Spiced to Death (6 page)

“No. We have never been partners, never in the same business.”

She glanced at her notes again.

“You came over here strictly to do this—” She looked for the word and I supplied it.

“Authentication. Yes.”

“Don’t we have any people in this country qualified to do it?”

“Oh, yes. In this case, Don—representing the buyer—suggested me and the sellers agreed. The old adage of an expert being nothing more than an ordinary fellow a long way from home probably applies. In England, we often call in American experts.”

“So how long did you intend to stay?”

Her use of the past tense wasn’t encouraging. “Two or three days was the arrangement. I have a flight booked for tomorrow on British Airways.”

She might be a member of the police department but she took considerable pains with her appearance. Italian women’s eyebrows tend to be thick but hers were expertly tweezed and beautifully shaped. I noticed this because she had raised them while asking her question. I also noticed the gray, silky blouse which was all I could see of her clothes.

“I might have added another day,” I said, “and done a bit of sightseeing. I love New York and haven’t been here for some years.”

She seemed to reach some kind of decision. She leaned back and half pushed the notebook away in a gesture that might be meaningful. The police interrogation aura eased and she became almost friendly. More likely it was a technique, but she was very attractive and I didn’t want her thinking I was the kind of man who would steal Ko Feng.

“What do you think happened to it?” she asked me.

The world of music owes more to the Italians than to any other country and it has bestowed upon them more musical voices—a blessing which has spilled over into speaking voices too. Certainly, Gabriella Rossini had the kind of voice that was a delight to listen to and then there was that name …

After these musings, I almost asked, “What was the question?” but I didn’t want to appear flip so I pulled it out of my memory and said, “I’m completely baffled. I don’t see how it can have happened. The chest was never out of our sight—”

“What about during the drive from JFK to the bank here?”

“True, we couldn’t see it but the back was locked. We made no stops except for traffic lights and no one could have forced the back without us feeling or hearing it.”

“Other than Donald Renshaw, you had never met any of the others before?”

“None of them, no.”

“Did you know this bank?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone here?”

“No, no one.”

“You have a very interesting job,” she stated and if it was technique, she certainly knew how to move around.

“I love it.”

“It must have been an exciting moment when you tasted the Ko Feng. How long has it been lost?”

“About five hundred years, maybe more.”

She leaned forward and I thought I caught a whiff of perfume but perhaps not. That would really undermine the image of the NYPD.

“What did it taste like?”

“Indescribable, really. At first, there were hints of other spice tastes, then I felt I was mistaken and that it wasn’t similar to any other spice. It was unique and somehow powerful, yet subtle at the same time.”

“Spices can be hard to describe, can’t they?”

“Very. We have lots of ways of describing how wines taste but the language seems inadequate for spices.”

“My parents have a restaurant in Greenwich Village.” Her tone was bordering on the friendly now but I kept myself ready for another of her shifts of emphasis. “I grew up there, so I love food. The idea of this Ko Feng fascinates me.”

“Why do I think it’s an Italian restaurant that your parents have?” I asked.

I had made the breakthrough after all. She smiled slightly and I had been right—she did have a lovely smile and even white teeth.

“La Perla di Napoli it’s called. Open every day except Sunday. The specialties are
scaloppine
with mushrooms,
saltimbocca
and
gamberi con aglio.
Of course, they make all their own pasta.”

“No
piccione?
What a shame!” I said.

“In New York?” She raised those eyebrows again. “Pigeons are considered a menace not a food.”

“I’ll have to eat there. Good
saltimbocca
is getting hard to find.”

She nodded and the police persona returned. “Inspector Gaines wants you to stay in the city for a few more days.”

“In that case, my address is going to change. My fee was on a daily basis and it’s not likely to continue so I can’t stay at the Courtney Park any longer.”

“Here’s my card,” she said. “Let me know what your new address and phone number are as soon as you move.”

“I will. At least, staying in New York a little longer will give me a chance to sample more of the wonderful cooking.”

“Of all kinds. Naturally I’m prejudiced in favor of Italian. And I will need to talk to you again.”

