Roux the Day (23 page)

That got his attention. There was a brief pause. “You must have spotted one of my men. They’ll get hell from me if you have. They’re the best.”

“Under medium height, dark hair, small mustache, dark suit.”

“That’s not either of my men.” His voice had tightened. “I’ll have them watch out for this character you’re talking about. Has he made any moves on you?”

“No, just followed me.”

“If this book of yours is really that important, he may be following you to try and find out where the book is.”

“I hope you’re saying I’m not in danger of being assassinated.”

“I don’t think so.” He sounded serious. “The pattern here says that if he was going to knock you off, he would have done it by now. No, it’s the whereabouts of that book—that’s what they’re after.”

“Lieutenant, if you want to reassure me, you’re doing it—and I appreciate it. But don’t kid me, if I’m really in danger—you can tell me.”

“I’m telling you the truth, based on experience. New York experience—and when it comes to killing, that’s the best.”

“Okay, I can breathe again.”

“Be my guest. I’ll talk to the guys watching you. Keep ’em a bit closer, just in case. And I’ll tell ’em to keep an eye out for this other character.”

“What did you mean when you said you were getting more interested in Larry Mortensen?”

“Well, when we first checked him out, he looked clean. No convictions. Now we’ve looked a little deeper. We have files which show only suspicion, involvement, associates and lots of other things I’m not going to tell you about. Mortensen shows up on ‘the Yellow List,’ as we call it, quite a few times.”

“So he’s probably been lucky in keeping out of jail so far.”

“Could be.”

“So he might have been in partnership with his brother and Whelan as far as the book scam was concerned,” I said.

“Possible. We’re still digging, Incidentally, that forger of yours, Harburg, is no lily-white. He’s been investigated—not by us but by private outfits. You didn’t tell me how valuable some books are.”

“They are. They don’t have to be first editions, either. Agatha Christies bring over twenty thousand dollars. So do Graham Greenes—”

“Which ones?” he asked quickly. “I’ve got a few of his—
A Gun for Sale, Brighton Rock
…”

“I think both of those bring that kind of money, yes.”

“John LeCarré?”

“His too, definitely. Ian Fleming, Tolkien … lots of others.”

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Anyway, we’ve talked to him—Harburg, I mean, not Fleming or Tolkien. Got nothing.”

“He’s alerted, though—”

“No, he isn’t. We started out by asking him about break-ins in the neighborhood; sort of led into other areas.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

His assurances that I was not in mortal danger helped although I wondered about this new light on Larry Mortensen. If he had been involved with his brother in the book theft then he might be more dangerous than I’d thought. This other man following me was still a worry. Who on earth could he be? And what was his interest?

I
WAS THINKING ABOUT
Lieutenant Delancey’s words. When I had told him that I was still being followed, he had said that it was Larry Mortensen before I had informed him that I was attracting the attention of another follower. I had assumed that Mortensen’s earlier intention of shooting me in revenge for the death of his brother had been diverted. I had also assumed that he was not deadly serious—very appropriate, I thought—in that intention, as he had threatened Elsa Goddard similarly.

But if I had persuaded him of my innocence, why was he still following me? Well, if he no longer believed I had killed his brother, the only answer was that he was after the book and was now hopeful that I would lead him to it. Lieutenant Delancey’s further comment engaged my interest, too, when he had said that Mortensen was getting more attention from the police every day. What were they finding out? That Mortensen had been in with his brother in the plot to steal the Belvedere chef’s book? I wished I had asked the lieutenant to be more explicit on that point but perhaps I was expecting too much. I could hardly hope to be fully in his confidence.

I decided to follow up on that lead but in the meantime, I had one more meal to eat at one of the restaurants of the five Witches who comprised the kidnapping squad. It was about that time a restaurant would be seeing action in the kitchen: chopping, blending, cutting, preparing, mixing and doing the dozens of operations that the diner never thinks about when the sees the final creation on the table.

