Spiced to Death (19 page)

“I remember reading that the workers on the pyramids in Egypt went on strike when their garlic ration was cut.”

She nodded. “But the Middle Ages were the times when the search for love potions was at a peak—every wizard, every sorcerer and every alchemist was brewing up a newer and better one. Repressive governments and ignorant populations made an ideal environment for even the most outlandish concoctions. Yet some of these contained ingredients which we have since come to find very useful.”

“Presumably they hit on them by sheer chance,” I suggested.

“Trial and error too. Even without any scientific method, centuries and centuries of trial and error produced a small body of knowledge.”

The first course arrived. My barley soup tasted authentic and had asparagus tips in it.

“Another heavily favored aphrodisiac,” commented Gloria when I remarked on them.

She was studying her Russian Eggs but evidently didn’t miss a trick. She continued to expand on the theme.

“Many vegetables with what was considered to be a phallic shape had that reputation—even carrots and parsnips.”

I asked about the eggs when she had tasted them. The layer of black caviar was generous and she indicated approval.

“Yet another stimulant,” I pointed out.

“An inaccurate belief,” she said. I was quickly learning that she was a lady of strong opinions. “Based on cost and scarcity—false bases, both of them.”

“And then there was Casanova, who believed in oysters. They too have been scarce and expensive at certain periods in history.”

I said it fully aware that she had ordered oysters for her second course.

“Casanova ate fifty a day,” she agreed. “When it was later found that oysters are very rich in zinc, a search began for other zinc-rich foods.”

“And now it’s a search for any product which will act as a sexual stimulant.”

She nodded. “Flowers have always been very popular for the purpose. Henry VIII ate primroses and violets at meals while jasmine, lotus, saw palmetto, fuchsia and verbena are just some of the others that many people swear by.”

“Isn’t it surprising that flowers are not used more in modern cooking?” I asked.

“Very surprising. I think we are due for a resurgence of interest in them. At PP”—I looked askance and she explained—“Paramount Pharmaceuticals, we are analyzing and testing numerous flower groups to determine what chemical compounds of value may be in them.”

The second course had arrived by now. Gloria’s oysters were in a milk-and-butter mixture only, the chef presumably not wanting any other flavors to obtrude. I considered asking Gloria if she preferred that no spices interfered with their stimulating purpose but did not, concentrating on my eel. There was a fraction too much vinegar in the dill sauce, which prevented the full flavor from coming through, but it was acceptable. I knew from personal experience that no chef can please all tastes.

The wall drapes had a sound-deadening effect which made the restaurant very quiet. It lived up to its name as even the most secretive intriguer couldn’t be heard in the next booth. This was just as well as our conversation would have proved fascinating to the average eavesdropper.

Gloria continued. “The discovery of hormones brought a new approach. The male hormone was identified as testosterone and the female as estrogen. Products which contain these or initiate their production by the body are the target of investigations on which millions of dollars are being spent.”

The wine waiter poured us the last of the Riesling. It is always a problem when a dish contains vinegar as mine did, because vinegar affects the taste of the wine. Salads are equally difficult from the wine drinker’s point of view, as most dressings are acidic. We asked the wine waiter for his suggestion on a wine to go with the main course and, after lamenting that he had no suitable Austrian wines in the cellar, he proposed a German Spätburgunder, adding that they had a case in the cellar from Assmannshausen, universally considered to be the best. We ordered a half bottle.

One thing I liked about Gloria—well, there were a number of things but one of them was that she paid full attention to her food and when the main course arrived, I was still admiring her for that reason as well.

Her sweetbreads looked appetizing and she nodded approval upon tasting them. It had been a long time since I had eaten goose but the chef had lived up to the reputation that Gloria told me had accompanied him from Salzburg.

We were almost through when she resumed our conversation.

“As it was my idea that we should form a new group to produce and market aphrodisiacs, my job is on the line. If the group isn’t profitable, I’ll be looking for another job.”

“I’m sure you would have no trouble getting one.”

“That’s not the point.” She put down her fork to concentrate on her words. “This was my suggestion, my idea. If it doesn’t succeed, I’ve failed. That is important to me.”

“I can understand that. Still, you can’t have much to worry about—it seems like an infallible notion from a marketing viewpoint. Aphrodisiacs will surely sell like—well, I don’t suppose ‘hot cakes’ is exactly the right metaphor …”

She smiled and took a hearty swallow of wine. “The concept is right, that’s true. Even if our marketing forecasts are off by fifty percent, we should still do very well.”

“Isn’t it odd that no one has thought of this before?” I asked.

“A number of products are on the market but the FDA doesn’t permit describing them as aphrodisiacs, and we can’t advertise them as such. Yohimbine, avena sativa, and gotu kola are all herbs which have some effect as sexual stimulants. Some claims are made for ginseng while others swear by gingko biloba. Then among the chemical stimulants are bromocriptine and acetylcholine.”

