by Peter King
IF I STAYED IN the Framingham Hotel much longer, they would be wanting to charge me for secretarial services. There was a call from Professor Willenbroek and I punched his number.
“Yes, I called you,” he said in his brisk voice. “Wanted to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead, Professor.” I knew it was an honorary title, possibly self-bestowed, but I felt he liked to be addressed that way.
“Might want to get you to do a little job for me.”
“What kind of a job?” I asked.
“It’s a job you’ve done before,” he said and I felt a tightening in my throat as I replied.
“What job is that?”
“Authenticate some Ko Feng.”
It wasn’t a complete shock. He had put no particular emphasis on his words “a little job,” but they had foreshadowed what was to come.
“You have some?” I asked in a flat tone.
“No, no. I will be getting some, though.”
“I’m surprised.” I picked my words carefully. “It’s still regarded by the police as stolen property.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t buy it under those conditions,” he said quickly. “But it’s sure to be recovered sooner or later, isn’t it? And when it is, I want to be ready.”
“When it’s found, of course I’d be glad to authenticate it for you,” I said.
“I mean—you did it before, didn’t you? You’re the only one who knows all its characteristics. You could do it again.”
“It’s a wise precaution on your part,” I told him. “Phony Ko Feng is already being offered around the city.”
“Is it?” he said in a thoughtful tone. It was clear that I had given him something to think about.
“Excellent then,” he said heartily. “Good man. Need to have you coordinate with our laboratory people, naturally. Just a formality … Right, then. I’ll call you.”
After we had hung up, I pondered—not for the first time—on what could only be my misjudgment of human character. The wily old bird had been offered some Ko Feng. It had shown up on the market. He must want it very badly, for he was evidently prepared to buy it knowing that it was stolen property. Well, it had been the most valuable spice in the world two or three millennia ago and it was up there again.
Why just the professor, though? Well, it didn’t have to be …
I looked up the number of the Methuselah Foundation and asked for Dr. Li.
His hissing sibilants came on the line almost at once. I introduced myself and he told me how delighted he was to hear from me and hoped that I was in excellent health. I affirmed the fact and took the initiative.
“Dr. Li, I understand that you have been offered some Ko Feng.”
There should have been an astonished pause but I reminded myself that I was dealing with a very wily man who would never show astonishment. Indeed, he was prompt with his reply and bland in his manner.
“You are indeed well informed. Your understanding is only partial, however. I have not been offered any Ko Feng as yet but it has been suggested to me that some will soon be available. I was asked if I would wish to buy some when it comes on the market. The legitimate market, of course.”
Horsefeathers, I thought.
“As a matter of fact, I was about to call you,” he continued.
I’ll bet you were, I thought. Then I had the uneasy notion that he might think me well informed not because he considered me a brilliant detective but because he believed I had been involved in the crime. After all, he had tried to brainwash me into telling him where the Ko Feng was. He might be as convinced of my guilt as was Alexander Marvell, just a little more devious about showing it.
“I wanted to ask you … When the Ko Feng does come on the market, would you be willing to authenticate it?”
“Well,” I said, in an uncertain ‘You’ve caught me unawares’ tone, “possibly, yes, I would.”
“Your expertise would be very much appreciated and you would be well compensated for it.”
“Very well, Doctor.” It was my best ‘I know how to make up my mind quickly’ tone. “You are wise to beware of imitations,” I added breezily. “It seems that people are being offered imitation Ko Feng. It looks like it, has its aroma and is superficially convincing.”
“I suppose that is only to be expected,” said Dr. Li smoothly.
He told me that he would be in touch very shortly. I wondered what approach he and Professor Willenbroek would use to smooth over that small gap between legal and illegal Ko Feng. Probably something along the lines of “This is too wonderful an opportunity to miss. Here is a remarkable plant which will benefit all mankind …” and so on.
I thanked him for taking me into his confidence and if the sarcasm was noted, it was not commented on.
