by Peter King
The lunch had been satisfying but by eight o’clock, all the food commercials on television had made me hungry again. I peeled and sliced a large potato and put the slices in an ovenproof dish. I added salt and pepper and put the dish in the oven. Ten minutes later, I took out the tenderloin steak I had bought and pounded it thin. I heated a skillet really hot, added a little butter and as soon as it melted, added the steak. I swirled in some sherry, added an ounce or so of brandy and ignited it. I turned up the temperature on the oven to brown the potatoes, then put another piece of butter and some chives in the skillet.
This quick and easy version of Steak Diane is one of my favorites when I don’t feel like really cooking. A second bourbon came and went during the cooking process. I should have been stimulated into brilliant hypotheses of the case but I wasn’t. Watching Columbo, Jessica Fletcher, Perry Mason and Jim Rockford didn’t help either—they made it look so easy. I had a third bourbon and made it an early night, not looking forward at all to tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE INQUEST WAS A somber affair. It was held in a grim, high-ceilinged room somewhere in the rear of the County Court complex. Voices echoed eerily and the dark green walls were oppressive. The court recorder’s machine clicked away remorselessly and from outside came the frequent howl of a police siren.
I gave my evidence and so did Peggy. Lieutenant Gaines gave the police report and the medical examiner said death had been instantaneous and the result of a single gunshot. It was over as quickly as if it had been carefully planned.
The verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was not a surprise to anyone. Peggy was pale but controlled and her sister-in-law was brisk and energetic with a very matter-of-fact view. Her husband, Don’s brother, was a pragmatic north of England type, already thinking of early retirement from the brokerage business. We talked for a while and I was as optimistic as I could be about our chances of finding the killer. Peggy told me that the funeral was to be in Connecticut and apologized that it would be for the family only. I told her that I understood, not adding that I was confined to New York anyway.
I said, “There’s a question I want to ask you. I’m sorry to do it now but it might have some bearing on the investigation.”
“Go ahead,” she said, “you know I want to help all I can.”
It was a point that had slipped to the back of my mind. It didn’t seem relevant and yet …
I described the woman I had talked to at the Spice Warehouse just before Don had been killed. We had talked about ginger, she had told me that she had an appointment with Don, then she had headed toward his office shortly before we had heard the shot.
Peggy looked alarmed. “You don’t think she killed him!”
“No, I don’t. I talked to her for a few minutes and got an impression of her that doesn’t fit with her being a murderess. But it was only a few minutes and impressions can be wrong. I thought you might know something about her.”
“I don’t think so. Describe her again.”
“Early thirties, light brown hair, brown eyes, blue suit with a white blouse.”
“Did she say she was a regular customer?”
“No. Perhaps she had only been in a few times. I don’t know.”
“She doesn’t sound familiar to me,” Peggy said, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll talk to Maisie when I get back. Maisie works on checkout mostly but she’s a real chatterbox and she helps out in the shop too. She loves to talk to people and if this woman is known to anybody, it’ll be Maisie.”
Minutes after arriving back at the Framingham Hotel, the phone rang.
“I’m here with Maisie,” Peggy said. “She’s seen the woman you were asking about.”
“That’s great! Does she know her name?”
“I asked her. She doesn’t.”
“Has she bought anything there?”
There was a brief discussion, then Peggy came back on. “Yes. She bought some tarragon not too long ago.”
“Does Maisie remember how she paid for it?”
Another discussion took place.
“No, she doesn’t,” said Peggy when she picked up the phone again.
“Tarragon doesn’t cost much,” I said, disappointed. “She probably paid cash.”
“Why does that matter? Oh, I see, if she used a credit card there’d be a receipt in the file.”
“Right.”
“We don’t seem to have any way of finding her, then,” Peggy said glumly.
“If you think of any way, call me.”
“I will.” She hesitated.
“Is there something?” I asked her.
“Well, it may be silly—I mean, it’s so trivial …”
“What is it?” I urged.
“Well, when Don and I came in to the warehouse that morning, as I left him he snapped his fingers and said, ‘The most obvious …’”
“Go on,” I urged.
“That’s all. I thought he was going to say more but he didn’t.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said.
“Doesn’t help, does it?” Her voice was bleak.
“You never know. Give me a call if you think of anything else—no matter what.”
She promised she would and we hung up.
I called Gabriella.
“Special Spice Operator checking in.”
“All in one piece?”
“Yes. Why?” I asked, alarmed.
“You’ve been the subject of a lot of attention lately,” she said reassuringly. “Just a routine query.”
I was relieved. “I thought maybe you’d heard something.”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“What is it?”
“Tell you in a minute. What happened with your vice-president?”
“Ah,” I said, “yes, the vice-president… Well, Paramount is striking out in some novel areas of research. They are extremely anxious to get hold of some Ko Feng.”
“How anxious?”
