Spiced to Death (11 page)

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.

I looked for a phone but there wasn’t one. I had never experienced claustrophobia before but I did now. I felt like a rat in a trap.

My head was buzzing. I didn’t know whether it was the decreasing pressure or my nerves. My ears were playing tricks on me and I could hear a high-pitched buzz. I coughed again—and again. It was hard to get my breath …

I stumbled over to the window. A girl in a yellow dress walked by. I thumped with my fist but even I couldn’t hear the sound. She didn’t even notice me. I spread my hands flat against the glass and pressed my face to it. My heart leapt with joy as a couple of women came along and one of them looked my way. She nudged her companion and pointed. They both laughed, waved and walked on.

I couldn’t believe it. They had seen me—why hadn’t they—then it struck me. A nose squashed against a pane of glass merely looks funny—from the other side …

A man in a white lab coat came in the other direction, carrying a box. He looked at me and I grabbed my throat with both hands and made strangling motions. The man smiled, shifted the box under his left arm. He put his right forefinger to his temple and pulled an imaginary trigger. Still smiling, he passed out of sight. The corridor was empty.

My breath was coming in gulps. I refused to look at the gauge but found I couldn’t resist. It was very low and still going down. I banged futilely on the glass.

Another man came into sight. He was tall and lean and I was certain I knew him. Surely it was Willard Cartwright! Or was I delirious? It could be him, he worked for the corporation. I thought he was looking at me but he made no sign of recognition. It probably wasn’t him and anyway he was gone.

My eyes hurt. They felt as if they would burst out of my head. I didn’t have much longer. If I was to get out of here alive, I had to act and act fast.

I searched the room, looking for something I could use as a tool. I could find nothing. The room was empty except for the two tables and all the glass and plastic vessels on them. I couldn’t move one of the tables even if I weren’t weak and dizzy.

I felt through my pockets, forcing myself to breathe slowly. All I could find was a ballpoint pen. It had a metal body. I looked up at the ceiling but the lighting was all sunken behind plastic panels. By the entrance door, though, was a light switch. I placed the end of the pen against the plastic cover and hammered it with my fist. Nothing happened. I snatched a jar off the table and used it. The plastic cover of the switch cracked, then a piece broke off and I levered the remainder away.

I picked up the bowl which had the most liquid in it, knocking over several others in my haste. I threw the contents into the light switch cavity. There was a dazzling flash and a sizzling noise as the lights went out. I staggered to the gauge. It was almost down to zero now—and still falling. The pressure pump must be on a different circuit from the lights.

A fog was gathering around me but I was aware of motion. At the window, a face looked like it was in a fishbowl and arms were waving. I dragged myself over there. A man was pointing at the ceiling and making gestures. In my befuddled state, I couldn’t understand at first, then I realized he was asking me why I was there in the semidarkness. I pointed urgently at the door and made opening signs.

I didn’t pass out but I was in a stupor as the door swung open and I was carried outside. For a few minutes, I sat on the floor learning to breathe all over again.

People gathered, asking what had happened. Had I had a heart attack? Had there been an accident? Where were the medics? Were we making a movie? When would it be shown? Alarm bells were clanging and their echoes were bouncing around inside my skull.

I must still have been oxygen-deprived. I thought that in the crowd around me was the face of the girl I had talked to in the Spice Warehouse just before Don Renshaw’s murder …

Fortunately, no one around me seemed to be in any position of authority as no one asked who I was or what I was doing there. I continued to groan and look drowsy even after I had recovered. One young man peered into the room and his anguished look told me that I had ruined his experiments. The face I expected to see—that of the heavyset, red-faced man—was nowhere in sight.

Finally, I got to my feet, said I was much better and began to walk away. There were protests and I was told to wait for the first-aid people but I said I would go to them.

The young woman at the reception desk was already phoning for a cab for one of the waiting visitors and I told her to make it two. They pulled up in front within minutes and I just going out thankfully when a voice shouted, “Hey, wait a minute—you there!”

For a second, I contemplated making a dash for the taxi but I couldn’t be sure the driver would aid and abet my escape. I stopped and turned.

The young man with the roomful of ruined experiments was hurrying toward me.

“You forgot this,” he said and thrust the box of envelopes into my hands.

A
WARM BATH RELAXED
and restored me to near normality. The phone rang. It was Sergeant Gabriella Rossini.

“You were supposed to bring us your passport,” she said accusingly.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I told her, “but I was summoned into the presence of Alexander Marvell. I just got back.”

I had decided not to mention my brush with extinction at the Marvell Laboratories. I was not certain whether it had been a true accident or whether it had a more sinister meaning. Until I learned more, I didn’t see any reason to tell the police about it.

“There are a few aspects of the case we should talk about,” she said. “I can get your passport from you at the same time.”

Did I detect a hint of conciliation in her voice. I thought so …

“What time is it now?”

“Nearly five o’clock.”

“I was just taking a bath—hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we have a bite to eat? You’ll be off duty shortly, won’t you?”

“Well …” She hesitated just the right length of time. “As a matter of fact, I promised to go see a former roommate of mine who just opened a restaurant—you know, lend some moral support.” As if she had just thought of it, she went on, “This is right in your line of business, isn’t it—you could probably offer some tips.”

“Sounds good,” I said and meant it. It was much better than being suspected of murder.

“It’s not a terribly gourmet place,” she cautioned. “I mean, don’t expect too much—it isn’t another Four Seasons or anything.”

“Sounds fine,” I insisted even though she hadn’t told me a thing about it.

“It should be fun,” she said and I wondered what she meant by that but I didn’t ask.

