The Cook

by Harry Kressing

  Mr. Hill said nothing.

  The three of them were in the kitchen, keeping out of the way while Harold, Charles and Paul went about their tasks.

  “Perhaps,” Conrad suggested, “our cooks would like something to drink? Mr. Hill . . .”

  Mr. Hill fixed three drinks, and then one for Conrad and one for Mrs. Hill.

  By two-thirty Mr. Hill was looking more despondent than ever.

  “I know you think they won’t come,” Conrad said. “But they have another half-hour before they’re even late.”

  “Of course they’ll come,” Mrs. Hill exclaimed quickly. “Benjamin, you shouldn’t be so pessimistic. He is being pessimistic, isn’t he, Conrad?”

  Mr. Hill muttered something inaudible.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Conrad answered offhandedly; “it is not unknown for guests to disappoint.”

  Mr. Hill, who had continued to move the bottles around on the tray, looked up quickly at this flat acknowledgment of possibility. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment there was a loud knocking at the front door. Slowly Mr. Hill closed his mouth, but he continued to stare at Conrad and didn’t move. The sound seemed to have rooted him to the floor.

  The knocking, louder and quite imperious, sounded again.

  “Our guests,” Conrad murmured.

  “Oh, Benjamin!”

  With a final tug at the back of his jacket, Mr. Hill left the kitchen.

  “Oh, I do hope they find their rooms satisfactory,” Mrs. Hill said quietly, more to herself than to Conrad, who had turned to Harold. Harold had been slowly stirring a sauce, but at the sound of the knocking he had stopped, and he was looking almost pleadingly at Conrad. “Yes, Harold, by the time this evening is over you will have gratified two of the most exacting palates of the City.”

  “But, Conrad, suppose . . .”

  The sound of voices came from the dining room, and then the kitchen door opened and Mr. Hill reappeared. Carefully, very carefully, he drew the door closed behind him. For a moment he just stood there. Then he leaned back against the door.

  His expression was blank. Indeed, it was more than blank. He looked stunned.

  “Well, aren’t you going to announce the guests?” Conrad asked.

  Mrs. Hill, who had been observing her husband closely, glanced nervously at Conrad. Harold, too, began to look a little concerned. He came over and stood beside Conrad.

  “Benjamin?”

  Mr. Hill at last collected himself, and taking a deep breath, intoned: “Mr. Monte Springhorn. Mr. Rennie Bayard. And five of Mr. Springhorn’s friends.”

  Dead silence followed this announcement. And then Paul, who had been putting something in the oven, stood up and gave a low whistle.

  “Five?” Charles exclaimed. “Did you say five more people?”

  Everyone was staring at Mr. Hill.

  “And five friends,” he repeated.

  “Damn!” exploded Conrad loudly. “Damn Monte Springhorn and his confounded tricks! I’m going to—” He started for the kitchen door. Mr. Hill moved quickly to one side, but then Conrad stopped. In a lower voice he said, more to himself than to anyone else, “I should have expected something; I know him so well: ‘Food’ ”—and he imitated a high-pitched voice—“ ‘tastes better when prepared under stress.’ One of his ridiculous theories. Only this time he’s gone too far—Harold, bank the stoves. There will be no—”

  Mrs. Hill leaned back weakly against the cupboard. “Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?”

  Conrad was staring blackly at the kitchen door. He had not completed his sentence: a roar of laughter had suddenly come from the dining room.

  “There are five extra guests?” Harold seemed incapable of assimilating the information. He just stood there, looking from Conrad to Mrs. Hill, who had started crying, then to Mr. Hill. Mr. Hill was still staring straight ahead, unseeing. Charles and Paul looked stunned. They had stopped what they were doing and came over to Conrad. Only Eggy took Mr. Hill’s announcement in stride; mumbling that more people meant more dishes, he bent closer over the pile in the sink. But the others didn’t hear him, and shaking their heads, they began muttering unhappily.

  “There just isn’t enough food,” said Harold.

  “No, not near enough.”

  “And I have only prepared two guest rooms. Oh, Conrad—”

  “We won’t have enough time either. If we had more time . . .”

