved that description. They were long and brilliant as jewels, and their color was extraordinary.

  “Welcome to Phoenicia. My name is Ayesha.”

  Her voice had an indolent, purring quality and I could hardly wait for her to go on talking. She wore a blouse and a flowing skirt, both in reds and greens with a wide belt of gold mesh. Bare ankles led to high-heeled sandals with gold straps.

  “Food in the ancient style,” I said. “What does that mean exactly?”

  She shrugged carelessly. “Everybody cooks modern food but there is an awakening of interest in what those of the ancient world ate and drank. I use the same cooking tools and the same methods of preparation that my ancestors used two thousand years ago.”

  “The same ingredients too?” I asked.

  “As far as possible—though that can be more difficult. The herbs and spices, for example, used in earlier days are not easy to find.”

  I was unable to look anywhere but deep into those gorgeous eyes and I realized that her words were uncannily intuitive. It was as if she were reading my mind.

  A voice called from nearby, petulant, demanding, but it was in a language I didn’t understand. I presumed it was addressing her but she ignored it.

  “I see from your face that you know something of spices. Come inside. I will show you Phoenicia.”

  She moved as gracefully as a ballet dancer but with a catlike deliberation. I was relieved to escape from her spell but I couldn’t wait to be enveloped in it again.

  The kitchen where we went first was a remarkably faithful-appearing replica of the real thing. Copper caldrons stood alongside wicker baskets of fruit and vegetables. A stone mortar and pestle were near a wood-burning stove. Ayesha pointed to a stack of thick green leaves. “Those are our plates.”

  In a wooden tray was cutlery—two-pronged forks and bone-handled knives. Earthenware pots and bowls could easily have been a thousand years old. Flat stones were scratched and worn. “Those are our chopping blocks,” she said musically. The walls of the adjoining restaurant area looked like the interior of a tent and the floor was at different levels, each carpeted differently in bright colors.

  “We are featuring lamb today,” this exotic creature told me as she pointed a slim elegant hand with purple nails and several jeweled rings. She gave a tinkling laugh. “You are thinking this is not a costume for cooking or serving. You are right but America is show business, is it not? Hype and razzle-dazzle.”

  “I’m sure the food is as good as the presentation,” I said.

  The lamb was in large pieces and turned slowly over a spit in an alcove like a fireplace. Other pieces hung on chains.

  “We burn only olive wood—it does not smoke,” she told me, then she indicated a heap of flat cakes of bread, thin enough to be sheets. “We call this petlah bread. It is unleavened, and it is thin so it serves also as a table napkin—you can wipe your mouth with it and then eat it. The poor people buy these on the streets from vendors and fill them with vegetables.”

  “It’s fascinating,” I said. “You’ve done a remarkable job of reproducing the ancient styles of cooking and eating.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She gave me a curtsy. Her eyes mocked her action but her smile was full.

&n
bsp; “You mentioned spices. What spices do you use?”

  Her expression changed, became serious.

  “Yes, you are very interested in spices—no, more than that, involved even. Is it not so?”

  I was debating an answer, not sure how much to tell her.

  “Who are you?” she asked softly.

  I handed her a card. She took it in long slender fingers and her wonderful eyes turned to me.

  “You are one who tasted the Ko Feng,” she said, and her voice was as reverent as if she had referred to an audience with the Dalai Lama.

  I nodded.

  “Let us go over here and talk.” She led the way to a table. The restaurant was still empty. It was early for people to be eating, though the streams of visitors passing by were thickening.

  We sat then she rose abruptly. “Let me get something.”

  She was back with porcelain cups and a steaming brass vessel shaped like a samovar. She poured from it and set down a tray of delicious-looking cookies. “Rose-hip tea and those are almond paste—we call them sanbuniya. Now tell me about the Ko Feng.”

  Her imperious tone didn’t offer me any alternative but it didn’t matter because I would have seized any opportunity to have this glorious creature hanging on my every word. I told her all I knew.

  When I told her of the disappearance of the Ko Feng, she frowned.

  “It is not possible! How could this happen?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “The East is a place of magic and illusion—but here, in New York …” She shook her head in bewilderment and I was ready to speculate just to keep the conversation going when there was an interruption. The same petulant voice that I had heard before called out loudly, then a man came in through a curtain at the back.

  He had a head of tight black curls and dark, darting eyes. He wore a white silk shirt and black matador pants with a belt of decorated leather and calf-length black boots. He showed white teeth but it wasn’t a smile.

  Ayesha didn’t seem inclined to introduce him. She gave him an annoyed half glance.