I called Jenny Kirkpatrick at the General’s Tavern, reasoning that she was sure to be there supervising and directing—and she was. Not only that but she would be delighted to see me that evening for dinner. After a long and contemplative bath with its serene therapy, I dressed and went to the Carousel Bar where the “experienced” drinkers—like me—were watching the inexperienced newcomers discover that the bar was rotating. By the time I had consumed a Ramos gin fizz, I was ready for Jenny Kirkpatrick, the last of the inner circle of the five Witches.

Jenny looked resplendent in a purple, ankle-length gown with a delicious décolletage and an ample bustline. She was a bigger-than-average woman and certainly came through as a bigger-than-usual hostess. Everything about her was bigger, including her smile and her welcome. We spent the first few minutes discussing the decor as I mentioned the unusual exterior.

“The building was brick originally, I had to re-face it but I have kept to the original appearance as closely as possible,” she told me. “The wooden beams inset among the brick are the originals from the late 1700s.”

“Was it a tavern then?”

“Yes, but it’s had different names. The general it’s named after is Andrew Jackson, of course—”

“Later to be president?”

“That’s the one. It was renamed for him after he ate here just before the Battle of New Orleans. When we defeated you wicked English,” she added with a roguish smile.

“We didn’t win them all,” I conceded. “Now, my knowledge of the history of the period is only patchy but isn’t that the battle that was fought long after the war was over?”

“That’s the one,” Jenny said as she led me to a table. The brick-walled interior had low wooden beams and copper lamp fixtures. A few swords and a couple of plowshares on the walls suggested a transition in the right direction while the sparkling white tablecloths gleamed as oases in the pleasantly dimmed room. A tattered flag no longer fluttered bravely but hung alongside a portrait of the general himself.

He was tall and gaunt, almost cadaverous, very erect in carriage.

His face was full of decision and energy. He had iron-gray hair and hawklike gray eyes. He wore full dress uniform—a blue frock coat with buff facings, a spotless white waistcoat and skintight yellow buckskin breeches. A blue plumed hat was under one arm.

Jenny saw me looking at the portrait. “Painted from life,” she said, “although when he was here, he didn’t look like that. For one thing, his left arm dangled uselessly from a bullet fired at him during a duel, which lodged too near his heart to be removed.”

“A duel over a woman, no doubt,” I commented.

“No,” said Jenny. “Over a horse race. Besides that, his eyes were deep in his head and his complexion pale as death.”

A waiter brought a complimentary glass full of a sparkling liquid. “Our new house special,” said Jenny. “Our version of the gin fizz but with a healthy side to it. We leave out the sugar and the heavy cream and substitute sorbitol and extra egg white. Several customers asked for a cocktail they could feel justified in drinking, avoiding sugar and fat. This is it. What do you think?”

I tasted. “Excellent,” I said. “Can’t tell the difference … So the general had his last meal here before the battle?”

Jenny pursed her lips, her eyes twinkled and she lifted her chin to continue. I wondered why.

“He had that last meal here with Governor William Clayborne; Commodore Daniel Patterson, veteran of the wars against the Barbary pirates; Colonel George Ross, commander of the infantry; and, of course, Jean Laffite.”

“Ah, the French pirate. Quite a hero here, isn’t he?”

“Actually, he made his reputation as a slave trader and a smuggler. But it sounds better the other way—the man whose pirate fleet saved the day for Jackson.”

I took a longer taste of the gin fizz. “You have a strange look on your face, Jenny. Come to think of it, your tone of voice has changed. Is there something you want to tell me?”

She chuckled. “You’ve sussed me out. I’ve given you the tourist version but the truth is more likely that there probably was no such meal. Oh, the general may have eaten—or drunk—here on other occasions but maybe not the night before the battle. If he was here then, the assembly probably wasn’t as distinguished as the story tells it. For one thing, Jackson distrusted Laffite and called his men ‘hellish bandits.’”

“Was the name here always associated with the general?”

“No. It was called the Governor’s Tavern at one time because he often came here, but then he had them change it when he ran for reelection. His opponent was making speeches stressing the excessive amount of time he said the governor was spending here.”

“Reassuring to know that politicians haven’t changed, I suppose.”

“There’s another intriguing possibility,” Jenny said.

“You love this local history, don’t you?”