  “If it were just one extra person it would be different. But five—”

  “No one can expect us to take care of seven when we were only preparing for two,” Charles said. “I know at the Prominence Inn, when twice as many people come as—”

  Mr. Hill nodded at this statement. “Yes, they will have to go to the Prominence Inn. There is no other way.”

  “Oh, the Prominence Inn!” exclaimed Mrs. Hill through her tears. “When the Vales find out . . .”

  But Conrad was looking sharply at Mr. Hill. “No one is going to the Prominence Inn—except Charles to pick up some things from their emergency stock. We are going to take care of our guests just as if they were all expected. There will be no panic. Mrs. Hill, start preparing additional guest rooms. Paul, get ready to go to the Vales’ for some fish . . . and possibly some extra bed linen—ask Mrs. Hill. Explain to Harold what you have cooking, and what he must do while you’re gone. Charles, you do the same. I will be back shortly to write a list of the items I want you to bring from Cobb.”

  Conrad paused and gave a long, hard look to all of the faces around him. They all still looked pretty blank. Mrs. Hill, though, had stopped crying.

  “As I said”—and Conrad’s lips parted in a slight smile, with just a trace of warmth—“there will be no panic. Dinner will be perfect.—And now I must welcome our guests. Mr. Hill, you will serve the first two rounds of drinks. Then you can help Mrs. Hill till I come back to the kitchen.”

  Monte Springhorn was very short, very wide and very thick, so that he quite resembled a cube. His head, in contrast, was round, and it sat on the block of his torso without evidence of attachment by any length of neck. He was completely bald.

  Bright, mischievous eyes sparkled at Conrad as he introduced his five friends.

  “We’ve all met before,” Conrad smiled. “I’m pleased you were able to get the little party together, Monte. Did you have any trouble?”

  Monte Springhorn chuckled to himself, his heavy jowls trembling like jelly. “No, no trouble at all,” he said in his shrill voice. “I simply mentioned you were having a little dinner and sought the pleasure of some City company. And having eaten at your table before—well, naturally they were delighted. Why, were you afraid Rennie and I might have to make the trip by ourselves?”

  “I’m honored,” Conrad said to the others.—“Yes, I’ll admit the possibility had occurred to me.”

  Springhorn chuckled again. “Yes, I suppose one never knows what to expect. The world is full of surprises.”

  Conrad opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind, and smiling slightly he took Monte Springhorn by the arm, suggesting that they all sit by the fireplace.

  Mr. Hill served drinks. He was the perfect stony-faced butler: he seemed to look at no one and yet at everyone at the same time. And when he wasn’t actually serving he was out of sight. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for all the shiny gold buttons against the background of black cloth, he would have melted so completely into the room’s furnishings that had one of the guests looked for him he would have looked in vain.

  “Gentlemen”—Conrad raised his glass to each in turn—“I’m so glad you were able to come.—Now, what has been going on in the City? Rennie, have you had anything decent to eat since you were in Cobb last?”

  The five unexpected guests, all portly gentlemen, turned pleasantly to Rennie Bayard and exclaimed almost in chorus, “Tell Conrad about your friend who is being charged with attempted poisoning. He’s just been telling us,” they explained to Conrad.

  Rennie Bayard lau
ghed. “All right, all right—” He leaned back comfortably in his chair. Mr. Hill was standing behind Conrad, and surreptitiously Conrad handed him a note—a change in the evening’s schedule. Only Monte Springhorn saw this, and his high-pitched chuckle accompanied Rennie’s opening remarks about a recent dinner he had attended. “It seems,” Rennie began, “that unbeknown to the host, the chef had once been employed by the guest of honor, a gentleman of rather short temper and unlimited fears, who had discharged him for something less than just cause. Or so the chef felt, and upon learning that this gentleman was to be . . .”

  When the laughter had quieted down, Monte Springhorn followed with another tale of catastrophe striking an unsuspecting host. Soon everyone was talking, their voices rising in order to command attention, Conrad’s no less than the others’, as all tried to tell a story which in some wise exceeded the one just previously related. Of course, it wasn’t long before all of the stories began to sound apocryphal . . .

