by Peter King
“Actually, I’m not.” And I launched into my explanation of what I was.
He was looking more and more disappointed as I went on. I tried to reverse that trend. “I’m working actively with the police on the case. They feel that a knowledge of food may prove to be very important in solving this crime—well, both crimes. Two of the finest detectives in the Unusual Crimes Unit have been assigned and between us, we’re confident of success.”
“Hmph.” It wasn’t an overwhelming vote of support and I hurried on to catch him before he cooled any further.
“Can I ask you to tell me immediately if you’re offered the Ko Feng again?”
“I’ll do that.”
“Or if there are any other developments that you think I ought to know about?”
“Right. And I’ll expect you to tell me as soon as you’ve found it.”
“Deal,” I said.
We shook hands and I walked outside with him. A sleek gray Rolls-Royce materialized and pulled to a smooth stop. I watched him go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BACK IN THE HOTEL room, I phoned JFK airport and after being advised to try various numbers, I got Karl Eberhard. He didn’t ask about the Ko Feng case and I supposed that was because his position gave him access to any information on it. He offered his condolences on Don Renshaw’s death.
“Were you in security at the airport five years ago?” I asked him.
“I was, yes.”
“There was a robbery in May five years ago. Do you recall it?”
“No, I don’t believe I do.”
“A shipment of birds’ nests from China disappeared after being cleared through customs.”
There was a pause. “Ah, yes, I think I recall it,” he finally said.
“You said you were there then.”
“Yes.”
“Did it strike you—the similarity between that theft and the theft of the Ko Feng?” I asked.
There was another pause. “Now that you mention it—yes, they are similar,” he admitted.
I waited for him to elaborate.
“You see, I was just a security patrolman then. I wasn’t involved in that case at all. I remember hearing about it, seeing it in the files, but I had nothing to do with it. I have had many promotions since that time,” he went on proudly.
It sounded feasible. I wondered if he was going to ask me how I had heard about the earlier case but he didn’t so I didn’t volunteer anything.
“Perhaps you can look through the files on it again,” I suggested. “Any similarities between the two cases might be helpful in this one.”
“I will do that,” he promised.
I thought of asking him to transfer my call but decided it might be a problem and furthermore there was no need for Eberhard to know who I was going to talk to next. So I hung up and redialed. This time it was easier and I was promptly connected with Michael Simpson.
“Still with us?” he asked in surprise. “Oh, I guess the police want you to stick around … That Ko Feng didn’t show up yet, eh? Nasty business about that fellow Renshaw. I didn’t know him that well, only met him a couple of times. Is there something I can do for you?”
I picked my words carefully. “Someone was telling me about a theft there at JFK about five years ago—you were there then, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve been here twelve years now.” He hesitated. “What theft was it? I don’t recall.”
Eberhard hadn’t recalled either. Must be all that engine noise affecting people’s memories.
“A shipment of birds’ nests.”
“Birds’ nests?” He sounded astonished.
“From China. Hijacked—either at the airport or on the way to their destination. As a matter of fact,” I added as if I had just thought of it, “the shipment disappeared in a very similar manner to the Ko Feng.”
There was a long pause.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, now it comes back … birds’ nests. I wasn’t involved in the clearance of it myself,” he hastened to add, “but I recall seeing it in the files and I know that the police were here investigating.” There was another pause. “It was similar, you say?”
“There were a number of similarities,” I said. “Did you ever hear any more about the case? Did they recover the shipment?”
“Not that I ever heard.”
I hardened my tone. “I’d appreciate it if you could check the files on it for me.”
“Well, I don’t know …”
“There may be more similarities to the Ko Feng case than we realize,” I said, introducing a ring of authority. “Which, as you know, is now a murder case.”
“I—er, well, I’ll be glad to cooperate any way I can, of course. I’ll call you back.”
I didn’t place much hope in Eberhard calling me back as it was unlikely that he would run across anything even if he made the effort. With Simpson, I needed some facts.
“I’ll wait,” I said firmly.
“It may take some time.”
“I won’t be near a phone for some time. I’ll wait.”
He didn’t sound too happy about it but he agreed. It was some minutes before he returned. “I have the file right here.”
“Can you give me the classification number it came in under when customs cleared it?”
He did so.
“And it was described as what?”
He read off the Chinese names, letter by letter.
“Translated into English as …”
“White birds’ nests.”
“Good,” I said. That was what I had been hoping for.
The phone rang again, almost immediately after I hung up. I noticed that the hotel operator’s manner was more deferential than before. A visit from the famous professor, veteran of a thousand TV commercials, had boosted me up the ratings chart.
A deep male voice confirmed my identity, then said, “Please hold the line. This is Paramount Pharmaceuticals. Our Vice-President, New Products, Research and Development Division, wishes to speak with you.”
I waited. A woman’s voice came on the line, rich and melodious, just husky enough to be exciting.
“This is Gloria Branson speaking, Vice-President, New Products, Research and Development Division, Paramount Pharmaceuticals.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
A rough idea of what I might do was already in my mind. After the conversation with Professor Willenbroek, a call from a woman who was in a new products division for a pharmaceutical company wasn’t likely to have too many bombshell surprises.
