Too Many Cooks (4 page)

'You bet.' I nodded, and sipped.

Constanza said, 'I'm so sorry it's night. I could be looking out and seeing America. Is it rocky-I mean, is it the Rocky Mountains?'

Tolman didn't laugh. I didn't bother to glance to see if he was looking at the purple eyes; I knew that must be it. He told her no, the Rocky Mountains were 1500 miles away, but that it was nice country we were going through. He said he had been in Europe three times, but that on the whole there was nothing there, except of course the historical things, that could compare with the United States. Right where he lived, in West Virginia, there were mountains that he would be willing to put alongside Switzerland and let anyone take their pick. He had never seen anything anywhere as beautiful as is native valley, especially the spot in it where they had built Kanawha Spa, the famous resort. That was in his county.

Constanza exclaimed, 'But that's where I'm going! Of course it is! Kanawha Spa!'

'I& I hope so.' His cheek showed red. 'I mean, three of these pullmans are Kanawha Spa cars, and I thought it likely& I thought it possible I might have a chance of meeting you, though of course I'm not in the social life there& '

'And then we met on the train. Of course, I won't be there very long. But since you think it's nicer than Europe, I can hardly wait to see it, but I warn you I love San Remo and the sea. I suppose on your trips to Europe you take your wife and children along?'

'Oh, now!' He was groggy. 'Now, really! Do I look old enough to have a wife and children?'

I thought, you darned nut, cover up that chin! My milk was finished. I stood up.

'If you folks will excuse me, I'll go and make sure my boss hasn't fallen off the train. I'll come back soon, Miss Berin, and take you to your father. You can't be expected to learn the knack of acting like the American girls the first day out.'

Neither of them broke into tears to see me go.

In the first car ahead I met Jerome Berin striding down the passage. He stopped and of course I had to.

He roared, 'My daughter'Vukcic left her!'

'She's perfectly all right.' I thumbed to the rear. 'She's back in the club car talking with a friend of mine I introduced to her. Is Mr. Wolfe okay?'

'Okay'I don't know. I just left him.'

He brushed past me and I went on.

Wolfe was alone in the room, still on the seat, the picture of despair, gripping with his hands, his eyes wide open. I stood and surveyed him.

I said, 'See America first. Come and play with us in vacationland! Not a draft on the train and sailing like a gull!'

He said, 'Shut up!'

He couldn't sit there all night. The time had come when it must be done. I rang the bell for the porter to do the bed. Then I went up to him-but no. I remember in an old novel I picked up somewhere it described a lovely young maiden going into her bedroom at night and putting her lovely fingers on the top button of her dress and then it said, 'But now we must leave her. There are some intimacies which you and I, dear reader, must not venture to violate; some girlish secrets which we must not betray to the vulgar gaze. Night has drawn its protecting veil; let us draw ours!'

Okay by me.

Too Many Cooks Rex Stout

I SAID, 'I wouldn't have thought this was a job for a house dick, watching for a kid to throw stones. Especially a ritzy house dick like you.'

Gershom Odell spit through his teeth at a big fern ten feet away from where we sat on a patch of grass. 'It isn't. But I told you. These birds pay from fifteen to fifty bucks a day to stay at this caravansary and to write letters on Kanawha Spa stationery, and they don't like to have niggers throwing stones at them when they go horseback riding. I didn't say a kid, I said a nigger. They suspect it was one that got fired from the garage about a month ago.'

The warm sun was on me through a hole in the trees, and I yawned. I asked, to show I wasn't bored, 'You say it happened about here?'

He pointed. 'Over yonder, from the other side of the path. It was old Crisler that got it both times, you know, the fountain pen Crisler, his daughter married Ambassador Willetts.'

There were sounds from down the way. Soon the hoofbeats were plainer, and in a minute a couple of genteel but good-looking horses came down the path from around a curve, and trotted by, close enough so that I could have tripped them with a fishing pole. On one of them was a dashing chap in a loud-checked jacket, and on the other a dame plenty old and fat enough to start on service to others any time the spirit moved her.

