The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [68]
Again, after the perfect interval, I was served the main course, which, according to the simple but beautifully wrought bill of fare, consisted of Tartare d’écureuil écrasé dans la rue sur un lit de glands gratinés.
But I do not complain. Again simplicity added an undeniable elegance to the presentation. The rodent had been skinned and flensed. The meat and, from what I could gather, the rest of the soft parts had been ground medium-coarse then served in the cavity of the pelt, artfully splayed on its back, legs outspread and tail in full fluff curling upward and over toward the turned little head.
It was delicious. I never thought acorns could be so tasty. They added the exact right textural counterpart to the chewy meat and the shredded newsprint, the flavors combining with a gustatorial synergy little short of wondrous. I was ingesting nothing less than the essence of oak, at first hand in the muted yet subtle woodiness of the acorns, and then, at one remove, in the nutty echoes alive in the flesh of the little creature that feeds on these underappreciated delicacies.
The service was truly excellent, the dishes being slid on the floor through the door flap after just the right interval between courses, as you would expect in any well-run establishment.
As well as food, I was served food for thought. It is seldom in life that a meal serves both the body and the spirit, if only with a lesson in the true meaning of hunger and humility.
It was only after I had read this document through twice that I realized it constituted evidence of a kidnapping case and of a sick, deranged mind. Holding it by the edges, I forthwith placed letter and envelope in a plastic bag and phoned Lieutenant Tracy.
He arrived at my office less than half an hour later. Donning white gloves, he examined the letter in detail. He shook his head in disbelief. “What is this? Fresh roadkill squirrel? What kind of sicko …? Is this serious or some kind of joke?”
I nodded. “Both, I’m afraid.”
He shook his head again. “Where do you find fresh toad this time of year?”
“Maybe it wasn’t fresh.”
Lieutenant Tracy started to laugh, something I had never seen him do before. It was an attractive, revealing laugh that had him shaking his head and wiping tears from his eyes. Then, like a squall, it stopped as abruptly as it started. He wiped his eyes and apologized. I said I understood.
I told him it was, as far as I could determine, Korky’s handwriting. Over the past two years he had sent numerous notes and cards to Elsbeth and me. I said I could easily provide a sample, but I thought the editor of the Bugle should be informed immediately as to what had transpired.
Donald Patcher, the editor of the Bugle, responded with a sense of concern for Korky’s welfare when we contacted him. There was no bluster about the inviolability of the press and that sort of thing. He said he would run it the next morning just as though it were Korky’s regular column.
In part because it can’t be avoided — I’m sure she would read the column in tomorrow’s Bugle or one of her friends is sure to mention it to her — I called Elsbeth and let her know what had happened without going into details. She took it well, saying it would be good to read his column again whatever it said. I’ve told her about Corny’s death as well, again without going into details. Truth in these matters is always the best policy.
Robert Remick has called again. He was his gentlemanly self, but news of the Bert-and-Betti fiasco had reached him, as I knew it would. I sensed a note of exasperation in his tone as he told me that he and the rest of the board had full confidence in my ability “to clean up this latest mess” at the museum.
I had his call very much in mind when I summoned Alger Wherry up for a meeting. Closing the door and having Doreen poised