Roux the Day (4 page)

“A book? Telling me thisisallaboutabook?” There it was again, skepticism in his voice as well as his look. At least I was able to detect a couple of breaks in the continuity of his speech.

“Not just a book, Lieutenant. It may be a fairly valuable book. There may be a great story in it—how the Belvedere family built a restaurant dynasty—”

“But stillabook.”

“Some of the recipes could be valuable. One of the recipes was for oysters Belvedere, which was the one dish more than any other that made the name of Belvedere famous.”

I was losing ground with him, I could see that—at least, losing ground as far as convincing him that the book was important. Getting him to accept the concept that a recipe could be worth money might be an uphill battle. On the other hand, as far as communication was concerned, I was making rapid progress in learning to understand the lieutenant’s staccato approach to the English language.

“How valuable?”

“Hard to say. A thousand dollars, maybe, give or take a—”

“Murdersbeencommitted for less.”

Another couple of minutes and I would have broken the code.

“I suppose so.”

“Thiswomanwhowasthere, at the auction. Gethername?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But you thought she was coming here.”

I had it! Bletchley Park could not have been more elated the day they solved the Enigma puzzle. I was understanding every word without having to examine possible variants. The lieutenant and I were on the same wavelength!

“I thought she was. She got the name and address and she certainly left hurriedly.”

“Tell me about you.”

The lieutenant was not a native of New Orleans, that was plain. I would have guessed New York but that didn’t matter at the moment. We were speaking the same language. A fleeting thought went across my mind that perhaps he was having as much trouble with my speech as I was with his, so I kept it simple, fairly slow and enunciated carefully. I probably sounded like a Cotswolds shopkeeper determined to sell a priceless antique to a Japanese tourist.

I handed him a card. Better get this over as quickly as possible. The session began as anticipated.

“‘The Gourmet Detective’! You’re a detective?”

“No, I’m not a detective, I’m a food-finder …” I went through my whole explanation. “—Somebody gave me the nickname of ‘The Gourmet Detective’ and it stuck. It’s good for business but it causes problems when something like this happens.”

He seized on that like a hungry terrier on a meaty bone. “Things like this happen often, do they?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘often,’ but food and restaurant businesses turn over billions of dollars. That kind of money attracts criminals and even normally law-abiding people are tempted. Inevitably, some crimes are committed—thefts, substitutions and—”

“—And murders?”

“Well, yes, once in a while.” I thought it was time to give myself a plug. “I have been able to be of help to Scotland Yard on more than one occasion.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. I have worked with Inspector Hemingway, among others.”

Delancey kept his light-blue eyes on me as he gave a slight nod. “You helped them.”

“Yes. They were cases involving food, and my job means I accumulate a lot of specialized knowledge. That’s how I was able to be helpful. I also helped Inspector Gaines of the Unusual Crimes Unit in New York not long ago.”

“Is that right?”

He said it again and I was about to assume it was rhetorical when he said, “Hal Gaines?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Worked with him once or twice. I was with the NYPD.”

So I was right. He was from New York, and if he knew Hal Gaines, that could clear me.

“If you talk to him—you know, when you’re checking on me, give him my regards and tell him I hope the King’s Balm is still working.”

“King’s Balm?”

“It’s a herbal remedy I recommended, cured his stomach problems.”

“Yeah, well, about this book …” He combed his fingers through his untidy hair. It did not improve it. “You’re sure it’s not here?”

I looked around the room, thousands of books on racks, on shelves, on tables, stacked here, piled there. “I haven’t looked,” I admitted.

He gave me a rueful grin. “Guess not. Labor of Sisyphus, huh?”

That surprised me. He went on: “Give the sergeant a complete description of the book and where you’re staying. Meantime, you can go.”

“I’ll stay around a few days,” I volunteered. “Then you won’t have to ask me not to leave town. I’m at the Monteleone.”

“Nice hotel.” He gave me a nod of dismissal. “I’ll be in touch.”

M
Y FIRST ACTION UPON
returning to the “nice hotel” was to phone Van Linn. His response was predictably incredulous.