Odell said, 'That was Mrs. James Frank Osborn, the Baltimore Osborn, ships and steel, and Dale Chatwin, a good bridge player on the make. See him worry his horse'He can't ride worth a damn.'

'Yeah'I didn't notice. You sure are right there on the social list.'

'Got to be, on this job.' He spit at the fern again, scratched the back of his head, and plucked a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth. 'I guess nine out of ten that come to this joint, I know 'em without being told. Of course sometimes there's strangers. For instance, take your crowd. Who the hell are they'I understand they're a bunch of good cooks that the chef invited. Looks funny to me. Since when was Kanawha Spa a domestic science school?'

I shook my head. 'Not my crowd, mister.'

'You're with 'em.'

'I'm with Nero Wolfe.'

'He's with 'em.'

I grinned. 'Not this minute, he ain't. He's in Suite 60, on the bed fast asleep. I think I'll have to chloroform him Thursday to get him on the train home.' I stretched in the sun. 'At that, there's worse things than cooks.'

'I suppose so,' he admitted. 'Where do they all come from, anyway?'

I pulled a paper from my pocket-a page I had clipped from the magazine section of the Times-and unfolded it and glanced at the list again before passing it across to him:

LES QUINZE MAITRES

Jerome Berin, the Corridona, San Remo.

Leon Blanc, the Willow Club, Boston.

Ramsey Keith, Hotel Hastings, Calcutta.

Phillip Laszio, Hotel Churchill, New York.

Domenico Rossi, Empire Cafe, London.

Pierre Mondor, Mondor's, Paris.

Marko Vukcic, Rusterman's Restaurant, New York.

Sergei Vallenko, Chateau Montcalm, Quebec.

Lawrence Coyne, The Rattan, San Francisco.

Louis Servan, Kanawha Spa, West Virginia.

Ferid Khaldah, Cafe de l'Europe, Istanbul.

Henri Tassone, Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo.

DECEASED:

Armand Fleury, Fleury's, Paris.

Pasquale Donofrio, the Eldorado, Madrid.

Jacques Raleine, Emerald Hotel, Dublin.

Odell took a look at the extent of the article, made no offer to read it, and then went over the names and addresses with his head moving slowly back and forth. He grunted. 'Some bunch of names. You might think it was a Notre Dame football team. How'd they get all the press'What does that mean at the top, less quinzy something?'

'Oh, that's French.' I pronounced it adequately. 'It means 'The Fifteen Masters.' These babies are famous. One of them cooks sausages that people fight duels over. You ought to see him and tell him you're a detective and ask him to give you the recipe; he'd be glad to. They meet every five years on the home grounds of the oldest one of their number; that's why they came to Kanawha Spa. Each one is allowed to bring one guest-it's all there in the article. Nero Wolfe is Servan's guest, and Vukcic invited me so I could be with Wolfe. Wolfe's the guest of honor. Only ten of 'em are here. The last three died since 1932, and Khaldah and Tassone couldn't come. They'll do a lot of cooking and eating and drinking, and tell each other a lot of lies, and elect three new members, and listen to Nero Wolfe make a speech-and oh yeah, one of 'em's going to get killed.'

'That'll be fun.' Odell spit through his teeth again. 'Which one?'

'Phillip Laszio, Hotel Churchill, New York. The article says his salary is sixty thousand berries per annum.'

'Which may be. Who's going to kill him?'

'They're going to take turns. If you want tickets for the series, I'd be glad to get you a couple of ringsides, and here's a tip, you'd better tell the desk to collect for his room in advance, because you know how long it takes-well God bless my eyes! All with a few spoonfuls of ginger ale!'

A horseman and horsewoman had cantered by on the path, looking sideways at each other, laughing, their teeth showing and their faces flushed. As their dust drifted toward us I asked Odell, 'Who's that happy pair?'