“Tell me,” I asked, “is evidence obtained while under the influence of minestrone admissible in court?”

She smiled charmingly.

“I mean, it doesn’t come under the Carmen Miranda act or anything like that, does it?” I asked.

“There isn’t anything like that,” she assured me. She closed her notebook. “You can go,” she said.

“You want me to go?”

“You can go,” she repeated and I told myself that she was making that careful differentiation.

I
AWOKE THE NEXT
morning before eight, jet lag notwithstanding. I called room service and ordered a half grapefruit, scrambled eggs with ham, and coffee. I remembered that Americans specify the bread they prefer and asked for whole wheat. The hotel brochure promised room service within fifteen minutes. Then I called Don.

We went over the events of the day before and agreed that it was hard to believe the theft had really happened. When would we hear about the Celestial Spice next? Don had a theory. “Do you recall what Peggy said when we were discussing the value of Ko Feng? She said putting a value on it was like putting one on the
Mona Lisa.”

“So?”

“If the
Mona Lisa
were to be stolen, what could the thief do with it? There’s the old story about a recluse millionaire living in seclusion on a mountaintop and stealing it so that he, and he alone, can enjoy looking at it—but nobody buys that anymore. No—a more probable reason is ransom.”

It did make sense. “Do you think we’ll be hearing from the kidnappers soon?”

“It’s the best guess I can come up with,” Don said. “And kidnapping the Ko Feng seems like a better idea than kidnapping a rich man’s daughter or a champion racehorse.”

“You may be right there,” I admitted. “You don’t have to feed the Ko Feng. Have you told Lieutenant Gaines about this theory?”

“What do you think?” It was rhetorical.

“I can just see his face if you did. He’d look as if he’d drunk a bottle of soy sauce.”

“He’s the detective,” Don said. “If he hasn’t thought of the ransom idea, then he ought not to be running the Unusual Crimes Unit. They must get all kinds of weirdo crimes and bizarre motives. Ransom’s bound to be among them.”

“Tell me something. Did anybody contact you once you had agreed to take on this job?”

“No. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they do now.”

“Neither would I. The two of us are prime suspects.”

We chatted on for a while then I said, “I don’t suppose Marvell is going to want to pay me my expenses any longer. This hotel is $285 a night.”

“I don’t suppose he will. He isn’t the easiest of men to get along with—I certainly wouldn’t want to be in Cartwright’s shoes. Marvell’s probably got him in the roasting pan right now and is turning up the temperature.”

“His opinion of us isn’t likely to be much higher,” I added.

“Well, at least we declared the Ko Feng genuine,” said Don. “He must be thankful to us for that.”

“And then it was stolen from under our noses. He won’t thank us for
that.”

“We weren’t hired as security guards,” Don argued.

“Is he reasonable enough to take that into account?”

“Aye, there’s the rub. Reasonable is not one of the first adjectives to come to mind when you’re dealing with Alexander Marvell. You’ll soon find that out when you talk to him.”

“I have to, I suppose?”

“No way you’ll be able to avoid it. I expect to hear from him any minute—literally. You’ll probably be included in the invitation—if you can call it that. In the meantime though, back to your question … The answer is no, I don’t think he’ll spring for any more nights at the Courtney Park.” He paused, thinking. “Listen, there’s a place over on West Seventy-third Street, not far off Central Park. I’ve put visitors in there a few times when they weren’t on a first-class expense account. It’s okay and reasonable. It’s called the Framingham Hotel. It’s one of those conversions from an old apartment building.”

“It sounds good,” I told him. “Inspector Gaines told me to stay around a few days so I hope it isn’t any longer than that.”

“And that cute sergeant? What did she tell you? The two of you seemed to be getting on very well when you came out of that interrogation.”

“I always try to cooperate fully with the police,” I said virtuously.

“Especially when they’re policewomen … Is she interrogating you again today?”

“We don’t have any plans for it. I keep seeing these posters about this International Food Fair and I thought I’d go take a look.”