I called Gloria Branson at Paramount Pharmaceuticals and came straight to the point.
“Gloria, what was your response to the offer of Ko Feng that you have just had?”
She didn’t have the suavity of Dr. Li in dealing with the abrupt question but she was pretty good. I might not have noticed the split second of hesitation if I hadn’t been listening for it so intently.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I have had such an offer. I was going to call you about it. How did you know?”
There seemed no hint of suspicion in her voice that might suggest she thought me guilty too. Or was she just good at concealing it?
“The word is out that fake Ko Feng is being put up for sale.”
“What!” There was a breathy alarm in her voice that was good to hear.
“I thought you should know,” I said blandly.
She thanked me pleasantly enough but I could almost hear her mind working as the line clicked.
A pattern was beginning to develop in my mind and I made another call, this time to Abe Kefalik.
No, he said. He hadn’t been offered any Ko Feng. Then he turned cagy. Did I know where he could get some? I gave him the warning of the day—just in case he was contacted, I told him.
I called Ayesha. She was in the middle of a slanging match with her husband and I caught some of the side spray. No, she hadn’t been offered any Ko Feng, she said curtly. I suggested she be very careful before buying any without making absolutely sure it was genuine and hung up quickly.
Selim Osman was in the kitchen of the Topkapi Castle but he took my call and must have been successfully inventing some spectacular new dish because he was almost friendly. He hadn’t heard of any Ko Feng being available, adding quickly that when it was, he would be in the market.
“Phony Ko Feng is being offered,” I cautioned him. “I thought you should know.” Imperturbable as ever, he thanked me amiably.
I called Gabriella. She was still in the office and I was put through at once. I told her of the Ko Feng offers and of my efforts to muddy the waters and delay any transactions.
“Presumably all the people the Ko Feng has been offered to are aware of the penalties attendant upon the receipt of stolen goods.” Gabriella was firm and officious.
“All due respect to the authority of the New York Police Department,” I replied, “but I’d say that not one of these people gives a hoot about that.”
“I suppose so,” said Gabriella. “Keep me informed.”
I turned on the great brainwasher and watched a few minutes of television. The time wasn’t a total loss—I learned about Elizabeth Taylor’s new husband’s chicken pot pie recipe; heard that a woman accused of smothering her two children had been acquitted because she was suffering from premenstrual depression; and saw three commercials in rapid succession, one for hemorrhoid cream, one for a diarrhea remedy and one for a foot deodorant. A governor of one of the Southern states announced his plans for running for president as soon as he was released from jail.
I called London and made sure that the data I had faxed to explain my inability to be present at the salmon hearing was adequate. I called Mrs. Shearer at the answering service/ reception/general secretarial operation on the f
loor above my office. She was still awestruck at the thought of my being in New York and I thought it better not to tell her that I was here because the police had my passport. As for being involved in a murder … There are some things that it is better for people not to know.
Other trivial details of surviving in a foreign city took up some time too and when it came to early evening, there arose the vital question of where to eat. There is no greater array of ethnic cuisines in the world than in New York but I reminded myself that I was still on duty. I called African Dreams and asked Yaruba Da if he had a table. He said he was delighted to hear from me and was most anxious to extend his hospitality for dinner.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
IRREGULARLY SHAPED ROOMS LED from one to another in a carefully planned pattern of geometric eccentricity. All the rooms had the same basic design—pyramidal ceilings of narrow glass panels which climbed up to an apex of dizzying height. Plants, bushes, indoor trees and flowers grew in profusion and maintained the jungle theme of African Dreams. A waterfall became a gurgling stream that threaded its way through the rooms. Small wooden bridges crossed it in places and a native hut with a thatched roof doubled as a serving station for the waiters.
All the staff was black, though none achieved the ultimate blackness of my host, Yaruba Da. His teeth gleamed an impossible white against the smooth coal-black skin and his huge size made him an imposing figure.