He grunted. 'Barry Tolman, prosecuting attorney of this county. Going to be president some day, ask him. The girl came with your crowd, didn't she'Incidentally, she's easy on the eyes. What was the crack about ginger ale?'

'Oh, nothing.' I waved a hand. 'Just an old quotation from Chaucer. It wouldn't do any good to throw stones at them, they wouldn't notice anything less than an avalanche.-By the way, what is this stone-throwing gag?'

'No gag. Just part of the day's work.'

'You call this work'I'm a detective. In the first place, do you suppose anyone is going to start a bombardment with you and me sitting here in plain sight'And this bridle path winds around here for six miles, and why couldn't he pick another spot'Secondly, you told me that a Negro that got fired from the garage is suspected of doing it to annoy the management, but in that case it was just a coincidence that he picked fountain pen Crisler for a target both times'It's a phony. You didn't show me the bottom. Not that it's any of my business, but just for fun I thought I'd demonstrate that I'm only dumb on Sundays and holidays.'

He looked at me with one eye. Then with both, and then he grinned at me. 'You seem to be a good guy.'

I said warmly, 'I am.'

He was still grinning. 'Honest to God, it's too good not to tell you. You would enjoy it better if you knew Crisler. But it wasn't only him. Another trouble was that I never get any time to myself around here. Sixteen hours a day! That's the way it works out. I've only got one assistant, and you ought to see him, he's somebody's nephew. I had to be on duty from sunrise to bedtime. Then there was Crisler, just a damn bile factory. He had it in for me because I caught his chauffeur swiping grease down at the garage, and boy, when he was mean he was mean. The nigger that helped me catch the chauffeur, Crisler had him fired. He was after my scalp too. I made my plans and they worked.'

Odell pointed. 'See that ledge up there'No, over yonder, the other side of those firs. That's where I was when I threw stones at him. I hit him both times.'

'I see. Hurt him much?'

'Not enough. His shoulder was pretty sore. I had fixed up a good alibi in case of suspicions. Crisler checked out. That was one advantage. Another was that almost whenever I want to I can say I'm going out for the stone thrower, and come to the woods for an hour or two and be alone and spit and look at things. Sometimes I let them see me from the bridle path, and they think they're being protected and that's jake.'

'Pretty good idea. But it'll play out. Sooner or later you'll either have to catch him or give it up. Or else throw some more stones.'

He grinned. 'Maybe you think it wasn't a good shot the time I got him in the shoulder! See how far away that ledge is'I don't know whether I'll try it again or not, but if I do, I know damn well who I'll pick. I'll point her out to you.' He glanced at his wrist. 'Jumping Jesus, nearly five o'clock. I've got to get back.'

He scrambled up and started off headlong, and as I was in no hurry I let him go, and moseyed idly along behind. As I had already discovered, wherever you went around Kanawha Spa, you were taking a walk in the garden. I don't know who kept the woods swept and dusted off the trees for what must have been close to a thousand acres, but it was certainly model housekeeping. In the neighborhood of the main hotel, and the pavilions scattered around, and the building where the hot springs were, it was mostly lawns and shrubs and flowers, with three classy fountains thirty yards from the main entrance. The things they called pavilions, which had been named after the counties of West Virginia, were nothing to sneeze at themselves in the matter of size, with their own kitchens and so forth, and I gathered that the idea was that they offered more privacy at an appropriate price. Two of them, Pocahontas and Upshur, only a hundred yards apart and connected by a couple of paths through trees and shrubs, had been turned over to the fifteen masters-or rather, ten-and our Suite 60, Wolfe's and mine, was in Upshur.

I strolled along carefree. There was lots of junk to look at if you happened to be interested in it-big clusters of pink flowers everywhere on bushes which Odell had said was mountain laurel, and a brook zipping along with little bridges across it here and there, and some kind of wild trees in bloom, and birds and evergreens and so on. That sort of stuff is all right, I've got nothing against it, and of course out in the country like that something might as well be growing or what would you do with all the space, but I must admit it's a poor place to look for excitement. Compare it, for instance, with Times Square or the Yankee Stadium.