  Conrad served the third round of drinks, and Monte Springhorn said, “Oh, has the butler left us?”

  “That’s your drink, Monte.—He has standing instructions to leave after the second round. I prefer informality.”

  “An excellent notion,” commented one of the other guests.

  “Yes; and I suppose he has better things to do—there are always last minute matters to attend to, small changes in plans, et cetera.”

  “Yes, of course, Monte.—But you were saying . . . ?”

  Monte Springhorn waited till Conrad had served everyone and had sat down again. “Yes, I was saying . . . Conrad, do you remember that strange chef I once had? I forget where I found him now—I had him for such a short time. The one who created the most marvelous and unusual sauce?”

  Conrad smiled over the rim of his glass. “So you said . . .”

  “What sauce was that?” Rennie Bayard asked. “Did I ever taste it?”

  “No, Rennie, you never did.—Yes, Conrad, so I said. Well, gentlemen, let me tell you what happened. I gave a little dinner, just for a few friends, to show off this incredible sauce . . .”

  Mr. Hill materialized behind Conrad and they exchanged a few whispered words, then Mr. Hill vanished.

  “. . . and this guest that Conrad brought—I don’t know who he was—he was the first one to receive the large sauce-boat, the very first one. However, I will say this: the sauce-boat was round, perfectly round. And the ladle in it wasn’t too large, not too large.”

  “The meats, Monte—don’t forget to tell them about the meats.”

  “Oh, yes, the meats. There were three kinds of meat, each one bone-dry. It had taken the chef hours and hours to get them so dry, which, of course, was part of the secret of the astonishing success of his sauce. Well, these meats were so dry . . .” He dwelled over the dryness of the meat to such an extent that Rennie Bayard soon had an empty glass. Conrad refilled it just as Monte was finishing his story.

  “. . . Conrad’s friend set the sauce-boat in front of himself, pushing his plate of dry meat to one side, and proceeded to ladle the sauce into his mouth like soup! Everyone was too stunned to do anything but watch him, slack-jawed.”

  Monte Springhorn joined in the laughter that followed the telling of his story. When at last he could catch his breath, he concluded: “The chef came out a short time later to receive our blessings, and when he saw all the plates of untouched dry meat and then realized what had occurred, he removed his chef’s cap and stalked straight out the front door. I never saw him again.”

  “Oh, what a shame! And you never learned the secret of the sauce?”

  “Never.”

  “I never saw my friend again either,” Conrad smiled. “I’ve always suspected the sauce killed him.—Gentlemen, if you’ll forgive me—it seems my presence is desired in the kitchen. I shall be back shortly.”

  Monte Springhorn’s high-pitched chuckle followed Conrad out of the room.

  At six o’clock the guests retired to their rooms to rest briefly and to dress for dinner. Five extra guest rooms were ready. Monte Springhorn inspected each one, and when he came down to dinner he took Conrad aside and quietly, and a little grudgingly, complimented him on the measures taken to make his friends comfortable. “I suspect it took some doing,” he added slyly.

  “It did. But with a willing staff one can work wonders.”

  “True. But it has been my experience that staffs are rarely willing.”

  “It all depends. You shall see when it’s time to eat.”

  The dinner was a complete success. The food was excellent and more than plentiful. And the serving was immaculately executed—Mrs. Hill was faultless in her performance, as was Mr. Hill in serving the several wines which accompanied the courses.

  Daphne, unfortunately, was indisposed and could not come down, but Ester was there, and she enjoyed the dinner and the conversation and laughter so much that she stayed up several hours past her usual bedtime.

  Monte Springhorn was extremely impressed—rather against his will, it seemed—because he waited till the very end of the dinner before vouchsafing to Conrad any words of satisfaction or praise. But then he capitulated, and with unconcealed admiration admitted to Conrad that all had gone perfectly “. . . and under what must have been very trying circumstances.” He apologized with a chuckle for being responsible for these difficulties. “But my friends will never know they were unexpected. You’ve done a remarkable job.”

