Spiced to Death (13 page)

I didn’t understand but I was too concerned getting my nerves under control to think about it. The doors clashed and the train pulled out, rumbling and rattling as candy wrappers flew like mad butterflies. The platform cleared and quieted. The policeman was nowhere in sight. There were just the two of us. It was only then that the thought hit me. The same hand that had dragged me back must have been the same one that had pushed me.

I tried to see what the man looked like but the thick glasses with heavy rims, the beard and the black hat pulled down made it impossible. He spoke again.

“When you are asked to cooperate, you must do so. When questioned, you must answer. Withhold nothing. Tell what you know. You will be wise to do this—next time when there is a push, there may not be a helping hand to save you.” His accent had evaporated. He turned and walked down the platform. The policeman reappeared and the man walked straight past him. I had a momentary idea of calling out but there seemed no point.

I gathered my wits as I waited for the next train. The policeman gave me a searching look as he passed me but it must have been only because I was still on the platform when everyone else had left.

I was musing over the warning I had received—if that’s what it was.

Be friendly, helpful and respond, he had told me. Cooperate, answer and tell what I knew. There was an echo there of Marvell’s words when he had told me that he didn’t believe my protestations of innocence. Someone else was going to pressure me to tell them where the Ko Feng was. But was it someone else? Or had Marvell himself sent an emissary to do it?

There had been something about that accent that had bothered me—but what? Was it one I remembered? Passengers drifted onto the platform. I eyed them all suspiciously, picked a place to stand near the wall and when the next train came, I boarded it in the middle of a group of Japanese tourists. When I alighted, it was in the middle of another group of Japanese tourists.

The Spice Warehouse was doing a roaring trade. Some of it was undoubtedly sensation-seekers but a good number of previous customers had come to offer their condolences and ask what they could do to help.

“There can’t be any more generous people in the world than here,” Peggy said, her mouth twitching with emotion. “They’re wonderful, they really are. Even ones I don’t know by name but have only seen here in the warehouse a few times—even they want to do what they can.”

Her sister-in-law was there and learning the business fast. The line at the checkout was long but—strangely for New York—no one was complaining.

“I’m trying to get the office in order,” Peggy told me. “It’s coming along well but there are a couple of things Don was doing that don’t make sense. I wonder if you’d mind …”

I helped her to straighten out a shipment that was overdue from the Philippines and promised to find a source of chile pequins, a small but fiery member of the chile pepper family. Mexico is virtually the only source but unusually severe weather conditions last winter had caused a shortage. It was possible that one of the smaller supplying countries might be able to fill the gap.

She was already in the warehouse and busy catching up on orders. I encouraged her to keep as busy as she could and told her to call me if there was anything at all I could do. She assured me she would.

“And if you think of anything that might be helpful—no matter what it is or how irrelevant it may seem—be sure and call me, will you?”

“I will,” she said. She seemed to hesitate.

“Go on,” I urged. “Is there something?”

“It can’t have any meaning …” she said slowly.

“Tell me.”

“When you called the evening before—well, before Don was killed, you said he sounded strange. He went out right after that and said he was going to the library.”

“Go on, Peggy,” I urged. “Was that unusual?”

“Well, yes, it was—especially at that time of the evening.”

“He didn’t say anything about why he was going?”

“Not a word. Just that he didn’t know how long he’d be.”

“Is there a library near you?”

“Yes, there is.”

“Do you think he went there or to the main library?”

“He must have gone to this one. He wasn’t gone long enough to go much further.”

I asked her for its location and she gave it to me.

“Does it mean anything?” she asked tremulously.

“I don’t know but if it does, I’ll find it,” I said firmly. “Now, one more thing—did Don ever prepare any King’s Balm?”

“Yes, he did. He had quite a devoted following for it among the regular customers.”

“What did he put in it? Do you know?”

“Fumitory and gentian. He’d tried variations on that combination but found those two to be the most effective by far.”

“Can you let me have some?”