He led me to a table by a stream. A banyan tree was behind me and a banana tree, loaded with its yellow fruit. Occasional jungle noises could be heard, the distant trumpeting of an elephant, the cackling of a tribe of monkeys and the roar of a lion but they were never obtrusive. A rhythmic drumbeat replaced them periodically and became a soothing tune.
“You’ve done a wonderful job with the decor,” I congratulated Yaruba Da. “It’s not easy to achieve the jungle effect and still remain sophisticated.”
He spread his huge hands in an appreciative gesture.
“Thank you. We are still struggling for recognition, though—as you see.”
He waved toward the half-filled room. As it was the peak time of the evening, that wasn’t good. I consoled him with stories of acquaintances in London who had battled for a year or more to become established.
A beautiful brown-skinned waitress in a white robe with a lacy gold belt and high-heeled sandals brought me a Mozambique cocktail.
“Drinks brewed from fresh ginger can be found all across sub-Saharan Africa,” said Yaruba Da. “They are mainly soft drinks as alcohol and the African sun are not a good combination. Then too, many Africans are Mohammedan and therefore forbidden to partake of alcohol. So we have used one of these, a blend with lime and pineapple juices, and added a little alcohol to it.”
“The Dark Continent’s version of a Moscow Mule,” I commented.
He nodded. “With much less of a kick.”
The girl returned and with a shy smile put on the table an ornate silver-inlaid tray of appetizers. Yaruba Da identified them for me, one by one.
“Hot plantain crisps, samosas—you have seen them in many countries—these are filled with a spicy mixture of potato and beans. Those are roasted melon seeds, these are kulikuli—crispy peanut balls, a Nigerian specialty—and over here, this dip is meshwiya from Tunisia. Vine-ripened tomatoes are chopped with garlic, cumin, green peppers, black olives and hard-boiled eggs. These are prawns piripiri—you may know this from other parts of the world.”
“It’s popular in the Philippines, I know.”
“Yes. And just as popular in Mozambique—in fact, piripiri is to the cuisine of Mozambique what curry is to Indian cooking. Crushed red peppers and garlic are the essential spices.”
I was enjoying the appetizers, all of them delicious.
“These samosas are excellent,” I told him. “Too often they ooze cooking oil but these are extraordinarily crispy without being dry.”
He accepted the compliment with a bow of his head.
“I must leave you for a few moments. Please study the menu and tell me if there are dishes you would especially like to taste. Venandra will bring you another Mozambique cocktail whenever you wish it.”
“The cocktail is very good but rather than another, I’d prefer wine if you have it.”
“Of course. We have many European and Californian wines and we also have a few specialties—which are actually variants on rice wine. You will find them quite palatable.”
I agreed to have a glass of rice wine and when he left, carefully easing his bulk through the table-strewn jungle, I looked at the menu.
It was a very eclectic array of African dishes and from the descriptions of the ingredients and the cooking methods, an ingenious adaptation of genuine originals, making as few modifications to Western taste as possible.
I recognized a few. Djedj b’lqasbour is a coriander chicken dish from Algeria and very popular throughout North Africa. Chicken Tagine, with chickpeas and beans, is Moroccan. Bamia is a lamb and okra stew found in many countries. I had once eaten Egusi Soup, a Nigerian classic which contains crayfish, the African type sometimes called rock lobster.
The waitress returned with a glass of rice wine, which tasted remarkably like a Riesling, then Yaruba Da came back and we discussed the menu. I congratulated him on offering such a range of dishes.
“Perhaps it is too wide a range.”
“It’s the way to start,” I told him. “You will quickly learn which dishes don’t appeal to customers and you can drop them from the menu. You have several very unusual dishes which will attract the more adventurous.”
His large face cracked into a wide smile.
“Wildebeest, for example.”
“Yes. And Bstila, the Moroccan pigeon pie. But I doubt if you get many calls for camel.”