“Dead? Gambrinus? How can he be?”

“Not only dead but apparently murdered.”

Some spluttering came down the line. I told him the rest, such as it was. “You can expect a visit from a detective,” I told him. “I had to give him your name.”

“Well, yes, of course you did. But—my goodness, I can hardly believe it!”

“I couldn’t either. It was a shock, you can imagine.”

“Yes, yes, it must have been—” There was a pause and when Van Linn considered it had gone on long enough, he asked the question. “It—ah, well, it’s a little indelicate to ask, but I suppose there was no sign of the book?”

“Why do you suppose that?”

“Why? Well, I mean it’s what you went there for, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, and probably sounded testy, “but I wasn’t expecting a murderer to go there for the same reason.”

“Certainly not!” Van Linn said, and sounded emphatic.

“Tell me—did you have any idea that this book was going to prove this important to somebody?”

“No, absolutely not, but—are the police sure that the book is the reason for the murder?”

“You’ll have to ask them that.”

“I’ll do that.”

“In the meantime,” I said, “do you want me to keep looking for the book?”

There was a pause. “Yes, I’d appreciate it if you would. Be careful, though—I mean, it’s not so important that it’s worth risking your life for.”

“I have to stay in New Orleans anyway for a few days—so I’ll definitely keep my ears and eyes open. And I’ll be careful. Just one point—is there anything else you want to tell me?”

He didn’t hesitate with his answer as far as I could tell. “No, nothing. I assure you that I had no idea something like this could happen. I mean, murder … it—it’s inconceivable.”

I dined alone that evening. I felt I deserved some civilized sustenance after a shock like that. Having heard so much about the outstanding qualities of New Orleans cooking, I found myself in a quandary trying to pick a restaurant. I need not have worried. My first choice, Commanders’ Palace, was fully booked. So was my second choice, Brennan’s. The fact that I was a lone diner was not, I knew, to my advantage. Restaurants don’t like to put single diners at a table, it simply is not efficient for them. My third choice, the Court of Two Sisters, accepted my reservation.

It was a short and easy walk from my hotel and the leaded windows allowed a peek inside at a room filled with what looked like happy diners. Being alone, I did not expect one of the best tables and, in fact, I was seated in what looked like the Garden Room, next to the large courtyard—the largest in New Orleans, I recalled. A noisy group of Asians was doing their best to disprove the inscrutability label—at least it did if “quiet” came under the heading of “inscrutable.” I was at the next table.

The first course I ordered was turtle soup and, although I expected it to be clear like a broth, which is normal, it was thick with small bits of turtle meat. This was considered to be an aristocrat among soups in earlier days and was served at great ceremonial banquets and diplomatic dinners. The turtle was delivered live to the kitchen where a chef’s helper would wait until the turtle poked its head out from under its shell. The helper would then lasso the turtle and, with help, hang it from a high hook. The help was necessary, as turtles often weighed a hundred pounds.

The hanging, however, was not for killing purposes but for exposing the neck, which was slashed—all other parts of the turtle being so leathery as to turn even the sharpest blade.

Hammers, chisels and saws then reduced the creature to meat which was blanched and chopped fine, added to consommé with herbs and vegetables and cooked for hours. Modern kitchen technology has turned this procedure into a more clinical and less bloody scenario and taken all the drama out of it.

The shrimp rémoulade for the main course was blander than I anticipated but I reminded myself that every dish in New Orleans was not spicy. It is, of course, usually served as an hors d’oeuvre, but as the restaurant is widely known for this dish, I was determined to have it and at the same time, I was not prepared to give up the idea of the turtle soup. Creole mustard and Tabasco sauce are standard ingredients of this rémoulade but the spice chef must have had a light hand with the spices today.

The next morning, I came down to breakfast and was making my way across the brown-and-white-tiled lobby to the Breakfast Room when a folded newspaper waved at me. It was not unattended, of course. A police lieutenant by the name of Delancey was on the other end of it.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” I pronounced it in the American way. It was too early in the day for even minor complications.

“Heading for breakfast?”

Surely I was not going to have to go through this learning curve all over again!