That transaction completed, I told her again to call me if there was anything at all I could do. She nodded and then was called upon to help with the lengthening line at the checkout where even the sympathetic New Yorkers were getting impatient. I headed off for the library.

A friendly lady with a pronounced Scottish accent was in charge of the reference desk and after we had exchanged vital data on place of birth, how long we had been here, what we were doing here, her acquaintance with London and mine with Scotland, we got down to business.

I described Don and she remembered him at once.

“He wanted to see copies of the
New York Times
from five years ago.”

“The
New York Times?
Did you have them?”

“Five years ago? Och, that’s easy.”

“Can I see them?”

“All of them?”

“Do you have an idea which issues he was particularly interested in?”

Half an hour later, I wasn’t much wiser. I had been through every page of every issue for the first three weeks of the month of May, which it seemed were the ones that Don had zeroed in on, and I could find nothing to suggest what Don might have been interested in. I ploughed on doggedly and my persistence was rewarded—during the last few days of the month, there had been a theft at JFK.

There were a couple of reports on progress in the investigation that followed and I went into newspaper copies for the month of June to see if there was any further information but could find nothing. The Scottish lady showed me where the copy machine was, changed some coins for me and I copied all the relevant paragraphs.

There wasn’t a great deal to the story. At first, it had received a full treatment because it had been mysterious. The aircraft had landed, been unloaded, the shipment had been examined by customs and cleared. It had been loaded onto a vehicle bound for a New York warehouse—but when the vehicle arrived, the shipment was gone.

The shipment had consisted of birds’ nests.

I could see why Don had been interested in the story. It was a very close parallel to the disappearance of the Ko Feng. But what had made him look for it in the back issues of the
Times?
Had he known it was there? He must have—he was able to find it. I took the copies, thanked the lady and headed for the subway station. Then I thought better of it and chose a busy intersection to hail a cab back to the hotel.

There was a message for me at the desk. I was to call Dr. Li at a Manhattan number. I went up to the room but first I called my favorite New York police person. She was out in the field, I was told. I explained who I was and added that it was important I talk to her in connection with one of her current investigations. I was told to wait and within a few minutes, she came on the line. It was an exceptionally noisy one and Gabriella said, “I’m at Kennedy airport. You can probably hear all the planes and trucks. You’ll have to speak louder. Is it important?”

“It is,” I said. “An attempt was made on my life this morning.”

There was a shocked silence, then “What!”

“Well, sort of…”

She sighed, an exasperated sigh that I heard clearly despite the bellow of a climbing jet. “Look, if this is some kind of gag just to get to talk to me, I don’t find it—”

“No, it isn’t. Listen, Gabriella—this is what happened …” I described the incident on the subway platform as briefly as possible, not omitting anything and repeating the dialogue almost verbatim.

“Hm,” she said thoughtfully when I had finished. “Sorry I was suspicious of your motives.”

“No, no, you were right to be suspicious. It just so happens that they have no connection with this incident.”

“You say the man had an accent?”

“I thought so at first although it wasn’t one I recognized. Then it faded away. At the end, I didn’t notice one at all.”

“A phony,” she said promptly. “It’s not that easy to maintain an accent—I know, I used to be an actress, remember?”

“I remember and I wish I’d been around to see you on the boards. But in the meantime, there’s the matter of the threat to my life.”

“Oh, that!” she said dismissively, then laughed. “You didn’t recognize the man?”

“No, should I have recognized him?”

“Well, it sounds as if he were in a disguise—you say a beard, thick glasses with heavy rims, black hat pulled down—and nothing about him seemed familiar?”

“No. Nothing.”

“And he not only pushed you in front of the train—he pulled you back. He’s trying to frighten you.”

“He’s doing a great job,” I said fervently.

“He’s going to ask you where you’ve hidden the Ko Feng and thinks that by having you under threat, you’ll be more likely to tell him.”

“If he had wild horses tearing me into shreds, I couldn’t tell him.”

