“A good chemist could analyze ’em,” Delancey said contemptuously.
“No, no, it’s not that easy. You can’t analyze an inorganic substance that way. Oh, you can identify many of the chemical components but it’s the way they are put together that is hard to reconstruct. Nor can you tell the cooking sequence. For instance, some herbs have to be added early so as to absorb their flavor, others must be added late or they give a bitter taste.”
“I asked you this before—” said Delancey. “How could any recipe be worth killing for?”
“That’s the problem. It doesn’t seem likely.”
“So there’s something else—and the big question is what?”
“Right. I’m glad you brought up this subject of the book, anyway. There’s something I wanted to tell you about it—it’s turned up twice.”
He wiggled fingers at me. “Okay, give!”
I told him of my experience on the
Delta Duchess
and of Marguerite’s phone call. “So perhaps you’re right and the book is the crux of this whole mess.”
“But you said you thought the book was a phony.”
“I still believe so.”
“Did the broad from the Witches think so, too?”
“If she did, she didn’t tell me.”
He shook his head, perplexed. “That forger, Harburg … I told you we checked him out further, didn’t I? Anyway, he’s got a clean sheet. I talked to a couple of our people who have experience in that area. There was a time when a few forgers were operating in New Orleans—”
“You mean in areas other than currency?”
“Right. Naturally, stocks and bonds took priority so books didn’t get a lot of attention—but don’t tell any taxpaying book lovers I said that. A few of them were nailed, though, and I guess that discouraged others.” He shook his head in aggravation. “Unfortunately, we can’t ask the last Belvedere what was in the book.”
“I haven’t asked you about the gun yet,” I reminded him.
“It’s not the same weapon that killed Mortensen,” he said. “We’re still checking, but so far, it’s not on record, either.” He drank his coffee in one gulp. “Gotta go. Wanna tell me your movements so I’ll know where to go to find the next body?”
“I sincerely hope that won’t happen. Two bodies are enough. If I find a third one, even you will have difficulty believing me.”
“You can say that again.”
I left on that unpromising note.
T
HE WIDOW WAS MISTY-EYED
but flashed me a wide smile. I concluded that the tears were due less to grief than to the more immediate and powerful aroma of freshly chopped onions.
“I’d better not shake hands with you,” she said, “or you’ll have the Monteleone smelling like an onion farm.”
“You know where I’m staying?” I asked in surprise.
“Oh, your name comes up quite a lot in our meetings. We know a few things about you.”
Leah was a very attractive woman and the Asian influence was just enough to give her an exotic look. She kept her hair straight but not cut too short, wore eye makeup that almost reduced the tilt to her almond eyes, and had a wide mouth that was rare in Asians.
“I came to say I’m very sorry about your husband. I don’t know if the police told you, but I found his body.”
She nodded soberly.
“I also wanted to tell you that I saw you leaving his place before I went in. I was obliged to tell the police that, especially as I had another person with me. He was a carriage driver and would have been able to identify you.”
“That’s all right,” she said softly. “The police told me that I had been seen. I didn’t know it was you, though. How did you come to be there?” She pointed to an office area near the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Let’s go in there and sit.”
It was a working office and two people filled it, along with the usual office equipment for printing menus, correspondence, file cabinets, bookshelves and a cluttered desk.
When we were seated, I said, “Earl Whelan offered me the book—”
Her eyes widened. “The Belvedere book?”
“So he said. He showed it to me and I said it was a phony. I saw him by chance crossing Jackson Square later and followed him home.”
“I see. Do you really think it was a phony?”
“Pretty sure, yes.”
She looked down at her hands, rubbed her fingers together. “We hadn’t lived together, Earl and I, for some time. We had filed for divorce.”
“Was he obstructing the divorce?”
“Oh, no, not at all. We did have a life-insurance policy, though—on both of us. The police may think I killed him for that, wanting to get the money before the divorce was complete. But I didn’t … I couldn’t do that. I didn’t love him anymore and I didn’t like having to keep giving him money but I didn’t kill him—I couldn’t.”