  Conrad smiled. “I’m glad to hear that, Monte. It gives me great pleasure. But why don’t you thank the staff? It was really their doing.”

  Springhorn replied that he would indeed like to thank them. Conrad passed on his wish to Mr. Hill, and a few minutes later Mrs. Hill was standing beside the dining-room table. She was beaming with happiness. Harold stood on her right. Charles, Paul and Eggy were next. Mr. Hill, utterly expressionless, stood a few feet to the left of Mrs. Hill.

  “You did a wonderful job,” Monte Springhorn declared, “truly wonderful. I thank you for all of us. Being a host myself quite often, I realize”—he paused and gave a little chuckle—“some of the problems you faced . . . things don’t always go precisely as you planned. In such circumstances staffs frequently go to pieces. Some of my own have done that—deserted the host, as it were.” He paused and chuckled again. Turning to Conrad, he continued, “I don’t know how you do it, Conrad. In the City, where one should be able to assemble the finest, it is rare to find a staff thoroughly first-rate. Here in Cobb I would have thought it completely out of the question. But, Conrad, somehow you managed. It’s beyond me.”

  Springhorn turned back to the group standing beside the table.

  “How does Conrad do it?” he smiled. “What is his secret? I should like to take it back to the City with me.”

  Harold, looking pleased and proud, glanced at Mrs. Hill for a moment and then stepped forward.

  “Sir,” he said quietly, “we like our work. Naturally we like to do it well.”

  Monte Springhorn smiled benignly at the young man. “Yes, perhaps the people in the City don’t like to work,” he admitted.

  And then Mrs. Hill stepped forward and said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “We love Conrad.”

  Springhorn’s round blue eyes grew wide at this statement. Slowly he then looked at each person standing before him. They all seemed to be nodding slightly.

  The dinner party did not break up until four in the morning. After seeing his guests to their rooms, Conrad went back to the kitchen and congratulated the staff himself. He said they had done a wonderful job. It was quite late—he acknowledged, smiling—and he knew they must be very tired. He would talk to them tomorrow after the guests had left the mansion. But again he wished to say: they had done a truly superb job.

  34

  The next day Conrad, Mr. and Mrs. Hill, and Harold discussed the great dinner in minute detail. There was much to learn from it and Conrad wanted to drive home every lesson. And they had many questions they wanted t
o ask him.

  Also, Monte Springhorn’s words of praise were repeated and repeated . . .

  When at last Conrad was alone with Mrs. Hill he said that he had spoken to Monte Springhorn about Daphne’s frequent indispositions and continued weight loss.

  “Monte said he knew the best specialists in the City. They will be out here within a fortnight.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Conrad,” Mrs. Hill said. “I’m more worried than I’d care to admit. Also”—and her eyes hardened slightly—“it gives me something to tell Eva Vale.”

  Conrad looked at her inquisitively.

  “She’s been after me to call in Dr. Law; every time I see her she mentions it. ‘I do wish you’d call in Dr. Law, just to examine the girl. I’d feel so much better’—though she knows we’re taking the best care of Daphne. Only—”

  Mrs. Hill laid down the cloth she had been polishing the glasses with and turned to Conrad; she seemed eager to discuss the subject, yet uncertain how to continue.

  Conrad crossed his arms and leaned back against the cupboard.

  “Do go on, Mrs. Hill,” he said, his black eyes beginning to glow with an unusual intensity. “I find what you’re saying most interesting: ‘only’ what?”

  “Only—well, I certainly don’t see what Dr. Law could do. He didn’t do anything to help her before—under his care she just got fatter and fatter, until she was as fat as a pig. And I don’t see why—” Again Mrs. Hill broke off.

  For a moment Conrad said nothing. He seemed to be thinking. Then he said, very slowly, “You are so right, Mrs. Hill. You are so right: as fat as a cow.”

  “Yes, like a cow.”

  “Perhaps, Mrs. Hill,” Conrad continued, still measuring his words very slowly, “perhaps Dr. Law wants to fatten her up again, the way she was before—have you thought of that?”