by Peter King
I was asking for my key when a uniformed man appeared at my side.
“Would you please accompany me, sir?” His tone was frigidly polite but the “please” and the “sir” sounded superfluous, as if it didn’t matter what my answer was going to be.
He had a large, round face and was big and burly. His uniform was neat and crisp, dark gray with black leather cuffs and epaulettes. His cap was flat and straight on his head and his boots were shiny black. He looked threatening without even trying.
“Where to?”
“Just a short ride.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’m really not able to say, sir.”
Under normal circumstances, I would have asked more questions but Don Renshaw’s murder had left me in a careless mood.
“All right,” I said. “Why not?”
Outside, a long limousine, sleek and shiny, stood at the curb. The chauffeur gave the uniformed hotel man a bank note for keeping such a prime spot for him.
We headed south. The driver was a real professional and despite the traffic, the ride was smooth. He offered no conversation and didn’t open the glass window that separated us. I presumed there was an intercom but I couldn’t see it. The soft leather interior was luxurious and there was a TV and a minibar.
When the twin towers of the World Trade Center cast the street into shadow, we turned and a few minutes later stopped before a smaller building—a mere forty stories or so. The chauffeur took me into a busy lobby with half a dozen receptionists. He spoke a few words to one of them and I was taken to an elevator. He pushed a button and left me.
At the thirty-first floor, a man was waiting for me. He was young, thin, dark and Latin looking.
“This way please.”
He led me through a waiting area where several men with briefcases sat reading magazines. We went on until we stopped before a heavy, smoked glass door. He knocked, opened the door and ushered me in.
I knew who the man sitting behind the large desk was—the name of the Marvell Corporation was emblazoned on the wall outside in large letters. He was of stocky build with a bald head and pugnacious features. He was signing a pile of papers and had no intention of acknowledging my presence until he had finished. I wasn’t going to stand there that long so I sat in one of the several chairs opposite him. The office was comfortable but not large or elaborate. A couple of Matisse prints were on the walls and an enlarged photograph of a jungle river. Outside the window, adjacent skyscraper buildings climbed up and out of sight.
He finished signing, pushed the pile away and examined me from under bushy eyebrows, which contrasted with his bald head. It wasn’t a very friendly appraisal.
“This is a hell of a mess,” he said authoritatively.
I couldn’t argue with that statement so I didn’t. He eyed me, waiting for a comment. When I didn’t produce one, his tone grew angrier.
“I was so furious when Cartwright told me about the Ko Feng disappearing that I could have torn this building down with my bare hands. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. How could it disappear like that?”
“I wish I knew,” I said sincerely. “It’s unbelievable, I agree. It wasn’t possible for it to happen that way—but it did.”
He sat for a moment. “I can’t put into words what an extraordinary moment that was,” he said, and I thought he was referring to the theft but he went on. “We came around that bend and I looked down across the valley. The glow over that field was magical. It was like an aura. The Cambodians in the jeep didn’t see it. Even when I pointed it out to them, they didn’t see it.
He paused. “Don’t think I’m crazy,” he warned.
“No, not at all,” I said. Whatever else I thought about him, I didn’t think he was crazy.
“I didn’t know what it meant. I’d never seen anything like it before. People might say it was a trick of the lighting or something reflecting in the setting sun. But I knew it had a meaning. I knew there was something special about that field—something extraordinary. I would have gone to any lengths to find out what it was. And I found it—I found the Ko Feng!”
His words bordered on the fanatical but there was nothing of the fanatic in his manner. Other than the mystic awe with which he regarded the Ko Feng and the way he had found it, here was a hard-headed businessman who had had an extremely valuable commodity snatched from under his nose.
“I’m telling you this so that you can understand why I nearly went through the roof when I was told about the theft,” he continued. “And I’ll tell you this—my first reaction was that you and Renshaw were responsible for it. And then I get this phone call from the police. Renshaw’s dead—murdered.”
“I know,” I said. “I was there.”
“So you can see why I got you up here right away.”
“When I say I was there—I mean, I was in the Spice Warehouse. I was talking to a customer, left her and met Renshaw’s wife on the way to his office. When we got there we found him dead.”
He gave me a chilly look. “Leaves you in a hell of a spot, doesn’t it?”
It wasn’t much of a question, more of an accusation.
“I had done a little business with Renshaw—not much,” he said. “He seemed honest to me, that’s why I picked him for this job. Plus he knows as much about spices as anybody in the business. So what does his murder have to do with this theft of the Ko Feng?”
“I wish I knew. Seems like there must be a connection but how, I don’t know.”
“Lucky for you that you were talking to a customer at the time of the murder, otherwise you’d be a prime suspect,” he said, looking at me from under those bushy eyebrows.
It wasn’t a good time to be specific about the sequence of events so I didn’t correct him.
“I’m a blunt person,” Marvell said. “I say what I think. I’m doing that now. Even if you couldn’t have committed the murder, you’re still top of my list for suspicion in the disappearance of the Ko Feng.”
“It’s unfortunate that you feel that way. All I can say is that I assure you I had nothing whatever to do with it.”