It sounded to me like a sincere statement and I would have acquitted her on the spot. But I know I’m a marshmallow when it comes to women. Delancey would have shaken his head in despair at me.
“He was dead when you got there?” I asked.
“Yes. I was afraid that whoever had killed him was still in the house. I hurried out. I suppose I should have phoned the police before I did that. As it was, I came back here—I live upstairs—and the police called me first.”
It sounded logical to me, although I knew Delancey would have a tougher attitude.
“I had only been back here a few minutes when the phone rang and it was the police telling me about his death.”
“Where did he get the book? Do you have any idea?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Was he interested in that kind of thing?”
She was about to scoff but probably had been brought up not to speak ill of the dead. “The only thing he was interested in was making money,” she said, and kept all rancor out of her voice.
“It’s been suggested that he was a drug courier.”
“I don’t doubt it. He drove a cab for a while and I’m pretty sure he was running drugs then. He probably decided that a mule carriage was a better cover.”
“You mentioned your Witches meetings,” I said. “Are any of your members looking for the book, too?”
“Maybe all of them,” she said with a slight smile. “Elsa is now more likely looking for it for her own reasons, you haven’t been successful yet”—I blessed her for that “yet”—“so several of the Witches are trying a few approaches of their own.” She thought for a moment; she seemed like a very honest girl. “I think it’s all right to tell you this. I don’t see why it should be a secret. Jenny is certainly looking, so is Marguerite … Emmy Lou is not, I don’t think. I’m not sure about Della but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“A lot of lookers,” I commented ruefully.
“What do you think is in the book?” she asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“Some of the Belvedere family’s recipes must have value,” she said.
“Enough to kill for?”
She shuddered. “Surely not.”
“I also wish I knew where the real book is—if this one that he was peddling is a phony. Do you think Earl had the real one, too?”
“Well, I haven’t been able to go through all his things yet—the police won’t let me. I suppose if it’s there, they’ll find it.” She gave me a look of concern. “Have you eaten?”
“Very well. At the Bistro Bonaparte.”
“That means very well indeed. Marguerite does a wonderful job there. What did you have?”
I told her and she nodded approval. “Good choices. Real French Creole, just the style that Marguerite tries so hard to go for.”
“I hear great things about your place here, too,” I said. It was an exaggeration, but a pardonable one.
“So when are you coming to eat here?”
“How does the day after tomorrow look on your booking list?”
“For you, it doesn’t matter. We can accommodate you.”
“Great.”
“Lunch or dinner?” she asked.
“Let’s say dinner. I don’t know yet what my schedule is likely to be.”
“Fine—dinner it is. We’ll have some terrific specials lined up for you.”
We came back with me through the kitchen. It was quiet. She was the only one working at this time. The evening crew would probably be here in an hour or so but in the meantime, as I left her, she was looking over at the preparation benches, trying to find something to keep her occupied. I knew this was not a normal day for her—the owner of a restaurant does not chop her own onions.
There was just enough time left in the afternoon for one more step in the investigation. This one was not following anything like a straight course. Not that many of them do, but few had strayed this far out. My next move might not be rewarding but it could contribute a few facts.
My train of thought had been initiated by Lieutenant Delancey’s words—“Unfortunately, we can’t ask the last Belvedere what was in the book.” I added to them the words of the lawyer, Van Linn. He had said, “My client is very anxious to get that book and is increasing pressure on me.”
Who could be that anxious? The latest in the Belvedere line, Ambrose, was going to reopen the family restaurant. Did a competitor of the Belvedere dynasty want to preempt him and use their recipes? It sounded plausible. Or was it someone with a grudge against the family? That sounded just as plausible.
I had to start somewhere on this approach, so back at the Hotel Monteleone I looked through the yellow pages,
ATTORNEYS
covered dozens of pages but after them came all the specialists—accident, injury, bankruptcy, probate, estates, contracts, mortgages … The categories went on and on, even admiralty law and aviation. Several specialized in “Wrongful Death” which I supposed was a euphemism for murder.