She stopped eating and drinking temporarily and I knew she must have something important to say. “With Ko Feng, it’s different. Ko Feng offers us our first clear chance of marketing a substance that can be accurately described as an aphrodisiac.”

“How do you know?”

“Robert Barker’s book
The History of Spices,
published in 1911, John Arthur Evans’s earlier work,
Sexual Stimulants
and Erika Farber’s
The Venus Factor
deal with the subject in general and make numerous references to Ko Feng. Rabd-Al-Manah’s books in Arabic contain extensive mentions of natural products effective as aphrodisiacs and Ko Feng is described as the most powerful of all. A lot of other titles have accumulated in our library since I began this project and Ko Feng is mentioned frequently.”

We finished our meal. We drank another glass of wine.

“The FDA will hardly accept the authority of deceased writers, will they?”

“We will, of course, have to do a considerable amount of research,” Gloria said carefully. Her lovely eyes were on me, calm and yet inviting.

“Rats, guinea pigs, fruit flies, you mean?”

“No matter how much laboratory work of that type is done, it will still be essential to make tests with humans.”

“Do you have a staff for this or—?”

“We sometimes use volunteers.”

“I suppose with any work this vital, you have to participate yourself?”

“Of course,” she murmured demurely. She sipped more Spätburgunder and the dark red wine left drops on her lips. She dabbed at them delicately. “I could hardly ask my staff to undertake any research work that I am not prepared to risk myself.”

“Management has its responsibilities,” I agreed.

“Tell me who else is interested in recovering the Ko Feng,” she said softly.

It took me a few seconds to switch subjects. I had been immersed in her plans for testing the Ko Feng and was still at the stage where I was speculating on exactly how results would be judged …

“Other potential buyers are on the scene, of course,” I said, being as noncommittal as I knew how.

“Competitors?”

“No, not competitors of yours. Different areas of business. I don’t know that there are any others working in your, er—more sensitive area.”

I wasn’t absolutely certain that was true. There might be a shading of overlap, although putting aphrodisiacs into breakfast cereals did strike me as being too innovative to be likely.

“Are you making any progress in recovering the Ko Feng?” she asked me anxiously.

“Several promising leads have shown up,” I said. “They are all being pursued.”

“Do you have any idea of when you expect to get it back?”

“We operate on the basis that we have to succeed in ten days,” I said, quoting Lieutenant Gaines but not crediting him for it.

“That means only about another week left.” She looked concerned and I looked noncommittal. It was easy to do.

“I could use your help on this,” I said.

She looked at me, inquiring but cautious.

“Let me know immediately if you’re approached by anyone offering to sell.”

“Do you think I will be?”

“It’s possible.”

When we left, she simply gave a nod to the maître d. It was an impressive way to pay the bill but out of a twenty-three-billion-dollar turnover, I suppose she had a generous expense account.

After such a delightful lunch, I had a lot to contemplate. An investigator’s life is tough and a food investigator is no exception. But I was prepared to do what an investigator has to do and when I got back to the Framingham Hotel, I decided to walk over to nearby Central Park and get some fresh air to stimulate my thinking processes. It was a pleasant afternoon with a light breeze and if I stayed with the crowds, I should be safe.

The nuts and the kooks were out in strength. A young man with a propeller on his hat was being pulled along on a skateboard, the power being provided by eight cats, all on strings like huskies pulling a sled. A group of monks in yellow robes were ringing bells and chanting. All had begging cups and a poster carried by one stated that the proceeds would go to building a temple on Staten Island. Bicycle messengers were using the park as a shortcut across town, and life and limb were being threatened in order to deliver office memos ten minutes sooner.

Two women went by, talking. “Know why the animals in the zoo are behind bars?” one asked her companion. “It’s for their safety.” The other sniffed as they passed an overflowing garbage can with a particularly offensive odor. “I wish this city would collect its garbage as often as it does taxes.”

On the way back to the hotel, I stopped and bought a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, some limes and a bottle of ginger ale. Some bourbon purists throw up their hands in horror at such a mixture but I find it a delicious combination—so delicious it deserves a name. At the Fairway Market near Seventy-fourth Street, the day’s specials were chalked up and I made a few purchases.

While enjoying the first drink, I watched television, still with an air of disbelief. On one channel, an uptight, egotistical, bombastic white male was the anchorman on a fictitious television news station while a gruff producer with a heart of gold was avoiding complimenting a competent white female assistant. On another channel, a gruff talk-show producer was avoiding complimenting his assistant, an unappreciated white female and trying not to fire his bombastic, fatuous, uptight white male sidekick. A third channel seemed to have the same characters but now they were in a newspaper office. A fourth channel had the same characters only now they were all black.

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.

T
HE 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!”