I used a knife to cut the tape and lever up the plastic lid. I held my breath as I lifted it. In the bottom of the container lay eight or nine small, blackish pieces.

I sniffed. My memory banks recalled for comparison the fragrances of that day at JFK-cloves then cinnamon but no, more like cardamom. "Anise," Don had said, "and a hint of orange ..."

I turned the pieces over with a fork, examining their shape. I separated one and chopped it as finely as I could with the knife. I drank some water, waited then tasted the chopped fragments.

Laughter came from the back room in a sudden gust and strident voices argued. More laughter came. I drank some more water and sat for a while. I repeated the process, then put the cut pieces into the container and closed it.

I should know what my decision was, I told myself. I had had plenty of time to prepare it. After all, the choices were simple ...

Should I declare the Ko Feng phony or genuine?

Should I tell the truth or lie?

Crockery rattled and cutlery clinked in the back as the meal gradually took priority over family disputes. I sat, thinking.

When the phone rang, it jangled every nerve in my body and sounded loud enough to be heard all over Manhattan Island. After the third ring, the curtain pulled open and Marty appeared.

"It's for you," he said.

"How do you know-" I began but he had already closed the curtain.

I went over and picked up the phone.

"Have you examined it?"

The words were measured and deliberate. The speaker was also using some means of disguising his voice-or her voice, for it was an indeterminate huskiness that could have been either. I knew there were easy ways of changing the sound of a voice over the phone.

"Yes."

"We must be absolutely sure what we're referring to. What is it supposed to be?"

"Who are you?" I asked.

"The buyer."

"It's supposed to be Ko Feng."

"All right. You have examined it. Is it really Ko Feng?"

I took a couple of breaths. "No, it isn't."

There was a silence. It was louder than any noise. "Repeat that."

"I said no, it isn't."

Another silence.

"You know what you are saying?" Despite whatever means were being used to disguise the voice, the emotion showed through.

"Yes."

I awaited the inevitable question: Are you sure? It didn't come. The voice said, "Your fee is with the container" and the line clicked dead.

Several queries about how the thief had made contact with Marty had pa.s.sed through my mind and I had intended to ask them before I left but now it didn't seem like a good idea. My instinct was to get out fast.

I looked underneath the Styrofoam container. An opaque plastic envelope was attached. I opened it and found five one-hundred-dollar bills. I put them in my pocket, took the container and shouted to Marty, "Thanks for the service!"

His face appeared through the curtain. "Everything okay? Some kind of new pasta they're trying out, huh? Weird way to do it but hey, this is New York, right?"

"It is," I agreed. "It certainly is."

I departed quickly and walked along the block. The Ziegfeld Theater was on my right and Tom Hanks was appearing in Hamlet, but the theater was not uppermost in my mind. I was concerned now only with making sure I was not being watched or followed. At the intersection, I waved for a cab. When one slowed and pulled over in a unique example of lightning service, I stepped back and waved it on. Another came only seconds later and I took it as far as Lincoln Center where I alighted in the middle of the busiest traffic I could find and then took another cab back to the hotel.

I was just getting out of this one when I realized that most of the players in this bizarre game knew where I was staying anyway.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE.

HERE I WAS AGAIN in the home away from home of Lieutenant Gaines and Sergeant Rossini. This visit was more voluntary than the previous ones. I had called Gabriella to tell her of the incident at Martha's Restaurant, she had checked with Hal Gaines and they had agreed that I should come into the station.

It was a different room this time but only one degree less grim than before. The two detectives sat facing me. Gaines looked much better, no chewing, no twitching and no more stress lines than might be expected, considering the pressures of the case. Another triumph for King's Balm. Gabriella looked prim and official, making her even more comely than usual.

"No intonation, no s.p.a.cing of phrases, nothing to give away the voice?" Gaines was still trying to learn more from my account of the phone call to the restaurant after I had tasted the sample in the box.

"Nothing that struck a chord," I insisted.

"Most people have characteristic bunching of words or ways of breaking up sentences," said Gabriella. "Think back."

"I've tried. I was too caught up in the situation at the time but I've reviewed it in my mind since and no, I just can't pinpoint anything identifiable."

A woman in uniform came in and handed Gaines a folder. He glanced at it, put it down and shook his head.

"We checked the call to the restaurant. It was made from a drugstore phone in midtown." He examined me keenly. "So you told this person that the stuff was phony?"

"Yes."

"And it wasn't?"

"No, it was the real thing right enough."

"You're absolutely-"

"Yes, absolutely sure."

"So we got ourselves two possibilities." He drummed stubby black fingers on the metal table and it hummed softly in response. "One is that the murderer is so monumentally p.i.s.sed off at you that the only important thing is to knock you off and soon."

I looked from him to Gabriella. She shrugged.

"You screwed up the murderer's chance to sell the spice," she said. "What can you expect?"

"I don't think I like that possibility," I said. "What's the second? Am I going to like it any better?"