“Unfortunately, there’s no way of convincing a person that you’re telling the truth. It’s because we all tell lies at some time or other.”

“Your recommendation, Sergeant?”

“I’ll see what I can do about protection. Stay close to the hotel.”

“Another thing …” I told her of the
New York Times
issues that Don Renshaw had been reviewing at the library.

“A similar theft, five years ago,” she said crisply in her best sergeant’s voice. “Too similar to be coincidence, you think?”

“I do. Maybe your files on the earlier theft will give some useful clues on this one.”

“I’ll get on it right away, sounds good. And don’t forget, leave word as to your movements.”

After hanging up, I called the number I had been given at the desk. A female Asian voice answered softly and put me through at once.

Dr. Li’s voice was harsh and his tone guttural though the sibilants hissed in the Chinese manner. Every consonant was sounded with emphasis so that the result was conversation that was perfectly understandable yet retained a strongly foreign flavor. His telephone manner was amicable and respectful though I had a strong feeling that there was steel beneath the velvet.

“I wonder if I might crave the pleasure of an hour or so of your time?” was his question after we had exchanged pleasantries and I had been welcomed to New York and extended sympathy on the death of my friend.

He was well informed, I thought. Better than I was, for his name meant nothing to me. I cautiously asked if he could tell me what he had in mind.

“I am the director of the Methuselah Foundation. We have areas of common interest, you and I. These interface with the Celestial Spice. The Ko Feng.”

“The Methuselah Foundation. I am sorry but I am not familiar with it,” I said.

“That is quite understandable. Our activities are largely here in the U.S.A. though we have many contacts around the world. We are a nonprofit organization dedicated to the prolonging of the prime of life through study and research. Methuselah, as I am sure you know, lived to be 969 years old. We have chosen him to be our emblem—and our goal.”

I was beginning to understand. “This is why you are interested in Ko Feng—you think it may have properties of life extension.”

“Precisely. You will agree, will you not, that we have much to discuss?”

I was willing to discuss with anyone if there was any possibility at all that I might learn something that would contribute toward finding the Ko Feng and Don Renshaw’s murderer.

“Of course. When and where do you suggest?”

“If you would like to come to our headquarters here in Manhattan, a limousine will collect you. As for the time, I am at your disposal.”

“Is later this afternoon suitable?” That would show how interested he was in talking to me, I thought.

“Excellent,” he purred. “A limousine will be at your door in an hour.”

My bluff called, I said, “Fine, I’m at the—”

“The Framingham Hotel. Yes, I am looking forward most anxiously to meeting you. I am sure we will have a most rewarding discussion.”

As soon as I had hung up, I called Gabriella back and told her where I was going.

“The Methuselah Foundation,” she repeated, surprised. “You should be safe there.”

“If I’m not out in two hours, come in with helicopter gun-ships.”

“I’ll alert the navy and the marines. Do you want the UN in on this or shall we handle it ourselves?”

“It’s my life we’re talking about,” I protested. “Can we be serious?”

“Deadly serious,” she responded and hung up.

A
SMILING YOUNG ASIAN
woman led me through a library that looked like a library should. The walls and shelves were rich, heavy mahogany and so were the tables and chairs. The floor was carpeted with thick, soft Chinese carpets that must have been centuries old. The books looked nearly as old, most of them bound in morocco leather and imprinted in gold. In sharp contrast, several computers were scattered strategically and there were a couple of large copy machines.

We went on through the building via a wood-paneled corridor and then the young woman tapped gently at a door. She opened it and smilingly ushered me in.

Dr. Li was one of the most imposing individuals I had ever met. Well over six feet tall, he had a commanding presence that radiated around him like an aura. He wore what looked at first like a conventional Western suit except for the jacket buttoned all the way up to the neck. Then at second glance, it was more like a Chinese outfit and its unusual sheen made it look even more Eastern. He wore a small round flat cap of the type we associate with mandarins.