by Peter King
Through the door and into the kitchen marched Tom Eck. He was on tiptoe and his face was red, his expression apoplectic. He moved like a rag doll, limbs seeming uncoordinated. The reason for his bizarre appearance was promptly evident. Behind him came a giant of a man.
He was black—blacker than the proverbial ace of spades and certainly as black as the deepest midnight. Only one man was that huge and that black—it was Yaruba Da.
The wide grin on his face suggested that he was having a good time and the twin rows of teeth gleamed like a TV ad. He had one hand the size of a pineapple grasping Eck firmly by the back of the neck. It was with no visible effort that he held Eck almost clear of the ground in a manner that hinted he could snap that neck with a flick of his wrist.
“This man tried to rush past me. He had this in his hand.” He held out a black palm so massive that it made the gray automatic look like a toy. “I didn’t know what it was all about but I decided that he could be up to no good.” He glared at the hapless Eck as if he were a schoolteacher scolding an errant pupil. “So I disarmed him.” He beamed at us. “I’d read him his rights if I knew what to say, although any man who runs around with a gun in his hand shouldn’t have any rights, don’t you agree?”
Two uniformed men came rushing in from another door and Hal Gaines told them to take charge of the culprit.
“What were you doing here?” asked Gabriella.
The giant from the Congo grinned sheepishly. “A few of those hors d’oeuvres upstairs were so good, I decided to come down here and do a little spying, find out how they made them.”
“So that’s why I didn’t see you up there,” I said.
“I am not an unsociable man,” he said quickly, “but I am very fond of my work.”
His handling of Eck had left the latter without speech and the two police took him out without resistance. Gaines’s admonition to Eck that he had the right to remain silent seemed almost unnecessary.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
WE WERE BACK UP on the main floor where the festivities were still in full swing. Hal Gaines had offered to let me tell Marvell that Eck was under arrest but I said he should do it—after all, arrest was a police matter.
“There’s one thing I have to do, though” I told the lieutenant. “Can you hold off opening the doors and releasing everybody for just a couple of minutes?”
He looked puzzled but agreed.
Dr. Li was again easy to locate. He towered over the two Australians he was in conversation with when I found him. He excused himself and took me aside.
“Any luck?” I asked eagerly.
His green eyes had a hooded look, which was a relief. I felt too weak to have any resistance if he turned up his voltage all the way.
“Possibly,” he said. “Concerning Mr. Eck, I can tell you nothing—I have not been able to trace him, though I know he is here.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “We’ll come back to him in a minute. What else?”
“Both Ms. Branson and Mr. Keyhoe exhibited signs of considerable mental unease when I discussed Ko Feng with them. Ms. Branson was, in addition, perturbed for some other reason.”
“Guilt, either of them?”
“They both have something to hide. Guilt is for the authorities to determine.”
He continued to regard me from behind those hooded eyes but I couldn’t tell if he was debating if he should say more or waiting for me to make a contribution.
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for your help. Er—is there something else?”
“Did you consider the possibility that I myself was involved in a Ko Feng transaction?”
“I did,” I told him. “I took a chance that you weren’t.”
He bowed his head an inch in acknowledgment. “I thank you for your trust.”
“Not at all.” I could be just as polite. “And in return for your help, you can be almost the first to know—Eck has just been arrested for the theft of the Ko Feng and the murders of Renshaw and Cartwright.”
A glow flickered briefly in the green eyes and then was gone.
“And the Ko Feng?” he asked.
“Well, after Marvell’s announcement, you can be sure of getting some of it for your research.”
“That is true,” he agreed. “Let us hope that the Celestial Spice lives up to its reputation.”
“I hope so too—and now if you’ll excuse me I must have a few words with a couple of people.”
I went through the crowd looking for the two suspects fingered by the occult wisdom of the East.
Near the platform where Marvell still stood, Gaines had apparently broken the news. When Hal saw me, he raised his eyebrows and moved his hands in a pressuring movement. I responded with a wait-a-minute wave.
Gloria Branson looked as stunning as ever. I found her in conversation with a Rudolph Valentino look-alike but when she saw me, she broke off and I joined her.
“I understand why you were so arctic a while ago,” I said. “I fouled up your purchase, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied without emotion.
“I think you do. Eck has been arrested for the theft and the murders. The Ko Feng is about to be recovered, you’ll be able to get some of it and you may be able to do some research on it after all.”
Her eyes widened at the news, then she shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid that may no longer be possible.”
“Why not?”
“Paramount Pharmaceuticals is having a reorganization. There won’t be a place for me in it.”
“You’re losing your job?”
“Yes.”
“Owing to Ko Feng?”
“Of course.”
“But you just heard Marvell’s statement—he’s going to have the Globus Group distribute it. That means it’ll be available for research in vitamins, pharamaceuticals, foods—all kinds of things.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said with just a hint of sarcasm. “All mankind will benefit, but in the meantime the juggernaut of business roars on. And it rolls right over losers. I’m a loser because we didn’t get the Ko Feng at Paramount—us exclusively, that is.”
“Don’t blame yourself too much,” I consoled her. “After all,” I added carefully, “you tried.”