“Yes, I am. Care to join me?”

“Nice of you, yeah, we can talk.”

Well, that was a relief. I had reestablished a common language already.

When we were seated, the lieutenant said, “I talked with Hal Gaines last night. He said you were okay.”

“Okay.”
Was that all? But I just nodded.

“Scotland Yard said about the same thing so I wanted to tell you that.”

It wasn’t a rave review but it should keep me out of a lineup. “Good. I appreciate your telling me.”

The waiter arrived, poured coffee for us both and I ordered a half grapefruit, ham with two eggs over-easy, hash browns and wholewheat toast. The lieutenant wanted only coffee and waved away my invitation to eat. “Had a couple doughnuts at the station earlier.” He settled back in his chair and regarded me.

“Know Mr. Van Linn well, do you?”

“No, I only met him through this assignment.” I explained how it had come about and he nodded. The scalding-hot coffee did not bother him at all and he sipped it as if it were tepid.

“How about Mr. Gambrinus?”

“I had never seen him until I saw him dead yesterday.”

He sipped coffee and appeared contemplative for a moment. Then he gave me a sharp look. “What would you say if I told you I talked to him last night?”

I stopped with my grapefruit spoon halfway to my mouth. “What did you use—a Ouija board?”

He shook his head matter-of-factly. “Just like I’m talking to you right now.”

“But you couldn’t have!” I protested. “He was dead, I’m sure of it.”

“How sure?”

“Well … certain sure.”

“Got any medical training?”

“No, some first aid …”

“Yeah, well …” summed up his opinion of my first-aid training. “No, I talked to him right enough. Point I’m making is, the body you found isn’t that of Michael Gambrinus.”

I ate more grapefruit. I needed it. “Ah, I see. The man I found was dead, though?”

“He was dead.”

“I suppose I jumped to the conclusion that the man I found was Michael Gambrinus,” I confessed, “because it was his shop and the man was sitting in his chair.”

“And you had never seen him before,” contributed the lieutenant. “I mean, neither of them?”

“Right. I was hasty. Sorry if I misled you.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay. I had a nasty moment when Gambrinus wanted to know what I was doing in his shop—but we straightened it out.”

“You’re being extremely civil about this, Lieutenant. Some detectives of my acquaintance would be livid.”

“Livid, yeah, well …” He seemed to be trying to decide if a better word would be more appropriate but either couldn’t think of one or didn’t want to correct me.

“But then I can see that you New Orleans police have many of the courtly and polite mannerisms of the South.” Was that troweling it on too thick? I would see.

“I may be
in
New Orleans but I’m not
of
New Orleans, if you get my drift.”

“Really. With a great name like Delancey? How can you get more Southern than that?”

“Ever been in New York? Yeah, sure you have if you know Hal Gaines. You know Delancey Street?”

“Anybody who’s a fan of Ella Fitzgerald knows Delancey Street,” I told him.

“Well, that’s the Delancey I’m named after.”

“I see.” I didn’t quite, but I have found that if you put the right uncertain inflection on the words, you can usually extract more information.

“I was found in a crate in front of the Salvation Army welfare station on Delancey Street. There was no clue as to who I was, so they called me Patrick Delancey. It was St. Patrick’s Day.”

“So you’re a native New Yorker—and that’s another song.”

“Sure am.”

“And now you’re in New Orleans. How did that come about?”

“My wife was killed in a driving accident—Sixth Avenue—hit by a taxi trying to avoid a pedestrian out-of-towner.”

“I’m sorry. Was that recently?”

“Three years. I’m okay now but at the time I just couldn’t stand the thought of staying in the city any longer. I made a nuisance of myself till the commissioner agreed to a transfer to wherever the first opportunity came up. Happened to be New Orleans.”

“I see.” I did, a little, but I was still wondering why he was telling me this.

“And now you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this … Well, Hal Gaines said you were all right. Said to be straight with you and you’d be straight with me.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way—”

“Hal also said you could be helpful.”

Aha, here it came. “You mean we make a deal?”

He gave me a reproving look. “I’m a cop. I don’t make deals!”