Too Many Cooks

by Rex Stout

  “I couldn’t say. Perhaps the murderer, or possibly Mr. Laszio himself, to make a fool of Berin.” Wolfe shrugged. “Quite a job for you. You will set Berin free this morning?”

  “What else can I do? I can’t hold him now.”

  “Good. Then if you don’t mind … since you’re in a hurry, and I haven’t been to bed…”

  “Yeah.” Tolman stayed put. He sat with his hands still in his pockets, his legs stretched out, the toes of his shoes making little circles in the air. “A hell of a mess,” he declared after a silence. “Except for Blanc, there’s nowhere to begin. That nigger’s description might be almost anyone. Of course, it’s possible that it was a nigger that did it and used black gloves and burnt cork to throw us off, but what nigger around here could have any reason for wanting to kill Laszio?” He was silent again. Finally he abruptly sat up. “Look here. I’m not sorry you got Berin out of it, whether you made it into a mess or not. And I’ll meet the conditions I agreed to, including no interference with your leaving here tonight. But since you’re turning over evidence, what else have you got? I admit you’re good and you’ve made a monkey out of me on this Berin business—not to mention the sheriff here. Maybe you can come across with some more of the same. What more have you found out?”

  “Nothing whatever.”

  “Have you any idea who it was the niggers saw in the dining room?”

  “None.”

  “Do you think that Frenchman did it? Blanc?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it.”

  “The Chinese woman who was outdoors—do you think she was mixed up in it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think the radio being turned on at that particular time had anything to do with it?”

  “Certainly. It drowned the noise of Laszio’s fall—and his outcry, if he made one.”

  “But was it turned on purposely—for that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tolman frowned. “When I had Berin, or thought I had, I decided that the radio was a coincidence, or a circumstance that he took advantage of. Now that’s open again.” He leaned forward at Wolfe. “I want you to do something for me. I don’t pass for a fool, but I admit I’m a little shy on experience, and you’re not only an old hand, you’re recognized as one of the best there is. I’m not too proud to yell for help if I need it. It looks like the next step is a good session with Blanc, and I’d like to have you in on it. Better still, handle it yourself and let me sit and listen. Will you do that?”

  “No, sir.”

  Tolman was taken aback. “You won’t?”

  “No. I won’t even discuss it. Confound it, I came down here for a holiday!” Wolfe made a face. “Monday night, on the train, I got no sleep. Tuesday night it was you who kept me up until four o’clock. Last night my engagement to clear Mr. Berin prevented my going to bed at all. This evening I am supposed to deliver an important address to a group of eminent men, on their own subject. I need the refreshment of sleep, and there is my bed. As for your interview with Mr. Blanc, I remind you that you agreed to free Mr. Berin immediately upon presentation of my evidence.”

  He looked and sounded very final. The sheriff started to growl something, but I was called away by a knock on the door. I went to the foyer, telling myself that if it was anyone who was likely to postpone the refreshment of sleep any longer, I would lay him out with a healthy sock on the button and just leave him there.

  Which might have done for Vukcic, big as he was, but I wouldn’t strike a woman merely because I was sleepy, and he was accompanied by Constanza Berin. I flung the door the rest of the way and she crossed the threshold. Vukcic began a verbal request, but she wasn’t bothering with amenities, she was going right ahead.

  I reached for her and missed her. “Hey, wait a minute! We have company. Your friend Barry Tolman is in there.”

  She wheeled on me. “Who?”

  “You heard me. Tolman.”

  She wheeled again and opened the door to Wolfe’s room and breezed on through. Vukcic looked at me and shrugged, and followed her, and I went along, thinking that if I needed a broom and dustpan I could get them later.

  Tolman had jumped to his feet at sight of her. For two seconds he was white, then a nice pink, and then he started for her:

  “Miss Berin! Thank God—”

  An icy blast hit him and stopped him in his tracks with his mouth open. It wasn’t vocal; her look didn’t need any accompaniment. With him frozen, she turned a different look, practically as devastating, on Nero Wolfe:

  “And you said you would help us! You said you would make them free my father!” Nothing but a superworm could deserve such scorn as that. “And it was you who suggested that about his list—about the sauces! I suppose you thought no one would know—”

  “My dear Miss Berin—”

  “Now everybody knows! It was you who brought the evidence against him! That evidence! And you pretending to Mr. Servan and Mr. Vukcic and me—”

  I got Wolfe’s look and saw his lips moving at me, though I couldn’t hear him. I stepped across and gripped her arm and turned her. “Listen, give somebody a chance—”

  She was pulling, but I held on. Wolfe said sharply, “She’s hysterical. Take her out of here.”