There was a flicker in those beautiful eyes.
“Not hard enough,” was all she said, though.
“Tell me something,” I said, “now that it’s all over. When you phoned that number at that restaurant at that precise time and asked me if the Ko Feng was genuine—were you really prepared to buy it?”
“You mean you went to a restaurant to authenticate some Ko Feng and someone phoned you there?” Her eyes were round. “All part of the secrecy, I suppose?”
“That’s right. I tasted the Ko Feng and was asked if it was genuine.”
“And was it?”
“I said it was a substitute—a phony.”
“And that was the truth?”
“No. It was a lie.”
“I’m surprised at you, the honest English detective.”
The words were a quick attempt at covering her lapse but we both knew it was too late. The expression that passed across her face was unmistakable, though it was gone in a flash. That and her statement that she had been fired meant she didn’t have the spice.
“Actually, I’m not a detective really. I have no authority of any kind so there’ll be no official mention of this.”
She nodded but turned away as I wished her good luck in finding a new job.
Gaines was waiting impatiently where I had left him.
“Keyhoe has the Ko Feng,” I told him. “He must have bought it yesterday so he can’t have had time to do much with it.”
He opened his mouth to ask me if I was sure. Luckily, he closed it, nodded and hurried off. I was glad of that. I didn’t want to have to explain …
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
LA PERLA DI NAPOLI was on the edge of Greenwich Village between a grocery store and a tiny offi
ce that published what appeared to be a highly subversive newspaper. The dark green paint on the outside would need some work soon and the green and white striped awning was only good for perhaps a couple more years, but inside the friendly welcome and the rustic Italian atmosphere made up for everything.
Of course, I was greeted in a friendly manner because I was with Gabriella but I watched couples and families coming in after us and every one was known to Giovanni and Elsa Rossini. The restaurant was small with only a dozen tables squeezed close together. On the walls were oil paintings, probably by some local artist, depicting familiar Italian scenes from pigeon-laden St. Mark’s Square to a certain tower with a very pronounced tilt. Between them hung wicker-covered Chianti bottles, banners declaring undying support for the Intra-Milan soccer team and photographs of prominent Italians from Tony Bennett and Dean Martin to Pavarotti and the Pope.
The scent of basil hung heavy in the small room but it was losing the unequal struggle against waves of garlic. I fancied I could discern the smells of sage and rosemary but against such powerful competition, that was probably imagination. If pasta had a smell, though, it would have dominated all others, for the steaming plates sailed by continuously, carried aloft by Gabriella’s perspiring father, a small wiry man with a happy grin and a nonstop line of chatter in both Italian and English.
“Does your father cook too?” I asked Gabriella. She was wearing a black sweater with tiny sparkles in it and a skirt in a sort of cobalt color. Her hair was lustrous black—I tried to push the overused “raven’s wing” description away, apt as it was.
“Oh yes. He’s a bit lighter on his feet than mamma so he spends more time here up front. But he’s up every morning by six, making the pasta.”
“Seldom had better,” I told her.
We had started with a tray of antipasti—mortadella, Parma ham, margottini (small domes of polenta sprinkled with gruyère), salami, smoked salmon with sliced mushrooms (Gabriella’s eyes had widened—“Everybody doesn’t get this,” she confided), ceci (chickpeas), eggplant slices rolled around caciocavallo cheese, marinated mussels, a slice of scarpazzone (spinach pie) … It was a feast in itself and the accompanying garlic bread had been carefully soaked in olive oil but not allowed to become soggy.
We had finished the pasta course. It was readily identifiable as having been made from semolina but Gabriella explained that it was known as cavatieddi, a specialty of Apulia. Pieces of dough the size of a thumbnail had been pressed out with the tip of a butter knife to produce a shape like a seashell but smaller than the similar and better-known orrechietti that resemble the lobe of an ear.
Giovanni came and poured more of a luscious ruby-red Amarone, then hurried off, calling “Pronto, pronto” to a loud demand for more bread. “He usually serves a Chianti Classico to special customers,” said Gabriella. “He must think you’re running for mayor.”
“Not even chief of police,” I told her.
We sipped the wine. It was rich and smooth. A wine taster would describe it as having raisin and chocolate flavors but such descriptions should be confined to the trade—they merely confuse the average wine drinker.
“So the case is all wrapped up now,” I mused. “You found the gun in Eck’s car and it fired the bullets that killed both men.”
Gabriella sipped a little more of her wine. “As wrapped up as they ever are. We’ve leaned on Mr. Singyang too. He most likely did buy the birds’ nests, though we’ll never prove it, but it looks as if the sale was done so carefully that he really didn’t know the identity of the seller.”
“Have you found out how Keyhoe paid Eck? I mean, was it twenty thousand fifty-dollar bills or what?”
“No trace yet but it won’t take long. Might have been diamonds—that’s a popular way to pay large sums using a small package.”
“Then the seller has to be able to tell real from phony too. Does he have to get an authenticator as well?”
“Hopefully,” said Gabriella. “Anything to make things tougher for the bad guys.”
“Another thing—I hadn’t realized that you had probed into Marvell’s movements so closely.”
