Too Many Cooks (5 page)

There were also, as I entered, people. Marko Vukcic was on a chair by the long table, with a cigar in his mouth, shaking his head at a telegram he was reading. Jerome Berin was standing with a wineglass in his hand, talking with a dignified old bird with a gray mustache and a wrinkled face-that being Louis Servan, dean of the fifteen masters and their host at Kanawha Spa. Nero Wolfe was on a chair too small for him over by the glass door to the terrace, which stood open, leaning back uncomfortably so that his half-open eyes could take in the face of the man standing looking down at him. It was Phillip Laszio-chunky, not much gray in his hair, with clever eyes and a smooth skin and slick all over. Alongside Wolfe's chair was a little stand with a glass and a couple of beer bottles, and at his other elbow, almost sitting on his knee, with a plate of something in her hand, was Lisette Putti. Lisette was as cute as they come, and had already made friends, in spite of a question of irregularity regarding her status. She was the guest of Ramsey Keith, who, coming all the way from Calcutta, had introduced her as his niece. Vukcic had told me that Marie Mondor's sputterings after lunch had been to the effect that Lisette was a coquine and Keith had picked her up in Marseilles, but after all, Vukcic said, it was physically possible for a man named Keith to have a niece named Putti, and even if it was a case of mistaken identity, it was Keith who was paying the bills. Which sounded like a loose statement, but it was none of my affair.

As I approached, Laszio finished some remark to Wolfe and Lisette began spouting to him in French, something about the stuff she had on the plate, which looked like fat brown crackers; but just then there was a yell from the direction of the kitchen, and we all turned to see the swinging door open and Domenico Rossi come leaping through with a steaming dish in one hand and a long-handled spoon in the other.

'It curdled!' he shrieked. He rushed across to us and thrust the dish at Laszio. 'Look at that dirty mud! What did I tell you'By God, look! You owe me a hundred francs! A devil of a son-in-law you are, and twice as old as I am anyhow, and ignorant of the very first essentials!'

Laszio quietly shrugged. 'Did you warm the milk?'

'Me'Do I look like an egg-freezer?'

'Then perhaps the eggs were old.'

'Louis!' Rossi whirled and pointed the spoon at Servan. 'Do you hear that'He says you have old eggs!'

Servan chuckled. 'But if you did it the way he said to, and it curdled, you have won a hundred francs. Where, is the objection to that?'

'But everything wasted! Look: mud!' Rossi puffed. 'These damn modern ideas! Vinegar is vinegar!'

Laszio said quietly, 'I'll pay. To-morrow I'll show you how.' He turned abruptly and went to the door to the large parlor and opened it, and the sound of the radio came through. Rossi trotted around the table with the dish of mud to show it to Servan and Berin. Vukcic stuffed his telegram in his pocket and went over to look at it. Lisette became aware of my presence and poked the plate at me and said something. I grinned at her and replied, 'Jack Spratt could eat no fat, his wife could-'

'Archie!' Wolfe opened his eyes. 'Miss Putti says that those wafers were made by the two hands of Mr. Keith, who brought the ingredients from India.'

'Did you try them?'

'Yes.'

'Are they any good?'

'No.'

'Then will you kindly tell her that I never eat between meals?'

I wandered over to the parlor door and stood beside Phillip Laszio, looking at the three couples dancing-only it was apparent that he was only seeing one. Mamma and papa Mondor were panting but game, Ramsey Keith and the geisha were funny to look at but obviously not concerned with that aspect of the matter, and Dina Laszio and Vallenko apparently hadn't changed holds since my previous view. However, they soon did. Something was happening beside me. Laszio said nothing, and made no gesture that I saw, but he must have achieved some sort of communication, for the two stopped abruptly, and Dina murmured something to her partner and then alone crossed the floor to her husband. I sidestepped a couple of paces to give them room, but they weren't paying any attention to me.

She asked him, 'Would you like to dance, dear?'

'You know I wouldn't. You weren't dancing.'

'But what-' She laughed. 'They call it dancing, don't they?'

'They may. But you weren't dancing.' He smiled-that is, technically; it looked more like a smile to end smiles.