  I felt her arm relax, and turned her loose, and she moved to face Wolfe again.

  She told him quietly, “I’m not hysterical.”

  “Of course you are. All women are. Their moments of calm are merely recuperative periods between outbursts. I want to tell you something. Will you listen?”

  She stood and looked at him.

  He nodded. “Thank you. I make this explanation because I don’t want unfriendliness from your father. I made the suggestion that the lists be compared with the correct list, not dreaming that it would result in implicating your father—in fact, thinking that it would help to clear him. Unfortunately it happened differently, and it became necessary to undo the mischief I had unwittingly caused. The only way to do that was to discover other evidence which would establish his innocence. I have done so. Your father will be released within an hour.”

  Constanza stared at him, and went nearly as white as Tolman had on seeing her, and then her blood came back as his had done. She stammered, “But—but—I don’t believe it. I’ve just been over to that place—and they wouldn’t even let me see him—”

  “You won’t have to go again. He will rejoin you here this morning. I undertook with you and Mr. Servan and Mr. Vukcic to clear your father of this ridiculous charge, and I have done that. The evidence has been give to Mr. Tolman. Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”

  Apparently she was beginning to, and it was causing drastic internal adjustments. Her eyes were drawing together, diagonal creases were appearing from the corners of her nose to the corners of her mouth, her cheeks were slowly puffing up, and her chin began to move. She was going to cry, and it looked as if it might be a good one. For half a minute, evidently, she thought she was going to be able to stave it off; then all of a sudden she realized that she wasn’t. She turned and ran for the door. She got it open and disappeared. That galvanized Tolman. Without stopping for farewells he jumped for the door she had left open—and he was gone too.

  Vukcic and I looked at each other. Wolfe sighed.

  The sheriff made a move. “Admitting you’re smart,” he drawled at Wolfe, “and all that, if I was Barry Tolman you wouldn’t take the midnight or any other train out of here until certain details had been attended to.”

  Wolfe nodded and murmured, “Good day, sir.”

  He went, and banged the foyer door so hard behind him that I jumped. I sat down and observed, “My nerves are like fishing worms on hooks.” Vukcic sat down too.

  Wolfe looked at him and inquired, “Well, Marko? I suppose we might as well say good morning. Is that what you came for?”

  “No.” Vukcic ran his fingers through his hair. “It fell to me, more or less, to stand by Berin’s daughter, and when she wanted to dri
ve to Quinby—that’s the town where the jail is—it was up to me to take her. Then they wouldn’t let her see him. If I had known you had already found evidence to clear him…” He shook himself. “By the way, what’s the evidence? If it isn’t a secret.”

  “I don’t know whether it’s a secret or not. It doesn’t belong to me any more; I’ve handed it over to the authorities, and I suppose they should be permitted to decide about divulging it. I can tell you one thing that’s no secret: I didn’t get to bed last night.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  Vukcic grunted. “You don’t look done up.” He ran his fingers through his hair again. “Listen, Nero. I’d like to ask you something. Dina came to see you last night. Didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she have to say? That is, if it’s proper to tell me.”

  “You can judge of the propriety. She told me that she is a special kind of woman and that she thought that you thought that I suspected you of killing Laszio.” Wolfe grimaced. “And she patted me on the shoulder.”

  Vukcic said angrily, “She’s a damned fool.”

  “I suppose so. But a very dangerous fool. Of course, a hole in the ice offers peril only to those who go skating. This is none of my business, Marko, but you brought it up.”

  “I know I did. What the devil made her think that I thought you suspected me of murdering Laszio?”

  “Didn’t you tell her so?”

  “No. Did she say I did?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “She wasn’t on the road, she was winding around. She did say, however, that you told her of my questions about the radio and the dancing.”