“Oh, of course we did. And we found out that Marvell had to fly to Boston to be there when his daughter had a critical brain operation.”
“He could have told me that.”
“He’s a very private man. Doesn’t like to give anything of himself. He knew this two weeks earlier—which was when he told Cartwright that he was to meet the delivery, giving Cartwright time to plan the theft with Eck. That also prompted Eck to spread suspicion on Marvell—spread further by Keyhoe.”
“So Keyhoe caved in and Marvell has the Ko Feng back.”
Gabriella nodded agreement.
“I’m still uncertain about the motive for killing Don Renshaw,” I said.
“We expect to get confirmation from the interrogation of Eck but we know that Renshaw spotted the similarity in the two thefts. The obvious man for him to call was Cartwright, who told Eck, and both of them evidently thought that Renshaw knew more than he did. Incidentally, we had already had word that Eck’s desk was heavily in debt.”
In a casual voice, she went on, “I had a half hour with the vice-president of Paramount Pharmaceuticals this morning. You hadn’t mentioned she was a woman.”
“Didn’t I?” I frowned, tapping my forehead. “I suppose it wasn’t important. I just saw her as a vice-president.”
“I was wondering,” Gabriella said, still casual, “why you thought she was telling the truth when she told you she was losing her job because she hadn’t been able to buy the Ko Feng.”
“It wasn’t the truth? You mean she’s not losing her job?”
“Oh, that’s true enough. I confirmed it before I talked to her. I just wondered how you were so sure.”
“Oh, experience,” I said loftily. “From years of talking to witnesses.”
“Witnesses to who put the copper wire into the gorgonzola, for instance?”
“I know that’s not like grilling murderers,” I protested. “But I could tell she hadn’t bought the Celestial Spice.”
“Too good-looking?”
“Not at all.”
“You mean you don’t think she is?”
“Oh, in a—a blond sort of way, I suppose she is, yes. But that’s not why I thought she hadn’t bought the spice.”
“Hm.” She sounded unimpressed but I supposed she was used to much sterner interrogation techniques at the NYPD. “You know, you still haven’t explained how you learned that Keyhoe had bought the spice.”
“I—er, didn’t exactly learn it, well, not in a direct manner…”
“Because it could have turned out to be somebody who hadn’t previously shown up in inquiries.”
“I didn’t think so. I was counting on the pressure we had put on the thief. After all, I had declared a sample a phony when I knew it was the real thing and that had queered that sale. We discussed the likelihood of killing me as revenge but I was betting on the thief continuing to act in the same rational, logical pattern as before and not react emotionally.
“So rather than go further afield,” I went on, “which would take longer, he did the smart thing. He got another authenticator—one from three thousand miles away—and got the best deal he could from one of the willing buyers on hand.”
“The testing you went through at Martha’s should have sewed it up,” said Gabriella. “Which willing buyer was that?”
“It was Gloria Branson.”
She darted me a sharp look. “It was? You didn’t recognize her voice … well, no reason why you should. Any security store sells devices for $19.95 that will disguise your voice so that your own mother wouldn’t know it.”
“She may have been a good first choice. With her job on the line, she was anxious to buy. Eck probably approached Keyhoe next.”
“I think so. He was almost as anxious.”
“Gloria Branson talked too about some research you were going to help her wi
th?”
“Whenever I can, I like to help expand the database,” I said virtuously.
“I talked to Kay Grenville at New England Assurance also,” she continued. “She received a phone call inviting her to discuss a deal for returning the Ko Feng.”
“Yes, we talked about that possibility, didn’t we? Eck would have been exploring that possibility when he found he was having problems selling the Ko Feng. What did she tell him?”
“She turned him down, although she didn’t know who he was. Told him two murders made any deal out of the question.”
A beaming Giovanni Rossini appeared with two plates of fritto misto and set them down before us with a flourish. He poured us more Amarone—in true Italian style, he wasn’t fussy about when to serve white and when to serve red.
Gabriella went on. “We were having another round of interviews with the restaurant people too, just in case the thief had any idea of trying some different approach with them. I talked to Mrs. Rifkin first.”
“Who?” I had asked the question before it struck me but Gabriella was already saying, “Well, I suppose you know her only as Ayesha …”
“How do you decide on your interviewing technique?” I asked, savoring the crispy, crackly little fish. “Start with all the women?”
She smiled. “Hal thought I might get more out of them. You know—woman to woman … Why, what’s the matter?” she asked slyly, “afraid your girlfriends might blurt out some indiscretion?”
“I’m sure any of them might,” I said, “but as long as it concerned the case, it wouldn’t matter.” I motioned to the fritto misto. “This is excellent. Cooked just right. Your mother has a magic touch.”
She chuckled delightfully, attacking the fish with gusto. “Okay, I won’t tease you anymore. This is good, isn’t it? It’s one of my mother’s favorites, she can make a meal of it.”
With every table filled, Gabriella’s father was kept busy. “He has a waitress help him on Friday and Saturday nights,” Gabriella said. “Other nights, he manages alone.”
Tiny fish fried that way are always salty and Giovanni thoughtfully brought us a large bottle of San Pellegrino.