“I’m calling because I’m sure we have a great deal in common.”
It was a sensually attractive voice, full of promise and allure. Many women are able to project such a vocal image but few are able to sound completely natural and sincere. This one did. I wanted to meet her and drink in more of that marvelous voice.
I reminded myself sternly that I was a professional and did not intend to be influenced by anything as inconsequential as a woman’s voice, no matter how fascinating.
“I was hoping we could get together over lunch—perhaps today?”
“That would be great,” I said promptly.
“Do you like intrigue?”
It was a question that caught me without an immediate answer.
“Vienna Intrigue. It’s on Fifty-second Street near Second Avenue,” she explained, a touch of exasperation in her voice. Then she turned on the full power of her oral intimacy. “Oh, I’m sorry. Of course, you’re a stranger to New York. It’s one of the better of our new restaurants. I know you’ll love it. Ernst-Erich Vogeler from the Goldener Pferd in Salzburg took over the kitchen only a couple of months ago and already he’s doing wonders.”
“What time?” I was trying not to sound too anxious.
“Noon. I’ll reserve a table. It’s not much notice but they know me.”
We had hung up before I realized that she hadn’t even said what we were going to talk about. Nor had she elabor
ated on what it was we had in common. Not that I had much doubt on that score …
I went up to my room. It wasn’t very large and I wondered if my raised status in the eyes of the manager would get me a larger one. It would be worth a try. In the meantime, I phoned Gabriella.
“Do you know Paramount Pharmaceuticals?” I asked her.
“I know the name. Nothing specific. Why?”
“Are they big?”
“Huge. Are they involved?”
“They may be. I just had an invitation from their vice-president in charge of new products. Lunch.”
“Did he say what he wanted to talk about?”
I saw no reason to correct her. After all, it was only results that counted.
“No but it can’t be anything except Ko Feng, can it?”
“I suppose not. Where’s the lunch at?”
“Vienna Intrigue.”
There was a low whistle.
“Know it?”
“Not on my salary,” she said promptly. “From what I’ve heard, it’s pretty ritzy. Well, it should be safe anyway. Just to be sure, stay away from dangerous people.”
“Absolutely,” I assured her. “I just had an interesting chat …” I told her about Professor Willenbroek. “You might want to talk to him, perhaps he’ll recall something he forgot when talking to me although there’s absolutely nothing wrong with his memory.”
She agreed and I asked, “Anything new?”
“A lot of work and not much to show for it. We’ve checked out the New York and Asian Bank—clean. We’ve checked the route that you took, all the way from the bank back to JFK. We’ve talked to a dozen police officers who were on that route—not one of them saw anything unusual. We’ve covered the airport itself. We’ve run a thorough check on Arthur Appleton and Michael Simpson—no prior convictions. We even checked Karl Eberhard, the security man—squeaky clean.”
“Eberhard’s clean, is he?” I asked, interested.
“Yes. The only one we don’t have a handle on is Sam Rong.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“We’re waiting for an answer from Bangkok. The time difference may be the holdup there, not necessarily any other reason. We’ve talked to staff in the entire cargo area—nothing.”
“It’s baffling,” I said. “It’s too ridiculous for words. How could the Ko Feng disappear like that? Even Houdini couldn’t have done that.”
“Houdini?”
“Yes, you know, the magician—”
“I know who he is. I was just musing … That’s a thought.”
“What is?”
“An idea,” said Gabriella, “just an idea … I’ll tell you about it later.”
“All right. Meanwhile, when are you calling me into action?”
“Just waiting for a couple of things to fall into place. It may be tomorrow. Keep in touch.”
“One other thing …”
“Yes?”
“It is possible, I suppose, that the thief has sent—or taken—the Ko Feng overseas.”
“Hal thought of that. He’s ordered a special watch at ports and airports and asked the post office to be on the alert.”
“It could easily slip through.”
“I know. But Hal doesn’t think it’s likely. He feels that the U.S. is the big marketplace and that the spice is still here.”
“All right,” I said. “One other thing … You remember I mentioned that Don Renshaw had wanted to see copies of the New York Times from five years ago?”
“Yes. I told Hal about it. He ran it through the system. There are similarities in the MO but nothing else came out.”
“Well, I’d like to follow it up. I know who the importers were.”
“What do you expect to learn?”
“Maybe the two cases have more in common than just the MO. Whatever we learn about the first theft might help with the second.”
“Hm, and it might take a food expert like you to spot it.”
“It’s the birds’ nest angle that intrigues me.”
“I don’t see how you can learn much that way,” she said. “No restaurant owner is going to admit stealing it.”
“No, but they might know or suspect who did.”
“The Chinese are a tightly knit community,” she said.
“Like the Italians?”
“Comparisons are not appropriate,” she said in a school-marmish voice. “Anyway, do you know how many Chinese restaurants there are in New York?”
“No. How many?”
“I don’t know either, but I do know there are seventeen thousand of all kinds and a fair proportion must be Chinese. An investigation like that could take weeks.”