He didn’t look assured in the least. I tried harder.
“You can check with Scotland Yard if you want a character reference. I’ve worked with them on some cases and they’ll vouch for me.”
That glanced off him without leaving a mark. “Doesn’t change my mind,” he grunted.
“Not only that but I’m going to stay here in New York and help find out the truth—about the theft and the murder both.” I put all the determination into the words that I could.
He didn’t look impressed in the least. The same skeptical expression remained. The face blended into the bald head in a monolithic whole, unmoving, unchanged.
“One thing you can tell me that might help …” I said.
He might have nodded imperceptibly but probably not. I continued regardless.
“What were your intentions once you had the Ko Feng?”
“Sell it to people who wanted to buy it, of course. That’s my business, brokering food and food products.”
“Who specifically?”
“I’m not going to be specific. You’re asking me for my customer list. I’m not going to give it to you. Wouldn’t give it to anybody.”
“It might help to—”
“You’re not working for me. There’s no reason why I should help you.”
“I should think getting the Ko Feng back would be a good enough reason. Another would be to find Don Renshaw’s killer.”
“I’ve already made it clear that I don’t have any faith in you doing that. The police are working on it and if necessary I’ll hire a private firm. Besides, when I’ve told you I suspect you of being involved, you can’t expect any help from me.”
His tone was growing increasingly belligerent. He was a tough cookie and no mistake. Any progress I made was not likely to be the result of any assistance from Alexander Marvell.
I’ve always suffered
from the disadvantage of being able to see other people’s point of view. I wished I had Marvell’s single-minded, tunnel vision but I didn’t. I could readily see how—from his position—I was a top suspect.
In fact, if I didn’t know myself so well, I’d think I was guilty too.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I BID HIM A curt “Good day,” just out of politeness, and walked out of his office. He didn’t attempt to match my politeness.
The reception room was still busy as I walked through it. Normal business manners would have meant that the big chauffeur was there to take me back to my hotel but that was too much to expect from a man who thought I had stolen his Ko Feng.
A young man in leather, carrying a motorcycle helmet, elbowed past me on his way to speak to the receptionist.
“Taking these papers to the lab,” he told her, holding up a slim dispatch case. “Anything else to go?”
She searched under her desk. “There’s something here … where … ? oh, here, this package. Don’t leave it, though. Give it personally to Joe Malenkowski. Oh, and drop these off on your way.” She handed him two large envelopes.
He looked at the addresses in disgust. “On my way …” he muttered.
I watched him take the parcel and the envelopes and leave. An idea was stirring as I saw the rack on the wall. Adjacent to the rack full of magazines was a prominent heading—THE MARVELL CORPORATION. I picked out a colored brochure and sat down to read it.
The corporation didn’t issue annual reports as it was privately owned, I learned. This brochure gave many of the salient facts about the corporation, though, and I skimmed through them, looking for information on the laboratories.
They couldn’t be far away if the young man was going there on a motorcycle. They weren’t; they were in Leonia, New Jersey, and an insert map showed that to be just across the Hudson River from the northern part of Manhattan.
I took the elevator down and walked a couple of blocks until I found a drugstore. I bought a box of envelopes and a roll of wrapping paper. I made a parcel out of them and the girl at the checkout desk gave me a couple of pieces of Scotch tape from her dispenser after I told her that my girlfriend would be furious if I forgot her birthday. When she gave me change from three dollars and saw what I had bought, she threw me a contemptuous look that plainly said she didn’t consider me the big spender of the week.
The cabs here in the financial district looked to be in better shape than some other parts of New York and the driver was a pleasant Jamaican who explained to me that going out of Manhattan entailed a surcharge.
From the upper level of the George Washington Bridge, I had a fine view of the Manhattan skyline and then we were passing through wooded countryside before turning into a research park. Most of the companies in it were chemical- or electronics-oriented. The cabby got directions from the guard and dropped me at a brick and glass building with grassy slopes on one side and benches under shady trees.
“Parcel for Joe Malenkowski,” I told the young woman with chocolate-colored skin and big brown eyes sitting behind the reception desk. I said it slowly and tried to talk through my nose. It wouldn’t have worked at an audition for On the Waterfront but she merely said, “I’ll give it him” and held out a hand.
The motorcyclist evidently hadn’t arrived so I breathed easier and said, “My instructions are to give it to him personally.”
The phone rang to divert her attention and she waved me to a double door.
“Know where he is?” she asked.
I nodded confidently and moved to the door.
“Got a badge?” she called out.
I turned to her, patted my chest and nodded again. She went back to the phone and I went on through.
Offices took up the first part of the corridor. Computers, fax machines, copy machines and other equipment that I didn’t recognize outnumbered people. Machines were spewing out coiled yards of paper while other machines were taking in full sheets and filling plastic barrels with shredded strips. A man came out of a doorway and stepped in front of me.
“Looking for something?”
He was heavyset with prominent veins in a red face. I had a vague feeling that I had seen him before but maybe not.
“Got a package for Malenkowski.”