Vallenko came up. He stopped close to them, looked from his face to hers and back again, and all at once burst out laughing. 'Ah, Laszio!' He slapped him on the back, not gently. 'Ah, my friend!' He bowed to Dina. 'Thank you, madame.' He strode off.

She said to her husband, 'Phillip dear, if you don't want me to dance with your colleagues you might have said so. I don't find it so great a pleasure-'

It didn't seem likely that they would need me to help out, so I went back out to the dining room and sat down. For half an hour I sat there and watched the zoo. Lawrence Coyne came in from the small parlor, rubbing his eyes and trying to comb his white whiskers with his fingers. He looked around and called 'Lio!' in a roar that shook the windows, and his Chinese wife came trotting from the other room, got him in a chair and perched on his knee. Leon Blanc entered, immediately got into an argument with Berin and Rossi, and suddenly disappeared with them into the kitchen. It was nearly six o'clock when Constanza blew in. She had changed from her riding things. She looked around and offered a few greetings which nobody paid much attention to, then saw Vukcic and me and came over to us and asked where her father was. I told her, in the kitchen fighting about lemon juice. In the daylight the dark purple eyes were all and more than I had feared.

I observed, 'I saw you and the horses a couple of hours ago. Will you have a glass of ginger ale?'

'No, thanks.' She smiled as to an indulgent uncle. 'It was very nice of you to tell father that Mr. Tolman is your friend.'

'Don't mention it. I could see you were young and helpless, and thought I might as well lend a hand. Are things beginning to shape up?'

'Shape up?'

'It doesn't matter.' I waved a hand. 'As long as you're happy.'

'Certainly I'm happy. I love America. I believe I'll have some ginger ale after all. No, don't move, I'll get it.' She moved around the table toward a button.

I don't believe Vukcic, right next to me, heard any of it, because he had his eyes on his former wife as she sat with Laszio and Servan talking to Wolfe. I had noticed that tendency in him during lunch. I had also noticed that Leon Blanc unobtrusively avoided Laszio and had not once spoken to him who, according to Berin, had stolen Blanc's job at the Hotel Churchill; whereas Berin himself was inclined to find opportunities for glaring at Laszio at close quarters, but also without speaking. There was undoubtedly a little atmosphere around, what with Mamma Mondor's sniffs at Lisette Putti and a general air of comradely jealousy and arguments about lettuce and vinegar and the thumbs down clique on Laszio, and last but not least, the sultry mist that seemed to float around Dina Laszio. I have always had a belief that the swamp-woman-the kind who can move her eyelids slowly three times and you're stuck in a marsh and might as well give up-is never any better than a come-on for suckers; but I could see that if Dina Laszio once got you alone and she had her mind on her work and it was raining outdoors, it would take more than a sense of humor to laugh it off. She was way beyond the stage of spilling ginger ale on lawyers.

I watched the show and waited for Wolfe to display signs of motion. A little after six he made it to his feet, and I followed him onto the terrace and along the path to Upshur. Considering the terrible hardships of the train, he was navigating fine. In Suite 60 there had been a chambermaid around, for the bed was smoothed out again and the blanket folded up and put away. I went to my room, and a little later rejoined Wolfe in his. He was in a chair by the window which was almost big enough for him, leaning back with his eyes closed and a furrow in his brow, with his fingers meeting at the center of his paunch. It was a pathetic sight. No Fritz, no atlas to look at, no orchids to tend to, no bottle caps to count! I was sorry that the dinner was to be informal, since three or four of the masters were cooking it, because the job of getting into dinner clothes would have made him so mad that it would have taken his mind off of other things and really been a relief to him. As I stood and surveyed him he heaved a long deep shuddering sigh, and to keep the tears from coming to my eyes I spoke.

'I understand Berin is going to make saucisse minuit for lunch to-morrow. Huh?'

No score. I said, 'How would you like to go back in an airplane'They have a landing field right here. Special service, on call, sixty bucks to New York, less than four hours.'

Nothing doing. I said, 'They had a train wreck over in Ohio last night. Freight. Over a hundred pigs killed.'