“Gabriella, let me tell you about birds’ nests. In the first place, many Chinese restaurants use substitute materials.”
“You mean, not birds’ nests at all?” She sounded horrified.
“Right. Second, a lot of them use the black birds’ nests.”
“From blackbirds?” Now she was puzzled.
“No, no, the nests are black, not the birds. It’s because they’re different birds. That’s the inferior grade, the cheaper one. That leaves a relatively small number of top restaurants which use the expensive and much rarer white birds’ nests. Well, not just top ones—there are some that pride themselves on using genuine ingredients.”
“I see.” She was beginning to sound interested.
“Now we can whittle that down even more,” I said, getting more enthusiastic by the minute myself. “Birds’ nest soup is not that popular a dish in the West. It still is in the Far East but not here. It’s an acquired taste—many Westerners find it bitter. There are lots of Chinese and Indo-Chinese here, of course, and they will go to a place which serves a good soup, expensive as it is.”
“It might be worth following up, after all,” she conceded. “But remember that the Chinese are clannish. They won’t let much out to a Westerner—especially one as foreign as you.”
I let that one go by. “I know—but let’s suppose there were several Chinese restaurants that wanted those birds’ nests. What if only one got them? Wouldn’t the others feel irritated?”
“We say PO’d.”
“That abbreviation has now crossed the Atlantic,” I told her. “So, might one of the others still be nursing a grudge and therefore love the opportunity to spill the beans?”
“It’s an idea,” she admitted.
“After all, it sells for somewhere around $150 an ounce.”
“What! That’s outrageous!”
“It’s more than caviar. Quite a lot for bird spit, don’t you think?”
She gurgled. At least, that’s what it sounded like. “What did you call it?”
“The birds are called salanganes—they’re found only on a few small islands just off the coast of Java. They’re small—smaller than hummingbirds. They make their nests on the walls of grottoes overlooking the sea and always on the tops of high, almost inaccessible cliffs. Their sticky saliva forms a crust that is the tiny nest. The natives have to make dangerous climbs to get the nests and the birds are rare—”
“That’s what pushes the price so high?” Gabriella asked.
“Right—and it’s pushed even higher by the long, tedious manual work needed to remove the soil, feathers, dirt and other—”
“You don’t need to spell it out” Gabriella said. “I get the message. Remind me never to order birds’ nest soup. Thank goodness Italian cuisine is pure and clean.”
“You think so? How about—”
“No. Not now. Anyway, thanks for narrowing the field. Go for it.”
“I have your backing?”
“Give it a try,” she said. “Oh—and take care.”
I appreciated her solicitous concern for me but it gave me a slight shiver. I consoled myself with the thought that the person who had threatened me on the subway platform and at that street corner hadn’t wanted to kill me, just scare me. Besides, that person couldn’t be the thief because
the thief knew I didn’t have the Ko Feng.
So I couldn’t really be in danger because if the person threatening me wanted me to tell where the Ko Feng was, I had to be alive to do it. I didn’t like the corollary to that—namely that once I told, I was no longer of value. But then that didn’t apply because I didn’t know so I couldn’t tell.
Worst of all was the thought that the thief—or someone else connected with this -whole mess—had already killed Don Renshaw. The most likely reason was that Don had learned something which might identify the thief. And here I was, contemplating a solo expedition into Chinatown to learn something …
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LIKE SEVERAL NEW YORK restaurants, Vienna Intrigue was underground. There was no clue to this from the outside. A black awning trimmed in silver and double doors of a black hardwood seemed normal, but then the doors swung open as the customer intercepted an invisible beam and an empty lobby with mirrors led to an automatic elevator. This came to a stop that was so gentle it was undetectable. The door slid open and the maître d’ was there, smiling, dressed impeccably.
The ambiance was dark but not gloomy, with black and purple the dominating colors. The restaurant was divided into several areas, each with four booths, separated so as to provide complete privacy. Black wood paneling and hidden strips of silvery light maintained the atmosphere suggested by the restaurant name.
The mention of Ms. Branson’s name brought a murmured invitation to follow the maître d’ to a table. She had not yet arrived but the wine waiter arrived promptly and I accepted his proposal of the house cocktail.
The menu contained a description of the restaurant. It was a replica of one in Vienna which had been a meeting place for men and women of the aristocracy who wished their affairs to be conducted in privacy bordering on secrecy. There were several Viennese specialties on the menu but also a few other dishes from various European cuisines.
My companion was twenty minutes late, though she saw no need to apologize for it. In any case, her appearance drove all other thoughts right out of my mind. Her smooth blond hair glowed with a golden sheen. It fell straight and was cut medium short. Her face was classically sculptured and made even more striking as she was maturely beautiful. She had a serenity that suggested an inner peace, though I wondered how that was possible in the highly competitive pharmaceutical industry and in the supercharged arena of New York City. She was slightly above medium height but her slim figure and gliding carriage made her appear taller. She wore a severely tailored business suit in dark forest green that molded the curves of her body precisely.
