She was right, it was, with a similarity to English trifle—sponge cake immersed in white wine, raisins and chopped almonds sprinkled over it, a layer of fruit jelly, then a smooth and rich custard poured over it. Spoonfuls of red currant jam, slices of orange dipped in sherry and dried, were added before serving.
“Far from flummery,” I assured her. “Very real.”
“How many of the other girls’ restaurants do you have to visit?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, you’re the last of the five.”
“Which did you enjoy the most?” she asked, leaning forward in a mock-threatening attitude.
“I plead the Fifth Amendment. They have all been so good, I would have to use the ‘eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ method.”
“Very diplomatic,” she smiled. “And now, I have to ask you—the other Witches are very insistent I do this—”
“You want a report.”
“Right. In fact, we’re having a meeting tomorrow, so a statement on the present situation will be requested and I have to give it.”
“Fair enough. Here goes …”
“T
HE TWO DEAD MEN
, Richie Mortensen and Earl Whelan, were probably working together in the plot to steal the book.”
“That’s what Leah said,” Jenny nodded enthusiastically.
So the members of the Witches were keeping in close touch with each other on progress in the case. I should have expected it, I suppose. They were all clever, ambitious women and each could offer a contribution that must make their organization very effective.
“One thing I don’t understand is how they knew the value of the book,” Jenny said.
“Richie worked for Gambrinus in his bookshop,” I reminded her, “so he must have learned quite a bit about books. And didn’t Earl work with Leah in her restaurant?”
“Before she threw him out,” Jenny agreed. “The no-good—”
“That’s what she told me,” I said.
Jenny eyed me thoughtfully. “Leah also told you that she thinks one of us Witches wants the book.”
They really were keeping in close communication. “She didn’t have any suspicion which of you, though.” It was my turn to study her reaction to that. Her full face gave an impression of honesty and her large eyes held mine.
“Several of us are beginning to agree with Leah. Emmy Lou, Marguerite, Harriet—they’ve all said or hinted very strongly that they think so. I can’t believe that any of us would condone murder to get the book, though.”
“You’re suggesting that one of you may have hired, or conspired with, Earl and/or Richie—but perhaps just to get the book, not commit murder.”
Jenny nodded and her blonde hair moved gracefully. “That sums it up pretty well. After all, we’ve known each other quite a while and I can’t accept the idea of one of us committing—or condoning—murder. Especially for a book; not even if it were the greatest cookbook in the world.”
“But you realize that Richie Mortensen and Earl Whelan were not squeamish. They might commit murder if it was the only way to get what they wanted.”
“I suppose,” Jenny said with a sigh.
“You must all have some ideas on what’s in the book, don’t you?” I asked.
“We’ve talked about that, as you can imagine. We’re all fascinated with the idea of a recipe that’s so valuable but none of us can fully accept the notion. The book itself may be worth a lot to a collector but surely not enough to kill for.”
“That’s a thought I hadn’t considered. It implies that collectors who are really fanatical about their own obsession—stamps, coins, autographs, whatever—might see some value in the book that might not be there for anyone else.”
“Something like that, yes. But it applies more to somebody who collects—well, as you say, coins. They come in sets, don’t they? Like stamps? A collector might have all but one to complete a set. That can’t apply here, though—at least, I can’t see it.”
“I can’t either,” I admitted. “Unless there’s some connection that we’re missing. Books like this don’t come in sets like stamps or coins. They stand alone.”
We both did some conjecturing but it didn’t produce any brainstorms. We talked about the restaurant business and about New Orleans and I thanked her for an exceptional meal. The place was filling up by now. “I’ll let you get back to your duties,” I told her.
“Going on the town tonight?” she asked with a knowing smile.
“I might widen my experience of the Big Easy,” I said noncommittally, and she smiled as she took me to the door.
I strolled along the streets of the French Quarter, absorbing the sights and sounds and aromas. I paused to admire the wrought-iron balconies on Royal Street. The city has lots of them but none more impressive than here.