"The second," said Gaines, "is that the murderer is more concerned about the money."

"The million or two he can get for the spice," added Gabriella. "Which means that he will concentrate on selling it fast. The question is, will he use you as the authenticator after you've double-crossed him?"

"He or she," grunted Gaines.

"I do like the second possibility better," I admitted.

"But don't rule out a smoldering resentment against you," said Gabriella sweetly, "which may still exist. The person we're talking about has killed two people already and won't hesitate at a third. In fact," she added and quite unnecessarily, I thought, "his motive in your case might be the strongest of all."

Hal Gaines nodded agreement, squinting at me. "Yeah, you're still a vital p.a.w.n in the game."

"Hate being a p.a.w.n," I said, "but vital-that's not so bad."

"So whichever way our murderer goes, you're in danger."

"He or she might want to eliminate you before the sale of the Ko Feng, afterward-or even at the same time," Gabriella pointed out. I wished she wouldn't be so a.n.a.lytical.

The policewoman came in again with another folder. Through the open door, I could hear a voice being raised in what sounded like protest at police brutality. After what I had heard in the last few minutes, I was prepared to support a significant amount of it.

Gaines skimmed through the folder, nodded and the woman left.

"This charity clambake tomorrow," Gaines said. "Everybody who's anybody in the food business is gonna be there, looks like."

"Yes. I have an invitation and I wouldn't miss it for the world. Aside from that though, I really feel that in some way, the murderer is going to take advantage of it, use it as a screen. Why don't we encourage him? Get them to call it a Ko Feng affair."

Gabriella nodded and Gaines shrugged. "Yeah, we can do that," Gaines aid. "We already leaned on Marvell and New England a.s.surance to make no deals. That blocks off those two routes."

"And we'll be there too," Gabriella said brightly.

"Both of you?" I asked apprehensively.

"Yeah, undercover," said Gaines, less enthusiastic.

"We'll also have some of our people among the staff," Gabriella said.

"You're really giving me good protection, aren't you?"

"We don't want it to look that way," the Gaines said firmly. "We want you to look really vulnerable."

"We want to tempt the murderer into making his move," Gabriella nodded in confirmation.

"I get the idea," I murmured, "and I'm with you all the way. How many people did you say you're going to have there?"

CHAPTER FORTY.

YOU MUST THINK ALL we do in New York is eat and drink" said Henrietta Winslow. She had just introduced herself to me as a food writer for the Paragon magazine chain and she made the comment after observing that I was a visitor from England and asking what did I think of it. I took the question to mean New York and answered it accordingly, deciding to make no mention of murder, theft or Ko Feng.

Henrietta accepted another martini from a waiter and embarked on the expression of opinions that would doubtless be organized into a column at some early date. Another waiter came within reach, carrying a tray of full champagne gla.s.ses and I accepted one.

"You know, since the c.o.c.ktail was first invented in the 1870s, it just grew and grew in popularity until-in the fifties and sixties-it was an integral part of American life."

"With only a hiccup during Prohibition?" I asked.

She was a large lady with silvery hair. She smiled.

"Prohibition made c.o.c.ktails more popular than ever before. Maybe people didn't drink as many but more people became aware of them. It wasn't until the eighties that they declined."

"And what do you think that decline was due to?"

"Well, for one thing the real drinkers went to straight spirits like the Absoluts, and people who were worried about calories or driving switched to wines."

"You haven't been diverted to either one," I said. "You're still a martini drinker."

"Always have been-always will be. They make a good one here too. Were you here at the opening?"

We were at the Park Avenue Towers, one of the newer hotels in New York and the All-Charities Buffet was being held in the Vespucci Room. The decor was modern but not too severe and the murals depicted scenes from the discovery of the continent, evidently the work of a painter determined to erase the Columbus myth.

"No, I missed it," I told her.

"I didn't," she said. "They had a martini bar where they'd mix it any way you wanted-exact amount of vermouth you asked for, any one of twenty or more gins or vodkas, however many olives you wanted-and you could pick five or six places where the olives came from-stirred, shaken or whisked, and you could even ask for fast or slow, gentle or vigorous..." She sighed in glorious reminiscence. "Still, this is a good one too" she said, looking fondly at her gla.s.s. I suspected they all were.

"I come to this event every year," she told me. "New York has more charity functions than Los Angeles has tremors. This is one of the best, though. All we seem to lack this year is the mayor and Rollerena." That didn't mean much to me but I decided not to ask.

Lots of other people besides those dignitaries came to the event judging from the crowds now besieging the buffet tables. Corks popped, drinks fizzed, gla.s.ses rattled, conversation throbbed and delicious smells were in the air, sizzling meat, pungent cheeses, spices like ginger and curry and coriander.

"I wonder why they're calling this a Ko Feng luncheon," she mused, only half to me.

"It's that spice," I said. "You may have read about it."

"I know what it is," she told me. "I'm wondering why this luncheon is named after it."