I wanted to stay away from that so I settled on a Michael James and Associates and punched buttons. A pleasant female voice gave me a choice of several extensions but when I realized that she was strictly mechanical, I just picked one at random. I got the secretary of Mr. James himself and after making sure this lady was real, I asked to speak to him.
“May I ask what this is in regard to?”
Far be it from me to tell her never to end a sentence with a preposition, so I asked for Mr. James personally and said it was confidential.
“Much of our business is,” she told me. “I need to know a little more before I can connect you.”
“It concerns food.”
“Food?” She was blindsided by that answer, I could tell.
I repeated it. “Just a moment,” she said, coming back to say, “Mr. James is just leaving for a legal conference in Memphis. Can I connect you to his assistant, Mr. Purvis?”
I agreed. Mr. Purvis sounded like a young man but he had a confident tone and after we had gone through all that confidentiality business again, he invited me to come to their offices in the business district. He hemmed and hawed over a time but agreed he could spare me a half hour if I came right away.
It was an impressive office on two stories and I was led along a paneled corridor where Mr. Purvis was just replacing the receiver. He was young to middle-aged, some silver strands showing already but only adding to his prosperous appearance, and his college was Princeton, I noted on the diploma over his desk.
After we had dispensed with preliminaries, I began. “I was given Mr. James’ name because he has handled cases involving food.”
Mr. Purvis looked perplexed. “I wasn’t aware of that. Please continue.”
We did the confidentiality thing again. I came close to overdoing it but it worked. Mr. Purvis leaned farther onto the polished desktop in interest.
“You’re aware of mad-cow disease.”
That hit him between the eyes. “Well, yes, I’ve heard about it, on the television. It’s quite a problem in Europe, isn’t it?”
“Ah, that’s the point—in Europe, yes. Up to now, that is.” I sounded suitably concerned and appropriately reluctant to voice such a major issue.
He picked up as I had hoped. “You mean we have it here, too?”
“The FDA says no, meat-marketing authorities say no, the Department of Agriculture says no.” I stopped there. Innuendo-loaded silence could sometimes be more effective than more words.
“But a problem is developing here?” Alarm tinged his question.
“I sincerely hope not.”
“Please go on.” His interest was bubbling away like a Cajun stew.
“I was given to believe that Mr. James’ experience in the food business would be invaluable and—”
He rubbed a hand along the desk top. “Who recommended him?”
“You mean he doesn’t specialize in the food industry? Mr. Martin James?”
He straightened. “Our Mr. James is Michael.”
“Oh, good heavens! Do I have the wrong office?”
“Just a minute!” Mr. Purvis picked up the phone and issued some brief commands. While we waited, we made some small talk about my recent arrival in New Orleans, how I liked it, the weather, had I been here before, then the phone rang. Mr. Purvis listened and replaced it.
“There is no Mr. Martin James listed as an attorney in New Orleans.”
I looked distressed.
“Perhaps in one of the outlying towns,” he suggested.
“Well, I thought—”
“But if we can help you, we’ll be pleased to do so. I doubt if any attorney really specializes in the food industry, not that I’m aware of, anyway. We have an excellent reputation here in the city.”
“Well, this could develop into an extremely important matter. The entire meat industry—”
I went on at longer length, though I could see that Mr. Purvis was hooked. Perhaps I was doing him an injustice but I fancied I could see large dollar signs flashing in his brain. Phrases like
class-action suits
were probably appearing in bright neon lights and newspaper headlines reading
Bigger Than Tobacco
were composing themselves.
Now I could get on with what I came for. “The restaurant belonging to the Belvedere family must have strong legal representation. Do you happen to have their account?”
He stared. “Surely they are not involved in the—”
“Not in any way—as far as I know.”
He flexed the fingers of his left hand. It seemed to stimulate his brain processes. “They are not one of our clients, no.”
“Who would be their competitors?”
“Surely you— Oh, well, you are new to the city, aren’t you? The Brennan family, the Chase family, the Patouts—”