Sounds of considerable merriment were coming from one place I was passing,
PADDY O’BANNION’S
, the sign said, and I recalled reading about it in one of the brochures at the Monteleone. The bar here was the stuff of legends, it was said. It was the home of the “Typhoon,” a fabled concoction of equal parts of thick dark rum, gin and crème de menthe. I went in.
The first bar was very busy and I could see another bar beyond that was just as busy. An inner courtyard was crowded. It was one of those old-time bars you seldom see anymore, though New York has just a few left. A mahogany bar with a brass rail, bottles on shelves behind the bar, and a mirror that showed its age set the style. The floor looked as if the sawdust had just been swept off and a small platform on one side probably would have been occupied by a harpist and a fiddler at some time. Green shamrocks, old photos of Bantry Bay, portraits of Michael Collins, James Joyce and Eamon de Valera and a color picture of the Irish soccer team decorated the walls which were otherwise that dark-yellow color that comes from decades of tobacco smoke.
I edged my way to the bar. “A pint of Guinness,” I said to the bartender, a crop-headed fellow wearing a black waistcoat with metal buttons over a shirt that would be white again if more bleach was used next time. Very authentic, I thought.
“A pint of Guinness is it you’re after?” he said, reaching for a glass.
“That’s right. In a mug, if you don’t mind.”
His practiced hand found a mug and a beer handle. “You don’t sound Irish,” he said. The black Guinness surged up in the glass, a thick white foam struggling to the top.
“County Cork,” I said.
A man at the bar next to me wore an old black suit and had a careworn face. He turned to me. “Is that right?”
“My father, God rest his soul, sent me to England to school. That’s why I talk this way.” It wasn’t the strict truth but I had found it to be a convenient story to use on previous visits to Irish pubs.
“Ye sound more Galway than Cork,” said the man next to me.
“So I’ve been told,” I said, watching the slow progress of the Guinness up the mug. “Never lost my love for the nectar of Finn McCool, though,” I added for a touch of color.
A whiskered old man in a heavy jacket was on the other side of me at the bar. “Finn McCool,” he said, rolling the name around in his mouth before letting it out. “Now there’s a name to conjure with. Hurry up filling that mug, Sean, this man looks like he’s in sore need of it.”
The bartender, Sean, finally filled the mug and scrapped off the excess foam. He set the mug in front of me. “Five dollars,” he said, “and we’re taking up a collection for the IRA in a few minutes.”
“Are ye now?” I put a five on the bar and put a one alongside it.
“Been in the Ould Country lately?” asked the man in the worn black suit.
“I was in Dublin and Shannon a few months ago,” I said truthfully. “And a great week it was, too. The salmon were biting and the beer was great.”
“If ye were in Dublin, ye must have had a drink in the Three Crowns,” said the bartender.
“Maybe I did. I don’t remember.” It might be a trick question. I sipped the Guinness and nodded appreciatively.
“First time here?” asked the whiskered man.
“In New Orleans, yes. Tell me, is there really a Paddy O’Bannion?”
“Used to be. Opened his first bar in 1930 and became one of the best bar-owners in these parts.”
“Ye could have taken speech lessons,” said Sean. Busy as he was, he had had time to work that out. It took the three of us a few seconds to catch up.
“I suppose I could,” I said. I drank some more Guinness. “A fine pint that is,” I congratulated him.
“It’s no bad thing to sound like I’m from Galway, though,” I couldn’t resist saying. “People in Cork don’t mind me.”
“I’m from Tipperary meself,” said the whiskered man.
“I’m a Kildare man,” the black-suited man wistfully declared.
“Bah! Ye might as well be from Dublin,” said the whiskered man scornfully.
“It’s fifty miles,” the other said defensively.
“Ye’re a Dubliner! Can’t get away from it!”
The black-suited man pondered over that but couldn’t think of a suitable response so instead he ordered another Jameson’s.
The crowd was mainly men but there were a few women. A jukebox started up with an electronic clatter that led into what was either a rebel marching song or a number from one of the Irish pop groups that have achieved international renown.
“Ye’ll want to follow that with some Irish Punch,” said the whiskered man, nodding to my Guinness.
“Or he can mix ’em,” added the black-suit.
My puzzlement must have been obvious.
“’Tis a specialty of the house,” explained Whiskers.