Closer to the center of things, in the section where the pavilions were, and especially around the main building and the springs, there was more life. Plenty of folks, such as they were, coming and going in cars or on horseback and sometimes even walking. Most of those walking were Negroes in the Kanawha Spa uniform, black breeches and bright green jackets with big black buttons. Off on a side path you might catch one of them grinning, but out in the open they looked as if they were nearly overcome by something they couldn't tell you, like bank tellers.

It was a little after five when I got to the entrance of Upshur Pavilion and went in. Suite 60 was in the rear of the right wing. I opened its door with care and tiptoed across the hall so as not to wake the baby, but opening another door with even more care I found that Wolfe's room was empty. The three windows I had left partly open were closed, the hollow in the center of the bed left no doubt as to who had been on it, and the blanket I had spread over him was hanging at the foot. I glanced in the hall again; his hat was gone. I went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet and began soaping my hands. I was good and sore. For ten years I had been accustomed to being as sure of finding Nero Wolfe where I had left him as if he had been the Statue of Liberty, unless his house had burned down, and it was upsetting, not to mention humiliating, to find him flitting around like a hummingbird for a chance to lick the boots of a dago sausage cook.

After splashing around a little and changing my shirt, I was tempted to wander over to the hotel and look-to-see around, but I knew Fritz and Theodore would murder me if I didn't bring him back in one piece, so instead I left by the side entrance and followed the path to Pocahontas Pavilion.

Pocahontas was much more ambitious than Upshur, with four good-sized public rooms centrally on the ground floor, and suites in the wings and the upper story. I heard noises before I got inside, and, entering, found that the masters were having a good time. I had met the whole gang at lunch, which had been cooked at the pavilion and served there, with five different ones contributing a dish, and I admit it hadn't been hard to get down-which, since Fritz Brenner's cooking under Nero Wolfe's supervision had been my steady diet for ten years, would be a tribute for anyone.

I let a greenjacket open the door for me and trusted my hat to another one in the hall, and began the search for my lost hummingbird. In the parlor on the right, which had dark wooden things with colored rugs and stuff around everywhere-Pocahontas was all Indian as to furnishings-three couples were dancing to a radio. A medium brunette about my age, medium also as to size, with a high white brow and long sleepy eyes, was fastened onto Sergei Vallenko, a blond Russian ox around fifty with a scar under one ear. She was Dina Laszio, daughter of Domenico Rossi, onetime wife of Marko Vukcic, and stolen from him, according to Jerome Berin, by Phillip Laszio. A short middle-aged woman built like a duck, with little black eyes and fuzz on her upper lip, was Marie Mondor, and the pop-eyed chap with a round face, maybe her age and as plump as her, was her husband, Pierre Mondor. She couldn't speak English, and I saw no reason why she should. The third couple consisted of Ramsey Keith, a little sawed-off Scotchman at least sixty with a face like a sunset preserved in alcohol, and a short and slender black-eyed affair who might have been anything under 35 to my limited experience, because she was Chinese. To my surprise, when I had met her at lunch, she had looked dainty and mysterious, just like the geisha propaganda pictures. I believe geishas are Japs, but it's all the same. Anyway, she was Lio Coyne, the fourth wife of Lawrence Coyne; and hurrah for Lawrence, since he was all of three score and ten and as white as a snowbank.

I tried the parlor on the left, a smaller one. The pickings there were scanty. Lawrence Coyne was on a divan at the far end, fast asleep, and Leon Blanc, dear old Leon, was standing in front of a mirror, apparently trying to decide if he needed a shave. I ambled on through to the dining room. It was big and somewhat cluttered. Besides the long table and a slew of chairs, there were two serving tables and a cabinet full of paraphernalia, and a couple of huge screens with pictures of Pocahontas saving John Smith's life and other things. There were four doors: the one I had come in by, a double one to the large parlor, a double glass one to a side terrace, and one out to the pantry and the kitchen.