Roux the Day by Peter King Page A

it was a chef’s book—the kind a chef writes recipes in—so it might look different from all the other books.”
    He shook his head resolutely. “Didn’t see it. No, sir. Didn’t look at all. Nothing like that.”
    He hadn’t been inclined to small talk and he didn’t even want to talk about bookbinding, which had to be a passion with him as well as a vocation. He just wanted to get me out as fast as possible.
    The streetcar squeaked to a stop and we scooped in a few more passengers. I returned to my cascading thoughts. I was relieved at not finding a dead body, but the live one I had found was giving me a lot of reason for conjecture.
    A bookbinder he might be, and probably a very experienced and able one.
    He was also a forger.
    I had no doubt on that score. Everything in that inner room pointed to it. No wonder it had an inconspicuous door and was kept locked. The key was not in the cleverest hiding place but it looked as if he seldom allowed anyone access to it. The paper, the books, the furnace and the metal for casting type on a small scale—all indicated a cozy little forging operation.
    Nothing ambitious like hundred-dollar bills or bearer bonds. Herman did it on a scale that would merit little investigation even if any suspicion were aroused. That was unlikely, too; an expert might spot the difference between a genuine Edgar Allan Poe and a forgery but how many people—even book lovers—could tell a forgery of say, P.G. Wodehouse? Many of his titles I knew to be worth ten to twenty thousand dollars, while early copies, not even first editions, of Agatha Christie or Conan Doyle could bring much more than that.
    Forging books was a safer proposition, as it didn’t provoke investigation by the Treasury Department as did the reproduction of currency or bonds. Herman looked like the kind of man who would want to minimize the risk of scrutiny from authorities.
    So why was a book forger involved here? To produce a copy of the Belvedere chef’s book seemed to be the obvious answer—but why was a copy put into a charity auction? There was no profit in that. That puzzled me but, setting it aside for the moment, it meant that if Richie Mortensen’s murderer had taken the book that Mortensen had bought at the auction—he had a forgery in his hands! Another question was, what had Herman Harburg used to copy from? The original and genuine Belvedere book? If so, where was it now?
    We bounced over a non-uniform section of track. My brain needed shaking up after all these questions but it didn’t help much. I decided I needed mental stimulation, and that meant food.
    I took the St. Charles streetcar into town as far as it went. That was Canal Street where it U-turns and comes back. I walked back to the Monteleone along Royal Street.
    The lobby was busy as always, the overstuffed couches were full of people. Stacks of luggage awaited removal and guests were browsing in the glass-fronted cabinets.
    Electronic door keys in hotels have made the old practice of stopping by the front desk obsolete and I was heading for the elevator when a figure came up beside me.
    “Why, Lieutenant Delancey! What a coincidence!”
    We shook hands.
    “Nah, not really,” he said. He still had that look that was on the edge of rumpled. His eyes looked tired, but then they always did, it seemed. His hair was not untidy but its acquaintance with a brush or comb was fleeting at best. “I figured you’d be here about this time, getting spruced-up to go out to dinner at one of our celebrated spots.”
    “You’re right,” I said, “I am. But you wanted to chat.”
    The lobby was not only busy but getting busier so we went into the Oyster Bar adjoining and ordered coffee. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “I have an interesting development to report.” I told him of the visit to Herman Harburg while minimizing my information-gathering talks with Mrs. Gracewell and Miss Pargeter. From previous experience, I knew that the police get