Spiced To Death Part 31

"We don't intend to pay off right now. We're going to give it longer than ten days. How many days? There's no decision on that yet. We'll see what comes to light in the next week or two then look at the case all over again."

"Won't Marvell be yelling for a settlement all that time?"

She shrugged. "Probably."

"Your card doesn't say what you do. Are you an investigator?"

"I do some investigating. We have other investigators too-some of them are working on this case."

"Any promising leads?"

"Nothing that the police don't know about. Naturally, some aspects might get more attention from us than the NYPD might give to them. Our interest is primarily to establish what happened to the Ko Feng-theirs is to solve a murder."

"I'm at the Framingham Hotel," I told her. "Can we keep in touch?"

"Of course." A thought occurred to her. "You're coming to the All-Charities Buffet, aren't you?"

"Haven't heard about it, but it sounds like a function I ought not to miss."

"It's run by the food and restaurant trade and they hold it at the Park Avenue Towers. It's an annual affair and it's tomorrow. Everybody comes."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll be there."

"I'll arrange for a ticket at the door for you-be there about noon."

There was a tap at the door and Maisie entered. "Sorry," she said. "I need the duplicate register for the storage rooms."

"Right there." Peggy pointed to a shelf.

"So it is," said Maisie with a sigh. "Just where it should be." She lifted it down. "Things never are in the most obvious place, are they?"

She went out. Kay was about to say something when she caught the exchange of looks between Peggy and me.

"The most obvious place ..." I breathed. "Do you suppose that's what Don meant-?"

"What is it?" Kay wanted to know and Peggy told her of Don's last words.

"Where is the most obvious place to hide the Ko Feng?" I asked, excited. "In a spice warehouse! Anything that valuable should be in a controlled atmosphere, carefully monitored temperature, protected from-"

Peggy jumped up and pulled the door open, calling after Maisie to come back. She reentered, looking puzzled. Peggy pointed a finger at the register.

"What new s.h.i.+pments have been brought into the storage rooms since the Ko Feng was stolen?" Peggy asked quickly.

Maisie flipped the pages. "Three that same afternoon," she murmured. We all looked at one another.

"The thief would have wanted to get the Ko Feng into a safe place as quickly as possible," I said. "He could have got it over here right away."

Peggy turned the register to see the names.

"Bloomington Food Specialties, they're a regular customer, have been for years. Who else? Indonesian Spices and Flavors... That's their s.h.i.+pment of crocus leaves."

"Crocus?" asked Kay.

"It's one of their secret ingredients, but they come in all the time."

"So who's the third?" Kay asked.

"Manhattan Supply Company," Peggy read out. "Who are they, Maisie?"

"Never heard of them," Maisie said promptly.

"What's their storage number?"

All four of us hurried out of the office and through the aisles of the warehouse. Maisie led the way into the adjacent storage area with its maze of wall and ceiling pipes that controlled the separate environments. Neon strip lights glittered off the s.h.i.+ny white walls and it was chilly and dry. Maisie went to get the storage man.

He was introduced to us as Harry, but it had once been something quite different judging by his Eskimo looks. He seemed very much at home in the cool atmosphere as he looked at the ledger number. He took out a bunch of keys and led us to a large storage locker with a door about seven feet tall.

He opened it and swung the door open.

Maisie squealed. Harry recoiled, gasping something unintelligible. Kay and Peggy stood in horror.

We all looked at the body of a man in a light suit, slumped on the floor. His face was turned toward us and though it was ashen in death, it was instantly recognizable as that of Willard Cartwright.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

IT WAS A VERY long day. The police station where we now found ourselves was not the kind of place anyone would want to spend five minutes even as a witness. Even the most unflattering of television series showing cops in their natural habitat was not sufficient preparation for the harsh reality. I shuddered to think how much worse it would have been had I not had four other witnesses present when the body of Willard Cartwright was found.

As it was, Lieutenant Gaines was decidedly not cordial. He scowled and sneered and looked threatening but at least the King's Balm was working. He didn't chew his lip, his face muscles didn't twitch and he didn't once reach for antacid tablets. I was glad it was an interview and not an interrogation, though it could probably fool some people.