We discussed arrangements. She lived in Brooklyn near Prospect Park and the restaurant was on the northern edge of Greenwich Village so we agreed to meet there.

A
MERICANS LOVE CLEVER
and catchy names and slogans. Bumper stickers abound and are an outlet for some of the more ingenious of these and those brave hopefuls who venture into the restaurant business believe that one way to plaster their establishment’s name onto the public consciousness is to give it an original—and if possible, unique—name.
THE BULL MOOSE
said the glaring red neon sign where the cab dropped me. I didn’t know exactly where I was other than bordering on Greenwich Village, but it looked safe enough, despite all that I had heard about the physical dangers of New York City. I remembered, though, that Don Renshaw had been killed only yards away from where I had been standing so complacency was to be avoided.

The name of the restaurant was not as scintillating as some of those in New York. The Quilted Giraffe is a popular and expensive restaurant that I had heard of but never visited. The Monkey Bar and Smith and Wollensky and 8 ½ are all names that stick in the memory. Mad 61 is the address as well as the name of a popular New York Italian restaurant whose fame was widespread—number 61 Madison Avenue. One If By Land, Two If By Sea is unwieldy but undeniably patriotic and, I understood, a fine combination of American and Continental cooking.

But if The Bull Moose wasn’t the wittiest name in the city, its subtitle, in pulsating electric blue lights, came close. It was described as
NEW YORK’S FIRST SASKATCHEWAN RESTAURANT.

“Jean has been wanting to do this for a long time,” Gabriella told me. She was wearing a smart blue plaid jacket over a cream-colored blouse and a short blue skirt. She looked very trim and appealing and anything but a detective sergeant—as I told her.

“I wasn’t always one,” she said.

“Now don’t tell me you had several careers before joining the force.”

“I went to acting school and had a few minor roles, including a couple Off Broadway.”

I was impressed and told her so. “Why did you give it up?”

“I didn’t really feel it was my calling. I enjoyed it but I realized that I didn’t have the talent for major success and I wasn’t willing to settle for a life of uncertainty and small, occasional roles.”

“And backstage didn’t interest you?”

“No. It was acting or nothing. Then one day, I was in a market when this kid held up the owner. He managed to sound the alarm at a station which was only a block away. A policewoman came, talked the kid out of pulling the trigger and took away his gun. I was so impressed that I decided there and then that I wanted to join the force.”

“And you did and now you’re a sergeant.”

She smiled a charming smile that lit up her eyes and her entire face.

“And loving it—especially since I became a detective.”

“So you knew your friend Jean during your acting days?”

“We shared an apartment. Jean wanted to act too.”

“You became a cop and Jean went into the restaurant business?”

“Not just like that. An aunt of Jean’s died and left quite a lot of money. Jean was the principal heir.”

“Ah,” I said, “I was wondering about that. I know how much money it takes to open a restaurant in London. It must cost even more here.”

It was easy to see why Gabriella had used the word
fun
in relation to the restaurant. A plastic-encased review reprinted from
New York
magazine on the occasion of the opening summed it up well—“Highly irreverent—geared to a youthful sensibility that enjoys a large helping of craziness. It is at the same time a museum of trivia, kitsch and nostalgia.” The rest of the review had been overscored with a thick black pen.

A couple of massive fireplaces were molded in brown plastic. Hollow plastic logs glowed from red bulbs inside them. Beams crisscrossing the ceiling were unashamedly plastic and from them hung the illumination—wagon wheels with electric candles. The walls were almost hidden by bullfight and old movie posters, copper fry-pans, farm tools with what looked like earth still clinging to them, the head of a cross-eyed reindeer, a papier-mâché Santa Claus, a cuckoo clock big enough to house an ostrich …

I caught Gabriella watching me as I stared around in goggle-eyed disbelief. She was trying not to laugh but couldn’t hold it in any longer. Her giggles were infectious and I had to join in.

“What do you think?” she asked when she had regained control.

“Really classy,” I assured her. “Did Jean spend a lot of time and most of the inheritance at Sotheby’s getting hold of these art treasures?”

“Ask him yourself,” she answered and I realized that the name should be spelled Gene. He was slim and dark-haired, very good-looking and moved like a ballet dancer. He and Gabriella hugged each other like—was it like old friends or was it more than that?

After she had introduced me, they exchanged compliments on each other’s appearance, asked about mutual friends and then hugged again.

Business was good, he told me when I managed to cut in and end the hugging. He had a melodious voice and had probably been a very sensitive actor. A voice called from across the room and he sighed apologetically. “My partner—excuse me—he’s got a problem. I’ll send a waiter over.”

The tables were vinyl-topped with a pattern of red and white squares. The chairs were all different, some wood, some metal, some ex-Salvation Army. On the wall behind us, Ronald Reagan in a cowboy outfit wore a sheriff’s badge and held a six-shooter. A
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
poster had been stuck above it. A Polynesian mask and a wooden airplane propeller were on either side of it. A waiter came up and put down two glasses of sparkling liquid.

“Compliments of the management,” he said with a grin. He pushed aside the quart-sized ketchup bottle and the rusty salt and pepper shakers, making space for a basket of appetizers.

“Here’s to success,” I toasted Gabriella.

She nodded. “Success to the Bull Moose, to your visit to New York and to the investigation.”

“And our better acquaintance,” I added.

“That too.”

We drank. It was a good cocktail in the best tradition of New York, the home of the cocktail. It tasted like vodka, orange juice, orange Curaçao and some sparkling water. I didn’t want to ask what it was called.

I reached into my jacket pocket and handed her my passport. “There, now I’m your prisoner.”