He opened his eyes and started to sit up, but his hand slipped on the arm of the foreign chair and he slid back again. He declared, 'You are dismissed from your job, to take effect upon our arrival at my house in New York. I think you are. It can be discussed after we get home.'

That was more like it. I grinned at him. 'That will suit me fine. I'm thinking of getting married anyhow. The little Berin girl. What do you think of her?'

'Pfui.'

'Go on and phooey. I suppose you think living with you for ten years has destroyed all my sentiment. I suppose you think I am no longer subject-'

'Pfui!'

'Very well. But last night in the club car it came to me. I don't suppose you realize what a pippin she is, because you seem to be immune. And of course I haven't spoken to her yet, because I couldn't very well ask her to marry a-well, a detective. But I think if I can get into some other line of work and prove that I can make myself worthy of her-'

'Archie.' He was sitting up now, and his tone was a menacing murmur. 'You are lying. Look at me.'

I gave him as good a gaze as I could manage, and I thought I had him. But then I saw his lids begin to droop, and I knew it was all off. So the best I could do was grin at him.

'Confound you!' But he sounded relieved at that. 'Do you realize what marriage means'Ninety percent of men over thirty are married, and look at them! Do you realize that if you had a wife she would insist on cooking for you'Do you know that all women believe that the function of food begins when it reaches the stomach'Have you any idea that a woman can ever-what's that?'

The knocking on the outer door of the suite had sounded twice, the first time faintly, and I had ignored it because I didn't want to interrupt him. Now I went out and through the inner hall and opened up. Whereupon I, who am seldom surprised, was close to astonished. There stood Dina Laszio.

Her eyes looked larger than ever, but not quite so sleepy. She asked in a low voice, 'May I come in'I wish to see Mr. Wolfe.'

I stood back, she went past, and I shut the door. I indicated Wolfe's room, 'In there, please,' and she preceded me. The only perceptible expression on Wolfe's face as he became aware of her was recognition.

He inclined his head. 'I am honored, madam. Forgive me for not rising; I permit myself that discourtesy. That chair around, Archie?'

She was nervous. She looked around. 'May I see you alone, Mr. Wolfe?'

'I'm afraid not. Mr. Goodwin is my confidential assistant.'

'But I& ' She stayed on her feet. 'It is hard to tell even you& '

'Well, madam, if it is too hard& ' Wolfe let it hang in the air.

She swallowed, looked at me again, and took a step toward him. 'But it would be harder& I must tell someone. I have heard much of you, of course& in the old days, from Marko& and I must tell someone, and there is no one but you to tell. Somebody is trying to poison my husband.'

'Indeed.' Wolfe's eyes narrowed faintly. 'Be seated. Please. It's easier to talk sitting down, don't you think, Mrs. Laszio?'

THE SWAMP-WOMAN lowered it into the chair I had placed. Needless to say, I leaned against the bedpost not as nonchalant as I looked. It sounded as if this might possibly be something that would help to pass the time, and justify my foresight in chucking my pistol and a couple of notebooks into my bag when I had packed.

She said, 'Of course& I know you are an old friend of Marko's. You probably think I wronged him when I& left him. But I count on your sense of justice& your humanity& '

'Weak supports, madam.' Wolfe was brusque. 'Few of us have enough wisdom for justice, or enough leisure for humanity. Why do you mention Marko'Do you suggest that he is poisoning Mr. Laszio?'

'Oh, no!' Her hand fluttered from her lap and came to rest on the arm of her chair. 'Only I am sorry if you are prejudiced against my husband and me, for I have decided that I must tell someone, and there is no one but you to tell& '

'Have you informed your husband that he is being poisoned?'

She shook her head, with a little twist on her lips. 'He informed me. To-day. You know, of course, that for luncheon several of them prepared dishes, and Phillip did the salad, and he had announced that he was going to make Meadowbrook dressing, which he originated. They all know that he mixes the sugar and lemon juice and sour cream an hour ahead of time, and that he always tastes in spoonfuls. He had the things ready, all together on a corner table in the kitchen, lemons, bowl of cream, sugar shaker. At noon he started to mix. From habit he shook sugar on to the palm of his hand and put his tongue to it, and it seemed gritty and weak. He shook some on to a pan of water, and little particles stayed on top, and when he stirred it some still stayed. He put sherry in a glass and stirred some of it into that, and only a small portion of it would dissolve. If he had mixed the dressing and tasted a spoonful or two, as he always does, it would have killed him. The sugar was mostly arsenic.'