“I was thinking of putting in an hour or two there myself, but I can’t. I’ve got a visitor this morning and another this afternoon. Give me a call later.”

I had a shower while waiting for breakfast and was astonished to find that the powerful aroma of the Ko Feng was still on my hands. After thirty minutes, the breakfast had not arrived and I called room service.

More than forty-five minutes had elapsed before the meal did arrive. Service in New York had deteriorated since my last visit. At $285 a night, I expected better than that and I said so when I checked out. The clerk apologized and said it was because they had a lot of guests. I suggested that as this was a hotel, they should expect guests. My transatlantic sarcasm went over her head as she was too busy adding to my bill 8.25 percent sales tax, 6 percent city occupancy tax, 5 percent state occupancy tax and $6 for delivering breakfast. So not only was service down, but prices were up. Frank Sinatra might sing of the city that doesn’t sleep but anyone who did sleep certainly paid dearly for it.

I took a cab to the Framingham and checked in. The room was half the size and about half the price, and I got a 15 percent discount by taking the room for a week. I took out some business cards and wrote the address and phone number of the Framingham on the back. Then I took a cab to the Javits Center and the International Food Fair.

I
T HAD ONLY BEEN
open a few minutes but already it was fairly crowded. I skimmed through the catalog and picked out a few names that were familiar. The nearest pavilions were those of Japan and the West Indies and I chose to start with the latter.

Many of the islands were represented, the biggest and most colorful booth being that of Jamaica. Tables were set out under palm-fronded roofs and a realistic stand of sugar cane swayed in the breeze from hidden fans. Music from steel bands throbbed softly and despite the early hour, a bar was dispensing rum drinks. A snack bar and a restaurant were preparing typical Jamaican specialties and tempting aromas were drifting out.

There were strips of curried goat for the more adventurous American eater, Jerk Chicken for the lovers of the hot and spicy, beef patties and spareribs for those who wanted more familiar food. The national dish, Salt Fish and Ackee, was on display—the salted cod was mixed with red and green peppers and ackee, a Jamaican fruit. Slices of pawpaw, pineapple and mango were on most tables and it all looked irresistible. But I managed to resist and moved on to the Middle East pavilion.

Persia had a large display. As food disdains political boundaries, the change in name to Iran was ignored. In any case, the home country played little part in mounting this display, which was put on by American establishments. Lamb tongues simmered in a rich sauce under the eye of a swarthy chef in a clever duplication of a Persian kitchen. I asked him what was in the sauce.

“Advieh,” he told me. “A spice mixture containing cumin, coriander, cardamom and cinnamon plus secret ingredient.”

“And what is the secret ingredient?” His grin widened. “If I tell you—is no secret. No, I tell you—is rose petals.”

“Aren’t they lost with all those other spicy ingredients? Don’t they overwhelm it?”

“No, no, they give it fragrance.”

He may have been right. Certainly the aroma was different and I knew that the Persians had traditionally used rose petals in many of their dishes.

The next stand was a spectacular reproduction of a restaurant front in the Middle East and had an eye-catching sign:
PHOENICIA.
Beneath it, another sign said
FOOD IN THE STYLE OF THE ANCIENT WORLD.
The front was half cut away so that the visitor could walk in, and the interior was half restaurant and half kitchen. I was admiring the ingenuity of the layout when a woman came out of the kitchen, saw me and walked toward me.

She had a bold, hip-swinging gait that emphasized her voluptuous figure and long legs. She had jet black hair held in a golden band and her skin was a pale olive color which almost shone. Full red lips and a bold nose were noticeable only after you had looked at her eyes. I had heard eyes referred to as “almond” but had never before seen any that truly deserved that description. They were long and brilliant as jewels, and their color was extraordinary.

“Welcome to Phoenicia. My name is Ayesha.”

Her voice had an indolent, purring quality and I could hardly wait for her to go on talking. She wore a blouse and a flowing skirt, both in reds and greens with a wide belt of gold mesh. Bare ankles led to high-heeled sandals with gold straps.

“Food in the ancient style,” I said. “What does that mean exactly?”