“Who?”
“Malenkowski,” I said in an Everybody-knows-him tone. “Joe,” I added to emphasize how well I knew him.
“Where’s he work?”
“In the lab.” It suddenly struck me that this building was all labs and I expected him to ask me which one but he didn’t. He motioned me down the corridor.
I walked on, looking for labs.
I soon found them. White-coated workers were watching screens, tinkering with glass equipment and peering into the backs of instrument panels. A pungent acid smell hung in the air. Somewhere, an automatic washer clanked glass in metal trays. I picked out a skinny, fluffy-haired girl standing tapping a pencil against her teeth and asked for Joe.
“He’s out today. Kid’s sick. Other car’s in the garage for a new transmission.”
“Sorry to hear that. Who works with him?”
She pointed with her pencil. “You might try Anton.”
He was an earnest Ukrainian, with sparse light hair and a quiet demeanor. I commented on his accent but he didn’t even notice mine—he was too engrossed in telling me of his horrible time in a government laboratory in Odessa and how lucky he had been to get out and come to the United States.
“Is Joe a Ukrainian too?”
He was and had been very helpful to Anton when he first arrived. That was my chance.
“I was hoping you’d be helpful to me,” I told him. “I’m trying to find out about the Ko Feng that you tested.”
“Ko Feng?” He looked puzzled.
“A spice. You must have tested it for FDA approval.”
Anton shook his head. “I don’t know. Let’s take a look.”
It wasn’t easy to find but he did find it. It was known to the lab as AM 51—Marvell had used his initials. Anton was able to identify it only after I mentioned the Mecklenburg Institute in San Francisco.
“What work did you do on it?”
He studied the file. “We submitted to the FDA a proposal to establish nontoxic and noncarcinogenic properties, also that it was suitable for human consumption.”
“You did all that and no problems?”
He looked again, nodded his head. “Just routine.”
“What else did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Mass spectrograph? Submicroscopic molecular pattern? Any other testing?”
Anton frowned, puzzled. “No. Why should we? What would we be looking for?”
“I was just wondering,” I told him. “You have so much equipment here—you must enjoy using it all.”
That prompted laments about the lab in Ukraine and contrasts with his surroundings here. I thanked him and he looked queryingly at me.
“I haven’t seen you here before. What department are you in?”
“I’m new here. They told me I ought to get around some of the other areas. See what you guys who do all the work are up to.”
He smiled, pleased. I shook his hand and left quickly. I walked with the air of a man who knows exactly where he’s going but the fact was, I didn’t have any idea of which way to go. It was inevitable that I should find myself trying to go through a locked safety door.
A man appeared. “Hey, you can’t go through there! You’ll set off the alarms!”
He was the same heavyset character I had just encountered. He gave me a second look. “It’s you again!”
I gave him a disarming smile. “Sorry, wasn’t thinking. Got a lot on my mind.”
He frowned and I thought he might be noticing my accent but with Anton and Joe here, there were probably lots of funny accents on the premises. The only possibility was that there was an alert out for an accent like mine.
“Still looking for what’s-his-nam
e?”
“Joe. Yes.”
Down the corridor, I could see a sign. It pointed one way to what was called the PROTOPHYLLOSCOPIC LABORATORY. I didn’t know what it meant and wasn’t even sure I could say it so I read out the name pointing in the other direction.
“I think he’s in the Environmental Laboratory.”
“See that sign down there?”
“No,” I said. “Where?”
He stabbed a finger, exasperated.
“There—right there!”
“Oh, thanks, yes.”
I was getting a lot of practice at making fast escapes. I did it again, my fastest yet.
Determined not to look back, I kept going where the sign pointed. There was a notice hanging on the door handle but I ignored it and went in. The door slammed behind me with a sucking sound, probably a sealing system of some kind. The door sounded as if it weighed a ton.
There was no one there and I was going to go through until I realized that I was in a closed room. The walls were stark white and all that was in the room were two large tables. Both were completely covered with trays, dishes, bowls and boxes, all glass or plastic. All had labels with code numbers and all contained what looked like heaps of rice, grain, sugar, bread crumbs and other foodstuffs. Several had liquid that looked like water. They were evidently test substances and I wondered what they were testing for.
I spent a minute or two examining the room casually so as to give the man who had stopped me time to go on about his business. As there was no other way out of the room, I didn’t want to run into him again. When I judged it was safe, I went back to the heavy door. It wouldn’t open.
I struggled with the handle. It wouldn’t move. There was some self-locking mechanism—unless it had been locked from the outside. Set into the longer wall was a horizontal window, about waist level to eye level. It was thick glass and double glazed. I banged on it but there was no sound. Two men walked by and then a woman but none of them paid any attention to me. I tried the door handle again. It wouldn’t move.
My throat felt dry. Nerves, that was silly. What could happen to me in here? I coughed. The sound echoed eerily. It was then that I noticed a couple of gauges set into the wall near the door. My subconscious had registered them before but now I saw that a needle on one of them was moving. “Atmospheric pressure,” the gauge said. The needle was falling steadily.