“I can’t say. But the vice-president’s job is on the line. This new research has to produce some startling results or this VP is out of a job.”
“What impression did he have on you?”
“I—er, pretty impressive, I’d say.”
“Ruthless?”
“Well—if it came right down to a ruthless decision, yes, I’d say the decision would be made.”
“Is it risky for you to keep in touch with him?”
“There might be some risks,” I admitted. “Paramount is thinking of some tests. They hinted I might be asked to take part—if the Ko Feng is recovered.”
“Would you want to do that?”
“I’m willing to do whatever I can,” I said bravely.
“Well,” said Gabriella, “first we’ve got to recover it. And as to that—we’ve had a tipoff. It’s from one of our regular informants. Often, these turn out to be useless but once in a while, there’s one that can be helpful.”
“What’s the tipoff?”
“Some Ko Feng may be offered for sale.”
“What!” I shouted.
“For now, that’s all we’ve got.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“Of course. I want you there when it’s offered.”
“To authenticate.”
“Yes. I’ll call you—be ready.”
“I’m ready,” I told her. “Any hour of the day or night.”
“All right. Keep in touch—and be careful.”
I wished she wouldn’t say that but it was nice that she did. She was well-balanced—she kept telling me to be careful but she kept taking me or sending me into risky situations. I consoled myself that she wouldn’t take a chance on losing a valuable authenticator if they were that risky …
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
NEW YORK IS A friendly city, as everyone will tell you. There’s no problem meeting people, they will add. Well, I certainly wasn’t having a problem. If I had any more visitors, the Framingham Hotel w
as going to add a charge to my bill to cover the service.
Now here was another one. I didn’t even know his name for he had called the hotel and left a message for me saying that he would be here at this time and a number to call in case it wasn’t convenient. Of course, I wasn’t going to turn him down, I wasn’t going to turn anyone down. There was always a chance that the next visitor might have some scrap of information that would lead to the capture of Don’s killer and the recovery of the Ko Feng.
He was right on time. We went into the coffee shop, which was almost empty—presumably Professor Willenbroek was not alone in his assessment of it. When we had sat at a corner table and ordered coffee, we took stock of each other.
He was about six feet tall and had a powerful, muscular frame. He looked as if he worked out in a gym a few times a week. He also had the look of an amateur polo player, that barely definable air of superiority which stops short of superciliousness but only just. His steely gray hair was cropped an inch short all over his head and he had a tan which suggested Florida rather than New York, but there were machines that could do that too. He had a square broad face, a strong chin and very light gray eyes. If a submarine movie were being cast, he would be perfect as the commander—no, better than that, the chief executive officer who takes over when the commander turns neurotic and wants to fire all weapons.
He handed me a card. It read BOSENDORFF, ZACKAROV, LIEBOWITZ AND SCHELLENBURG and the address was Pine Street, which as near as I could recall was close to Wall Street.
“You’re Mr. Bosendorff?” I hazarded.
When he answered, his voice was clipped and carefully modulated. I would have bet he was president of his local toastmasters.
“Mr. Bosendorff was killed on the Somme in 1917.”
“Oh, then you’re Zackarov?”
“Mr. Zackarov died in 1927. He had been retired for some years.”
“Liebowitz?” I was shooting in the dark now.
“He died of pneumonia in 1930 and, to save you the trouble, the late lamented Mr. Schellenburg died in a nursing home three years later.”
“It’s an old firm,” I commented. It was too long after the events to offer condolences.
His light gray eyes were steady. His face might have been carved out of granite. Only his mouth moved.
“Very old. I like to open an acquaintanceship this way, though. It establishes us as a reliable establishment of tradition and integrity.”
He handed me another card. This one said New York Fidelity Bank.
“My name’s Eck,” he said. He was right, it was. Tom Eck, right there in the corner and perhaps it should have been in larger letters—especially if it had been on the other card where it would have been outnumbered and outlettered.
“The earlier name was well known and widely respected,” he went on, “but in today’s more harsh business environment, unfortunately those virtues are no longer as meaningful.”
“So now you’re a bank.”
“We were always a bank. Many establishments of a century ago didn’t use the word, but we have always been in that business.”
A century ago, Bosendorff and his team were probably money-lenders, which was why they didn’t call themselves a bank, but I wouldn’t judge until I’d done some checking. In the meantime, if he wanted me to open an account or offer me a gold credit card, he was wasting his time.
“Let me tell you why I am here,” he said in his clear, crisp tones. “Our principal activity is providing capital for new and expanding businesses”—my guess had been right, I thought, and they were still in the same line—“and these businesses are mostly in the food trade. There are several of us loan officers, each with our own area of specialty. It so happens that commodities such as spices fall into my bailiwick.”
My attention quickened. I should have been expecting it. He was hardly likely to be here asking about the health of the queen but even so when he said the word spices, my mind focused sharply.
I gave him my half smile, which is supposed to encourage a talker to go on talking. It must have worked or maybe he intended to tell me anyway.