Gaines had arrived at the Spice Warehouse quickly, siren screaming. The place had been sealed off and after taking depositions from all the customers and the other staff, it had been closed for the day and the five of us taken to the station.

"You already have mine," I said when we were told we were being taken to be fingerprinted.

"Yeah, from the last murder," said Gaines sarcastically.

I didn't see any of the others from then on. I told Gaines exactly what had happened. He was rough and edgy but I felt he was ent.i.tled.

"Two murders in the same place and you're there both times," he grunted.

"Was Cartwright killed the same way?" I asked, expecting him to snarl but he nodded.

"Seven-millimeter bullet wound and looks like the same weapon."

"Had he been dead long?"

"Death occurred late the previous afternoon. Oh, and there is no Manhattan Supply Company."

He gave me his piercing look. "So ... we no sooner get a firm line on our man than you find him murdered."

"There are better ways of phrasing it," I said, "but that's what happened."

He continued with his questioning, using that same gritty voice, and I did my best with the answers. He called in a young Hispanic woman, who took me into a cheerless room where I read a magazine interview with the "current" president, George Bush. She came back and took me into a lab where my hands were tested under ultraviolet light, presumably for stains indicating that I had fired a gun recently. I was given a cup of vile coffee and taken back to the room with the magazine, then into an office where Gabriella sat.

"So how was your day?" she asked sardonically.

"Don't ask."

She nodded and there was a trace of sympathy. "Any idea what Cartwright was doing there in the Spice Warehouse?"

"No," I said. "I was astounded to find him there."

She leaned back. "We were still trying to locate him when we got your call. So now it's a double murder case. The pressure's really on and even Hal Gaines agrees that the Ko Feng is the key to both murders."

"I don't see how there can be any doubt about that."

"Hal doesn't either-not really. It's just the idea of a spice that's worth more than a million dollars-he has trouble with that."

"But you're the Unusual Crimes Unit. You must have had a lot weirder cases than this."

"Sure," she agreed readily. "But they didn't involve food."

"You mean if someone murdered the Kentucky Colonel, he'd be right on the case?"

"Fried chicken, he can understand. A million-dollar spice-no way."

"So what's our next move, Sergeant?"

She smiled at my eager question. "You'll see. Now if you'll sign this, you are free to go."

A shower, a couple of hours of mind-numbing television and some heavy reflecting brought me to thoughts of dinner. I decided to go to a sidewalk cafe on nearby Seventy-fifth Street that I had noticed a couple of times in pa.s.sing. With a name like the Right Bank, it was clearly aiming at a French ambiance but doing it with a sense of humor that avoided pretension.

It had only a fleeting-even hypersonic-resemblance to a Parisian establishment but the management was trying. The tiny tables were crowded close and the steel-tube chairs belonged in a torture museum. An attempt had been made to render them tolerable with small cus.h.i.+ons, which kept slipping off. I was lucky to get a table between four elderly matrons who were making unflattering comparisons with their native San Francisco and a German family grimly determined to enjoy it.

At a neighboring table, an unexpected breeze nearly lifted the umbrella into the air. "Hang on," someone called out, "or we'll do a Dorothy and find we're having lunch with the Wizard."

A boy in white plastic clothes with silver ornaments went by, on his shoulder a radio big enough to be heard in Canada. The reverberations crushed all conversation and provoked a barrage of glares. A truck pa.s.sed, belching out black fumes. An old man waved his cane at it angrily and someone else commented, "Suddenly, my salmon's smoked!"

"I love sidewalk cafes," said one of the matrons from the city on the bay. "They're so French."

Despite the number of customers, the service was fast and I had just made my choice when the waiter came to take my order. I had decided to pa.s.s on the French items and have something typically American-something I could not get in London or at least not an authentic version.