“Puts hair on yer chest.”
“And fire in yer eyes.”
“Sharpens the mind and improves the memory.”
“Makes ye irresistible to women, a terror to yer enemies.”
The bartender joined in this panoply of praise. “In some parts of Ireland, they call it a ‘Donegal Depth Charge.’ But it’s smooth as Mother’s milk and warm as a colleen’s kiss. Are ye sure ye’ve never run into it?” He made it sound like proof that I had never been near the Emerald Isle.
“Not that I recall. But there was a night in the Rose of Tralee in Limerick when I drank a number of concoctions, all the names of which have slipped my mind.”
“Ye couldn’t have had Irish Punch,” said the bartender darkly.
“Why not? Oh, of course, that’s the one that aids the memory. Still, ’twas quite a night.”
My reminiscence seemed to satisfy suspicion, though that was only in the mind of the bartender, Sean. The other two were affable enough, and as Sean had to move down the bar to quell desperate thirsts, we had a good discussion going on Ireland’s chances in the qualifying rounds of the World Cup, now being played. It was good-natured though controversial and I even had the temerity to say, “Ireland hasn’t had a good national team since you let Jackie Charlton, an Englishman, resign as manager.” That prompted some lively rebuttals and I was enjoying the repartee when I happened to glance into the mirror behind the bar.
It was not as clean as if it had been wiped with one of the miracle solvents that television offers, and its ability to reflect images was also impaired by its age—whether that was real or manufactured. But it was clear enough where I was looking—and that was at a man in a dark suit involved in a conversation. He was standing by a table with half a dozen seated drinkers. He had dark hair and a small dark mustache.
He was the man I had seen before, and on those occasions I had been sure he was watching me. He had been the one who had driven me to seek refuge in the Mardi Gras World, although I had enjoyed the visit. Lieutenant Delancey had said this was not one of his men. So who was he?
As I studied him in the mirror, he did not seem to be watching me now. If he was, he was not being very clever about it. His conversation with the people at the table was animated and he appeared to know most of them. He did not once glance in my direction.
I was near a curve at the end of the bar and if I moved my stool, I could use the whiskered man to largely block the dark-haired man’s view of me. Now I could watch him but he couldn’t see me.
After a few minutes, he made his farewells to those at the table. I watched closely to see what he did now. He walked among the tables, stopped once to greet someone then went on to the far end of the bar. He talked briefly with the bartender, who lifted the flap and allowed him through. The man opened a door and disappeared.
It was no way to follow somebody and, relieved, I returned to my conversation with my talkative comrades from the Ould Country.
We were on the European Union, it seemed, and a great topic for Irishmen with their natural inclination toward independence.
I kept a sharp eye on the back of the bar at the same time and threw the periodic glance at the mirror in case my pursuer had used another exit and reemerged behind. More customers had come in, and the place was really crowded, which made accurate spotting of a tail difficult. But I kept up my vigil, ordered another Guinness and was rewarded when the familiar figure opened the same door behind the bar and came out.
He did not even flash a look my way. He spoke a few words to the bartender and pushed his way through the crowd. I watched him in the mirror. Again he spoke a word of greeting to someone at a table, then he went out the door.
I hastily finished my Guinness, put down a couple of notes and bade farewell to my chatty comrades who were now moving on to more international matters such as the policy of the World Bank and the prospects in the European Song Contest.
I went out the door, stood in the doorway until I spotted my target, then followed him.
“The pursuer pursued” was the cliché that first came to mind but it was so appropriate that I did not bother thinking about a replacement.
It was late enough in the evening that the streets were well populated but I was able to keep my man in sight. I expected him to seek a taxi but he kept to the sidewalk, walking purposefully. We went only a few blocks when he turned out of my sight. I closed in and saw that it was another bar. It called itself Limping Susan, which I knew was an okra pilaf dish. I peered in.
It was much less crowded than Paddy O’Bannion’s, and through the glass door I could see my man heading for the bar. He didn’t order a drink, though. Instead, a man came from behind the bar, pulling off his apron. The two of them sat at one of the empty tables and engaged in an earnest conversation.