Murder Is My Dish Read Free

Terminal Building on East 42nd Street. I got my bag from a locker and walked across the street to the Commodore Hotel. The snow was finally beginning to stick. I checked into a room, and showered, and unpacked pajamas and an unopened bottle of bourbon. I poured the kind of shot into the bathroom glass that is supposed to make you forget your troubles, but when I drank it down and felt it land on top of Sloppy Pete’s hamburger I could conjure up a clear picture of Andy Dineen’s face for the first time in my mind.
    Elementary, my dear Dr. Watson, he had said in his booming voice when I’d given him what information I had on this New York job. He’d insisted on taking me over to the Stattler Men’s Bar to drink with him to his first assignment. We drank and he said, Drum and Dineen; I like the sound of it. Pinkertons, here we come.
    By now he was growing cold on a slab in a drawer in the Bellevue morgue.
    In the morning I called the F.B.I. New York field office and said, “This is Chester Drum. I’m a graduate of the Academy class of fifty. Any classmates of mine around the office?”
    â€œYou an agent now, Mr. Drum?”
    I said I was not.
    â€œI’ll see, sir.” The voice took on respect, and lost warmth. In a few seconds another voice said: “Chestah? Well, I’ll be dipped. What you doing in New York, boy? This is Pappy Piersall.”
    Pappy had been the humorist of our F.B.I. Academy class, a roly-poly Virginian who hid a lot of brain power behind rosy cheeks and a tooth-paste-ad smile, and a lot of strength in a deceptively soft-looking body. I told him it was a long story and added, “I need some help.”
    â€œI thought you were gumshoeing in D.C.”
    â€œI am. Here’s what, Pappy. If you get a call from a Parana Republic national asking for Mr. Drum, get a number where I can call him back.”
    There was a silence. I could imagine the smile dropping off Pappy’s round red face. “Now, wait a minute, boy,” he said finally. “You wouldn’t be trying to impersonate an agent?”
    I didn’t say anything.
    â€œHell’s bells, boy! You can’t do that.”
    â€œAndy Dineen was working on a case with me.” There was a taste in my mouth bitter as gall, but I didn’t think Andy would mind. “Remember him?”
    â€œSure. Sure I do.”
    â€œHe was beat to death the night before last, Pappy.”
    Pappy swore. When he finished his voice was softer and had lost most of its drawl. “How did it happen, Chet?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m going to find out.”
    â€œBut Jesus, boy. This call is monitored. You know that. All our calls are monitored as a matter of form.”
    â€œI never said I wanted to impersonate an agent. I’m hopping around town. I need a message center.”
    â€œOh, yeah.”
    â€œAndy was an agent too.”
    â€œI know it. Don’t you think I know it?”
    â€œWill they give you much trouble?”
    Pappy said softly, almost devoutly, “You find out about Andy; I’ll worry about the trouble.”
    I told him where I could be reached, and hung up. After a quick breakfast at the Commodore coffee shop, I took the shuttle over to Times Square and the IRT subway uptown to The Heights. A small orange snowplow was clearing the campus streets and men with shovels were attacking the sidewalks which had drifted over. I followed a group of students who wore their crew cuts and toggle-topper coats like a uniform over to the administration building, where a receptionist told me which campus street to follow and which stairs to climb to reach the Spanish Language and Literature Department. Ten minutes later I was knocking on a door which bore the legend Rafael Caballero, Catalonian Culture, in black letters on maple-stained wood, and a girl’s voice told me to come in.
    It was a small office with a battleship-gray metal desk, chair, and