But what is typically American? I didn't want a hamburger or a hot dog. Tacos, tamales and enchiladas were on the menu but they are basically Mexican even if they do taste better in America. Similarly, pizza is really Italian even if the American version is far superior. The fact is that American cuisine has taken in, adapted and in most cases surpa.s.sed the originals.

I decided that a charcoal-grilled steak came the nearest to what I was searching for. American steaks are the finest in the world although I knew that the unfortunate fact is that most steak houses-especially in New York-use gas-fired briquettes. The Right Bank however offered what they claimed to be real charcoal-broiled steaks in a good variety and I chose a six-ounce filet mignon. It came with a baked Idaho potato with sour cream and chives and, in true American style, no vegetables. A comparable restaurant in Paris would serve at least three vegetables with a steak but I was making no comparisons. Wine by the gla.s.s is a rare commodity in Europe but happily a commonplace in the U.S.A., so I ordered from the wine list a gla.s.s of Pinot Noir from Santa Cruz.

The waiters were determined not to set precedents for service. "No, we don't have cappuccino," snapped one. "Where do you think you are-Rome?"

When the steak came, it was tender and juicy. It was also done just the way I had ordered it-medium rare. No other country can satisfy a diner's order so accurately. The potato was a little mushy but the wine was rich and vibrant, if a year ahead of its time.

I paid the check and when the waiter returned with my change, with it was a note. I opened it, expecting perhaps some thanks from the management for patronizing them, but it said, "If you want to authenticate the Ko Feng, get into the taxi nearest you."

I looked up in astonishment but could see no one I recognized. Before the waiter could get away, I asked him where he had got the note. He shrugged. "I don't know-some guy."

A taxi stood there at the No Parking sign, engine running. The driver's face was pockmarked and Arab-featured. "Are you waiting for me?" I asked.

"Guess so," he said idly.

I hesitated.

"Gonna get in?" he said impatiently. "It's paid for."

I got in and he drove. No, he told me in response to my questions, he didn't notice who had given him the instructions-just the portrait on the banknote.

The journey was short. Our destination was on the northern edge of the theater district. We pa.s.sed the Neil Simon Theater on Fifty-second Street, made a couple of turns on one-way streets and stopped in front of a restaurant with a brown-painted front, slightly weathered and chipped, white curtains at the windows and a simple sign, MARTHA'S. The driver jerked an uncaring thumb at it and left me standing there.

It was dark inside. Then I noticed the sign on the door-today was the day it was closed. I leaned on the handle in exasperation ... and the door opened.

I went in. It was quiet and I was contemplating a strategic retreat, but no I told myself sternly. This is the chance I've been waiting for-a step toward recovering the Ko Feng. It had been neatly done so far, giving me no opportunity to phone for support.

The white tablecloths were ghostly shapes in the dim room but then I saw the reservation booth, a small high desk by the door with, of course, a phone behind. I moved to it and a spurt of light flashed across the room. A curtain at the back had been pulled and the silhouette of a figure stood there.

"You the guy that wants to taste this pasta?"

I had hardly expected the thief to show himself. In fact, I didn't know what to expect. The thief had a problem in concealing his ident.i.ty but then the buyer had a similar problem. All I could do was go along with it.

The man's voice was deep. He came forward, leaving the curtain open behind him. I had a glimpse of several people sitting at a table. Surely it wasn't an open auction?

"Are you Martha?" I asked.

"Marty," he said, coming closer. "This is my place. Martha took off five years ago with one of the waiters." He motioned behind him. "Angie replaced her-in my bed as well as in the restaurant. Those are her folks. It's her birthday."

All these domestic details were confusing me but Marty seemed to be well drilled in what he was supposed to do.

"Siddown," he said, motioning to a table near the front. "The pasta's ready."

He went back through the curtain and returned with a Styrofoam container, carefully sealed with tape, in one hand and a gla.s.s of water in the other. He turned on lights overhead.

"There," he said. "That's what he told me to do. Said you'd open it."

I nodded. Voices were raised in the back room and Marty shook his head in despair. "That cousin of hers-she should have stood in Bosnia. Well, bon appet.i.t, as they say." He rejoined the birthday party.