“When Alexander Marvell arranged for the Ko Feng to be shipped here, he contacted several potential buyers. He had no difficulty finding them, of course. Any restaurant owner would want some of it. Well, a couple of them came to me—independently—to ask for financing.”
He paused. I waited for him to go on. It was getting interesting. Maybe I was going to learn something.
“You can see my predicament,” he said. I couldn’t so I scratched my chin and said, “Hm.”
“I am responsible for approving loans of significant amounts of money but the commodity that the money was intended to buy has disappeared.”
Now I did see his predicament.
I suppose we have all become cynical about banks. After the debacles at BICC and S&L, the scandal at the Vatican bank whose director hanged himself on London Embankment, the multibillion-dollar blunder that put Barings out of business and other headline-making disintegrations in the financial world, we are apt to dismiss their problems and casually assume that insurance will cover their losses. Sadly, the insurance business has become tarred with the same brush and even Lloyds of London has not escaped. Consequently, tears are not shed readily and while I was sorry about the bank image that had been tarnished, I still wasn’t sure what it all had to do with me. But then he had come here—I hadn’t gone to him—so I was going to listen.
“A difficult situation,” I admitted.
“I’m glad to find you sympathetic,” he said heartily. “Not everyone feels that way about banks anymore.”
“I suppose not,” I said cautiously, hoping he would come to the point.
He sat back and regarded me much as the chief exec on the submarine Starfish might regard his trusted second-in-command.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he said, and I hoped I was looking worthy of it. “When I came to see you, I wasn’t certain how I was going to approach you. The fact is, there was the chance that you were involved in the theft of the Ko Feng yourself.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “I’m a foreigner, I was brought in to do a job of refereeing that some might think could have been done as well—perhaps better—by an American, I was on the scene at the time of both crimes so on the basis of means, motive and opportunity, I’m a prime suspect.”
“That’s a fair assessment,” he agreed. “However, on the gut feeling I have after talking to you, I don’t think you were involved in either crime.”
“Thanks. You’re right, as it happens. I wasn’t, though there are people who don’t agree.”
“You mean Alexander Marvell for one … yes, I know.” I wondered who the others were but didn’t want to hear a list.
“The point now is, if you don’t have the Ko Feng, who does?”
“I wish I knew,” I said earnestly. “And I’m doing all I can to help the police find the answer.”
He looked off into the distance, pensive.
Finally he asked, “How many of the restaurant people here have you talked to?”
“Only a few. Ayesha and Lennie Rifkin, Abraham Kefalik, Selim Osman—that’s about all so far.”
“There are, of course, many more.”
“I’m sure. I’d like to talk to as many as I can—plus others in the food business besides restaurant owners.”
He didn’t seem too interested in any others but he asked in an offhand manner, “Who, for instance?”
About to mention a few names, I drew back. Instead I said, “Oh, people in the bakery trade, candy makers, vitamin producers … not that this is significant. Any food or medicine that’s put into human stomachs is a candidate. If Ko Feng has even some of the properties we think it has, it could be added to any foodstuff with beneficial results.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose so.”
He moved around in his chair, probably trying to decide how to phrase his next question.
; “Can you tell me what progress the investigation has made?”
I was getting adept at answering this one. There was no reason, though, for me to pussyfoot with Eck. “We do have a few leads but nothing concrete so far.”
“Tell me something else.” He leaned forward. “Has the Ko Feng been offered—actually offered—to anyone?”
“No, it hasn’t, as far as we know.” I was interpreting his question to mean an offer since the theft.
“Won’t the person who has it be taking a risk when they do offer it?”
“I hope so,” I said fervently.
“Ah, then you’ll be able to grab him?”
I nodded. I wasn’t convinced that it was going to be that simple but that was as far as I was prepared to go with Tom Eck.
“You’ve talked to the police, I take it?” I asked.
“Yes. I was directed to a Lieutenant Gaines at the Unusual Crimes Unit. He wasn’t very forthcoming. In fact, he was on the verge of being rude. Felt I was wasting his time—at least, that’s the impression I got.”
“Don’t be fooled,” I said sagaciously. “Hal Gaines is one of the best detectives in the NYPD.”
Tom Eck grunted. “Didn’t seem that way to me. He needs to remember he’s a public servant. People might cooperate with him better.”
“He’s a man you need to get to know.”
“I’d rather not,” Eck said with a rare flash of emotion. This one was contempt.
He was shuffling a little. He had asked all his questions and he wanted to go. I stood up.
“Glad you stopped by. And I hope you resolve your financial problem. It must be a worry.”
“Financing business is a worry. Financing the food business even more so, and the complications involved in this affair are just not worth it. I wish we’d never gotten into it. Still …” He stood too.
We shook hands and I walked with him to the lobby. We parted with mutual expressions of keeping each other informed. I wondered which one of us had held back the most.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