He chuckled. “I added that just for sensationalism. It is eaten in all the Saharan countries, though, served in couscous as an alternate to goat meat.”
“You don’t have many fish dishes,” I remarked.
“I can see that you find that surprising. With twenty thousand miles of coastline, you might expect a lot of fish to be eaten but the problem is the climate and the lack of refrigeration in much of the continent. Fish has to be eaten soon after it is caught. The fish dishes that we do serve are pickled fish, which is very popular and avoids the spoilage difficulty.”
At Yaruba Da’s recommendation, I eventually settled for some pickled fish to start. I followed it with a bowl of Doro Wat, the famous chicken stew of Ethiopia. It was served with an in-jeera, the Ethiopian pancake which is a little like a tortilla. Next came Skudahkharis, one of the staple dishes of Somalia, consisting of lamb and rice and superbly spiced. It was accompanied by maharagwe, spiced red beans in coconut milk, and fufu, boiled yams from Ghana.
It was a delicious and unique meal and when Yaruba Da rejoined me, I told him so.
“I am very pleased that you enjoyed it,” he murmured. “And now, if I may ask—what is the situation with the Ko Feng?”
“First, I must thank you for coming to our rescue at the sale,” I said.
“It was nothing.”
“It was very timely.”
“My size is often an embarrassment,” he said with a smile. “But there are times when it is very helpful. That was one of those times.”
He eyed me for a moment. “I heard of that sale and was intrigued,” he said. “It was an interesting experience. I don’t know who the organizers were but they have an unscrupulous approach. I am sure that many of the goods on sale were stolen property.”
“Yes, I’m sure they were.”
“It was logical, therefore, that you should think it possible that Ko Feng might be there too.”
“After seeing the place, I doubted it,” I said.” Ko Feng can demand a very high price and it would have no place alongside cans of stolen ham. Still, it was worth a try.”
“And it was feasible that the same people running the sale might also be the people who had stolen the Ko Feng,”
he said thoughtfully.
“Possible,” I agreed. Then I added, “Have you been offered any Ko Feng?”
“Just before it was stolen, I had a talk with a man who hinted he might be able to get me some. But then I saw him at the sale and asked him again. He told me he was no longer in a position to do so.”
“You saw him at the sale?”
“Yes.”
It was a long shot but I had little to lose. “Was it Tom Eck?”
He inclined his head. “You know him?”
“A little.” I was thinking it might not mean a thing. As a broker, Eck might have been hopeful of marketing some Ko Feng before but now, since the theft, he was no longer able to do so.
“If you do recover it, I would very much like to obtain some,” he told me earnestly. “It could be instrumental in improving my business here, which, as you see, is in need of it.”
“If I’m in a position to help you, I will,” I told him. “A word of advice however …”
He leaned forward expectantly. “Yes?”
“You may hear of Ko Feng being offered, or it may be offered to you directly. Be very careful. Substitute material—not Ko Feng—is out on the market. I wouldn’t want you to be deceived.”
“How could I be sure it was genuine?” he asked seriously. “Perhaps you could assist me in deciding?”
“I’d be glad to.”
He insisted I try some Liberian gingerbread, made from plantains, and it was excellent. He watched me eat it, seemingly deep in thought. He raised his head as if he had made a decision and his large black face confronted me.
“I appreciate your offer to help,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. “And as a token of my goodwill, allow me to tell you that you need not be concerned about any more attacks.”
I wasn’t expecting that at all. I stared at him, astonished.
“You were responsible for those?”
“No, of course not,” he said with an emphatic shake of his head. “But I was aware of them.”
“And who was responsible?” I asked angrily.
“You need not worry. There will be no more of them—and you were never in any danger,” he added hastily. “There was never any intention of harming you—only frightening you. A small group thought you had been implicated in the theft of the Ko Feng and wanted to scare you into selling it to them.”