Wolfe grunted. 'Or flour.'

'My husband said arsenic. There was no taste of flour.'

Wolfe shrugged. 'Easily determined, with a little hydrochloric acid and a piece of copper wire. You do not appear to have the sugar shaker with you. Where is it?'

'I suppose, in the kitchen.'

Wolfe's eyes opened wide. 'Being used for our dinner, madam'You spoke of humanity-'

'No. Phillip emptied it down the sink and had it refilled by one of the Negroes. It was sugar, that time.'

'Indeed.' Wolfe settled, and his eyes were again half shut. 'Remarkable. Though he was sure it was arsenic'He didn't turn it over to Servan'Or report it to anyone but you'Or preserve it as evidence'Remarkable.'

'My husband is a remarkable man.' A ray of the setting sun came through the window to her face, and she moved a little. 'He told me that he didn't want to make things difficult for his friend, Louis Servan. He forbade me to mention it. He is a strong man and he is very contemptuous. That is his nature. He thinks he is too strong and competent and shrewd to be injured by anyone.' She leaned forward and put out a hand, palm up. 'I come to you, Mr. Wolfe! I am afraid!'

'What do you want me to do'Find out who put the arsenic in the sugar shaker?'

'Yes.' Then she shook her head. 'No. I suppose you couldn't, and even if you did, the arsenic is gone. I want to protect my husband.'

'My dear madam.' Wolfe grunted. 'If anyone not a moron has determined to kill your husband, he will be killed. Nothing is simpler than to kill a man; the difficulties arise in attempting to avoid the consequences. I'm afraid I have nothing to suggest to you. It is doubly difficult to save a man's life against his will. Do you think you know who poisoned the sugar?'

'No. Surely there is something-'

'Does your husband think he knows?'

'No. Surely you can-'

'Marko'I can ask Marko if he did it?'

'No! Not Marko! You promised me you wouldn't mention-'

'I promised nothing of the sort. Nothing whatever. I am sorry, Mrs. Laszio, if I seem rude, but the fact is that I hate to be taken for an idiot. If you think your husband may be poisoned, what you need is a food taster, and that is not my profession. If you fear bodily violence for him, the best thing is a bodyguard, and I am not that either. Before he gets into an automobile, every bolt and nut and connection must be thoroughly tested. When he walks the street, windows and tops of buildings must be guarded, and passersby kept at a distance. Should he attend the theater-'

The swamp-woman got up. 'You make a joke of it. I'm sorry.'

'It was you who started the joke-'

But she wasn't staying for it. I moved to open the door, but she had the knob before I got to it, and since she felt that way about it I let her go on and do the outside one too. I saw that it was closed behind her, and then returned to Wolfe's room and put on a fake frown for him which was wasted, because he had his eyes shut. I told his big round face:

'That's a fine way to treat a lady client who comes to you with a nice straight open-and-shut proposition like that. All we would have to do would be go down to the river where the sewer empties and swim around until we tasted arsenic-'

'Arsenic has no taste.'

'Okay.' I sat down. 'Is she fixing up to poison him herself and preparing a line of negative presumptions in advance'Or is she on the level and just poking around trying to protect her man'Or is Laszio making up tales to show her how cute he is'You should have seen him looking at her when she was dancing with Vallenko. I suppose you've observed Vukcic lamping her with the expression of a moth in a cage surrounded by klieg lights. Or was someone really gump enough to endanger all our lives by putting arsenic in the sugar shaker'Incidentally, it'll be dinnertime in ten minutes, and if you intend to comb your hair and tuck your shirt in-did you know that you can have one of these greenjackets for a valet for an extra five bucks per diem'I swear to God I think I'll try it for half a day. I'd be a different person if I took proper care of myself.'

