Murder Is My Dish Read Online Free PDF Page B

mine.
    I called the F.B.I. field office from my room at the Commodore, wondering how long it would take the tail to convince the folks downstairs he could plug into my phone conversations. It was Pappy Piersall himself who answered the call.
    â€œF.B.I. Piersall.”
    â€œChet, Pappy. He call?”
    â€œHe called all right.”
    â€œWhy so unhappy?”
    â€œOn account of I did some G-twoing for you, Chestah.”
    â€œMeaning what?”
    â€œFellow called up, asking for Drum. I said you were out in the field. He wanted to know what the Bureau wanted with the second officer of a banana line freighter. I couldn’t say. You know the routine, obscurely mysterious. He didn’t fluster.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œHe was cool. Too cool, Chestah. He’ll see you on his boat, any time tomorrow morning you can make it. Then I called a bucko I know over at the U.N. I asked him if he knew anything about Pablo Duarte of the Parana Republic. That was the name he gave. Pablo Duarte.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œMy friend knew of him, all right. Pablo Duarte isn’t a ship’s second officer, Chestah. He’s a big shot in the Parana Republic Security Forces. That’s Secret Police to you. Better not show up, pal.”
    â€œThanks, Pappy. For everything. But I’ll be there.”
    â€œI knew you’d say that,” he groaned.
    There was a very faint click in the earpiece. I looked at it, and smiled at the black perforations, and said, “Van Rijn was his last name. Rembrandt van Rijn. I’m willing to go as high as two hundred thousand. If you can’t get me any originals, what kind of art dealer are you?”
    â€œHuh?” Pappy said.
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” I said, and hung up wondering what the gray little man would do with that one.
    The minutes plodded by like weary old war horses headed for the glue factory. I called up Room Service, liquid, and got some club soda to go with the bottle I already had. A couple of slow drinks and half a pack of cigarettes goosed the war horses along. At four-thirty it began to snow, and with the winter solstice only a few days off it was dark before five.
    The phone rang at five minutes after five. I jerked up the receiver on the first ring and Eulalia said, “Mr. Drum?”
    â€œYeah. Don’t say a word. I’ll call you back. Phone under his name?”
    â€œYes, but—”
    I hung up. I broke open my .357 Magnum and spun the cylinder. It smelled of oil and lack of use. I set the safety and slid a cartridge into the empty chamber under the hammer, giving me six shots to play with. I snorted. Probably I wouldn’t need any, but you never knew. I strapped on the shoulder holster and rammed the Magnum into it, then climbed into my jacket and my shoes and slung the tweed topper over my arm. Portrait of a predator in search of prey. Portrait of a working man trying to grub a buck. Not that I’d been offered any fees for this one.
    I walked across the lobby without looking once for the gray man. He would be there. He was paid to be there.
    Outside the snow came down in wind-whipped swirls and eddies. Men went by leaning into the wind and holding their hatbrims. Women with Christmas packages went by, covered to the ears except for their nyloned calves. I walked over to Grand Central and down to the lower level, letting myself get shoved around for a moment or two by the rush-hour crowds. Then I double-timed it over to the taxi ramp and got into a cab.
    â€œPenn Station,” I said in a loud voice. Then, as we got under way: “Make that Columbus Circle.”
    I stayed with the cab at Columbus Circle until I saw another one emptying. I switched and told the driver Bloomingdale’s. Ten minutes later I was drifting through the Christmas crowds on the main floor of that big store. I’d gone in the front entrance but came out the side. If the gray man was still sticking, he used