“It’s fascinating. Tales are told of the efforts by French factions here to storm St. Helena Island and release Napoleon from captivity then bring him here. The idea being to rally enough French to be sure of winning the Battle of New Orleans which everyone knew was coming.”

“No doubt he had enough followers to make a difference,” I said. “How much of that is fact and how much fiction?”

“The efforts to release him were probably discussed but it didn’t go beyond that.”

“Anyway, Andrew Jackson won the day without Napoleon’s help.”

“He did.”

“And how much has the menu changed from those earlier days?” I asked.

“Considerably, in its nutritional value, but I’ve tried to preserve the original appearance of the dishes and certainly to improve the taste. We know so much more about seasoning and flavoring than we did then.”

The waiter had left a menu on the table and Jenny handed it to me. “See what you think.”

“Corn chowder,” I commented, looking at the first page. “That was a New England preparation originally, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, Massachusetts. When it was brought to the South, tomatoes were added. Potatoes and onions are the other main ingredients beside the corn.”

“Here’s another interesting one. New Orleans pepper pot—is that similar to Philadelphia pepper pot? That’s a very old recipe.”

“It is. You know the story …?”

“Tell me.”

“When morale was low in Jackson’s army, the general wanted to lift it by serving a hearty meal. All that was available, however, was tripe, peppercorns and a few scraps. The cook improvised and New Orleans pepper pot has been a popular dish ever since.”

“That cook’s name should be immortalized.”

“It should,” she agreed, “but I don’t believe anyone knows it. Today we use knuckle of veal with all the meat left on, tripe, onions, potatoes and carrots. We season with parsley, bay leaf, thyme, cloves, marjoram and parsley. We drop dumplings into it just before serving.”

“Sounds very authentic.” I did a double take as I turned over the menu page. “A whole page of breads? That’s unusual.”

“One of our historical touches. Breads were very important in those days.” Jenny was warming to her theme, obviously fascinated with the challenge of reviving the cooking of the past.

“
Pain perdu.
Now there’s a bread you rarely see.”

“Do you know it? It’s like French toast and a good use for bread which is going stale—they had a lot of that in the past when they didn’t know much about food preserving.”

“Then you’ve got pecan bread, walnut bread, buckwheat cakes … but enough. I have to make a decision. Tell me, Jenny, which do you consider your specialties?”

“The Poached Stuffed Chicken in Lemon Sauce is extremely popular. The Louisiana Bluefish—now, if you want a dish that’s local and historical, there’s one.”

“Don’t see bluefish very often,” I said. “It’s a real Gulf special, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. We bake it with chopped onion and tomato juice over it. We pour Creole sauce over it, sprinkle breadcrumbs and melted butter, then broil to finish.”

“Brunswick stew, I see here. That’s a famous old dish for sure.”

“Yes. Virginia and North Carolina fight over who cooked it first.”

“Originally cooked with squirrel, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and this region had a lot of them. Then squirrels disappeared from the recipe, as people ate so many of them.”

“There are plenty to go around today but I don’t suppose modern taste would go for them,” I said.

“We use chicken now.”

“What else do you put in it?”

“Lima beans, corn, tomatoes, celery, ham and potatoes. We season with bay leaf, basil, parsley and red and black pepper.”

I pondered. “A tough choice. I’m torn between the Veal in Wine Sauce and the Pheasant in Casserole.”

We discussed and I settled for the corn chowder and the veal. The chowder was thick and creamy and Jenny told me that some restaurants serve it with pieces of chicken. The veal came as thick cutlets that were sautéed, then mushrooms, garlic, salt, red and white pepper and tarragon were added along with Worcestershire sauce. In a separate pan, butter was melted, flour added, then white wine. It was simmered until thickened, poured over the cutlets and served on rice.

Jenny had to leave to take care of other customers while I ate. When she returned, she said, “Now you must taste our dessert specialty. It’s flummery.”

“An old Welsh word meaning ‘nonsense, humbug.’”

She laughed. “So I believe. I don’t know how it came to be used for this dessert, perhaps because it’s light, frothy, not too substantial. But it’s delicious, I assure you.”