I stopped to yawn. Insufficient sleep and outdoor sunshine had got me. Wolfe was silent. But presently he spoke:

'Archie. Have you heard of the arrangement for this evening?'

'No. Anything special?'

'Yes. It seems to have come about through a wager between Mr. Servan and Mr. Keith. After the digestion of dinner there is to be a test. The cook will roast squabs, and Mr. Laszio, who volunteered for the function, will make a quantity of Sauce Printemps. That sauce contains nine seasonings, besides salt: cayenne, celery, shallots, chives, chervil, tarragon, peppercorn, thyme and parsley. Nine dishes of it will be prepared, and each will lack one of the seasonings, a different one. The squabs and sauce dishes will be arrayed in the dining room, and Mr. Laszio will preside. The gathering will be in the parlor, and each will go to the dining room, singly to prevent discussion, taste the sauces on bits of squab, and record which dish lacks chives, which peppercorn, and so on. I believe Mr. Servan has wagered on an average of eighty percent correct.'

'Well.' I yawned again. 'I can pick the one that lacks squab.'

'You will not be included. Only the members of Les Quinze Maitres and myself. It will be an instructive and interesting experiment. The chief difficulty will be with chives and shallots, but I believe I can distinguish. I shall drink wine with dinner, and of course no sweet. But the possibility occurred to me of a connection between this affair and Mrs. Laszio's strange report. Mr. Laszio is to make the sauce. You know I am not given to trepidation, but I came here to meet able men, not to see one or more of them murdered.'

'You came here to learn how to make sausage. But forget it; I guess that's out. But how could there be a connection'It's Laszio that's going to get killed, isn't it'The tasters are safe. Maybe you'd better go last. If you get sick out here in the jungle I will have a nice time.'

He shut his eyes. Soon he opened them again. 'I don't like stories about arsenic in food. What time is it?'

Too darned lazy to reach in his pocket. I told him, and he sighed and began preparations for getting himself upright.

The dinner at Pocahontas Pavilion that evening was elegant as to provender, but a little confused in other respects. The soup, by Louis Servan, looked like any consomme, but it wasn't just any. He had spread himself, and it was nice to see his dignified old face get red with pleasure as they passed remarks to him. The fish, by Leon Blanc, was little six-inch brook trout, four to a customer, with a light brown sauce with capers in it, and a tang that didn't seem to come from lemon or any vinegar I had ever heard of. I couldn't place it, and Blanc just grinned at them when they demanded the combination, saying he hadn't named it yet. All of them, except Lisette Putti and me, ate the trout head and bones and all, even Constanza Berin, who was on my right. She watched me picking away and smiled at me and said I would never make a gourmet, and I told her not eating fishes' faces was a matter of sentiment with me on account of my pet goldfish. Watching her crunch those trout heads and bones with her pretty teeth, I was glad I had put the kibosh on my attack of leg-jealousy.

The entree, by Pierre Mondor, was of such a nature that I imitated some of the others and had two helpings. It appeared to be a famous creation of his, well-known to the others, and Constanza told me that her father made it very well and that the main ingredients were beef marrow, cracker crumbs, white wine and chicken breast. In the middle of my second portion I caught Wolfe's eye across the table and winked at him, but he ignored me and hung on to solemn bliss. As far as he was concerned, we were in church, and Saint Peter was speaking. It was during the consumption of the entree that Mondor and his plump wife, without any warning, burst into a screaming argument which ended with him bouncing up and racing for the kitchen, and her hot on his tail. I learned afterward that she had heard him ask Lisette Putti if she liked the entree. She must have been abnormally moral for a Frenchwoman.

The roast was young duck a la Mr. Richards, by Marko Vukcic. This was one of Wolfe's favorites and I was well acquainted with the Fritz Brenner-Nero Wolfe version of it, and by the time it arrived I was so nearly filled that I was in no condition to judge, but the other men took a healthy gulp of Burgundy for a capital letter to start the new paragraph, and waded in as if they had been waiting for some such little snack to take the edge off their appetite. I noticed that the best the women could do was peck, particularly Lio, Lawrence Coyne's Chinese wife, and Dina Laszio. I also noticed that the greenjacket waiters were aware that they were looking on at a gastronomical World's Series, though they were trying not to show it. Before it was over those birds disposed of nine ducks. It looked to me as if Vukcic was overdoing it a little on the various brands of wine, and maybe that was why he was so quick on the trigger when Phillip Laszio began making remarks about duck stuffings which he regarded as superior to Mr. Richards' and proceeded from that to comments on the comparative discrimination of the clientele of the Hotel Churchill and Rusterman's Restaurant. I had come as Vukcic's guest, and anyway I liked him, and it was embarrassing to me when he hit Laszio square in the eye with a hunk of bread. The others seemed to resent it chiefly as an interruption, and Servan, next to Laszio, soothed him, and Vukcic glared at their remonstrances and drank more Burgundy, and a greenjacket retrieved the bread from the floor, and they went back to the duck.

The salad, by Domenico Rossi, was attended by something of an uproar. In the first place, Phillip Laszio left for the kitchen while it was being served and Rossi had feelings about that and continued to express them after Servan had explained that Laszio must attend to the preparation of the Sauce Printemps for the test that had been arranged. Rossi didn't stop his remarks about sons-in-law twice his age. Then he noticed that Pierre Mondor wasn't pretending to eat, and wanted to know if perchance he had discovered things crawling on the lettuce. Mondor replied, friendly but firm, that the juices necessary to impart a flavor to salads, especially vinegar, were notoriously bad companions for wine, and that he wished to finish his Burgundy.

Rossi said darkly, 'There is no vinegar. I am not a barbarian.'

'I have not tasted it. I smell salad juice, that is why I pushed it away.'

'I tell you there is no vinegar! That salad is mostly by the good Cod, as He made things! Mustard sprouts, cress sprouts, lettuce! Onion juice with salt! Bread crusts rubbed with garlic! In Italy we eat it from bowls, with Chianti, and we thank God for it!'

Mondor shrugged. 'In France we do not. France, as you well know, my dear Rossi, is supreme in these things. In what language-'

'Ha!' Rossi was on his hind legs. 'Supreme because we taught you! Because in the sixteenth century you came and ate our food and copied us! Can you read'Do you know the history of gastronomy'Any history at all'Do you know that of all the good things in France, of which there are a certain number, the original is found in Italy'Do you know-'

I suppose that's how the war will start. On that occasion it petered out. They kept Mondor from firing up and got Rossi started on his own salad, and we had peace.

Coffee was served in the two parlors. Two, because Lawrence Coyne got stretched out on the divan in the small one again, and Keith and Leon Blanc sat by him and talked. I'm always more comfortable on my feet after a meal, and I wandered around. Back in the large parlor, Wolfe and Vukcic and Berin and Mondor were in a group in a corner, discussing the duck. Mamma Mondor came waddling in from the hall with a bag of knitting and got settled under a light. Lio Coyne was on a big chair with her feet tucked under her, listening to Vallenko tell her stories. Lisette Putti was filling Servan's coffee cup, and Rossi stood frowning at an Indian blanket thrown over a couch as if he suspected it was made in France.

I couldn't see Dina Laszio anywhere, and wondered idly whether she was off somewhere mixing poison or had merely gone to her room, which was in the left wing of Pocahontas, for some bicarbonate. Or maybe out in the kitchen helping her husband'I moseyed out there. In the dining room, as I went through, they were getting ready for the sauce test, with the chairs moved back to the walls, and the big screens in front of the serving tables, and a fresh cloth on the long table. I sidestepped a couple of greenjackets and proceeded. Dina wasn't in the kitchen. Half a dozen people in white aprons paid no attention to me, since in the past twelve hours they had got accustomed to the place being cluttered up with foreign matter. Laszio, also in an apron, was at the big range stirring and peering into a pan, with a shine at each elbow waiting for commands. The place smelled sort of unnecessary on account of what I still had in me, and I went out again and down the pantry hall and back to the parlor. Liqueurs were being passed, and I snared myself a stem of cognac and sought a seat and surveyed the scene.