  Vukcic nodded gloomily, and was silent. At length he shook himself. “Yes, I had a talk with her. Two talks. There’s no doubt about her being dangerous. She gets … you must realize that she was my wife for five years. Again yesterday I had her close to me, I had her in my arms. It isn’t her tricks, I’m on to all her tricks, it’s the mere fact of what she is. You wouldn’t see that, Nero, or feel it, it wouldn’t have any effect on you, because you’ve put yourself behind a barricade. As you say, a hole in the ice is dangerous only to those who go skating. But damn it, what does life consist of if you’re afraid to take—”

  “Marko!” Wolfe sounded peevish. “I’ve often told you that’s your worst habit. When you argue with yourself, do it inside your head; don’t pretend it’s me you’re persuading and shout platitudes at me. You know very well what life consists of, it consists of the humanities, and among them is a decent and intelligent control of the appetites which we share with dogs. A man doesn’t wolf a carcass or howl on a hillside from dark to dawn; he eats well-cooked food, when he can get it, in judicious quantities; and he suits his ardor to his wise convenience.”

  Vukcic was standing up. He frowned and growled down at his old friend: “So I’m howling, am I?”

  “You are and you know it.”

  “Well. I’m sorry. I’m damned sorry.”

  He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  I got up and went to the window to retrieve a curtain that had been whipped out by the draft from the opened door. In the thick shrubbery just outside a bird was singing, and I startled it. Then I went and planted myself in front of Wolfe. He had his eyes closed, and as I gazed at him his massive form went up with the leverage of a deep sigh, and down again.

  I yawned and said, “Anyhow, thank the Lord they all made a quick exit. It’s moving along for ten o’clock, and you need sleep, not to mention me.”

  He opened his eyes. “Archie. I have affection for Marko Vukcic. I hunted dragonflies with him in the mountains. Do you realize that that fool is going to let that fool make a fool of him again?”

  I yawned. “Listen to you. If I did a sentence like that you’d send me from the room. You’re in bad shape. I tell you, we both need sleep. Did you mean it when you told Tolman that as far as this murder is concerned you’re not playing any more?”

  “Certainly. Mr. Berin is cleared. We are no longer interested. We leave here to-night.”

  “Okay. Then for God’s sake let’s go to bed.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed again. It appeared that he wanted to sit and worry about Vukcic a while, and I couldn’t help him any with that, so I turned and started out, intending not only to display the DO NOT DISTURB but also to leave positive instructions with the greenjacket in the main hall. But just as I had my hand on the knob his voice stopped me.

  “Archie. You’ve had more sleep than I have. I was about to say, we haven’t gone over that speech since we got here. I intended to rehearse it at least twice. Do you know which bag it’s in? Get it, please.”

  If we had been in New York I would have quit the job.

  13

  AT TEN O’CLOCK I sat on a chair by the open window and yawned, with my eyes on the typescript, my own handiwork. We had worked through it to page 9.

  Wolfe, facing me, was sitting up in bed with four cushions at his back, displaying half an acre of yellow silk pajamas. On the bedstand beside him were two empty beer bottles and an empty glass. He appeared to be frowning intently at my socks as he went on:

  “…but the indescribable flavor of the finest of Georgia hams, the quality which places them, in my opinion, definitely above the best to be found in Europe, is not due to the post mortem treatment of the flesh at all. Expert knowledge and tender care in the curing are indeed essential, but they are to be found in Czestochowa and Westphalia more frequently even than in Georgia. Poles and Westphalians have the pigs, the scholarship and the skill; what they do not have is peanuts.”

  He stopped to blow his nose. I shifted position. He resumed: “A pig whose diet is fifty to seventy percent peanuts grows a ham of incredibly sweet and delicate succulence which, well-cured, well-kept and well-cooked, will take precedence over any other ham the world affords. I offer this as an illustration of one of the sources of the American contributions I am discussing, and as another proof that American offerings to the roll of honor of tine food are by no means confined to those items which were found here already ripe on the tree, with nothing required but the plucking. Red Indians were eating turkeys and potatoes before white men came, but they were not eating peanut-fed pigs. Those unforgettable hams are not gifts of nature; they are the product of the inventor’s enterprise, the experimenter’s persistence, and the connoisseur’s discrimination. Similar results have been achieved by the feeding of blueberries to young chickens, beginning usually—”

  “Hold it. Not chickens, poultry.”

  “Chickens are poultry.”

  “You told me to stop you.”

  “But not to argue with me.”

  “You started the argument, I didn’t.”

  He showed me a palm. “Let’s go on … beginning usually at the age of one week. The flavor of a four months old cockerel, trained to eat large quantities of blueberries from infancy, and cooked with mushrooms, tarragon and white wine—or, if you would add another American touch, made into a chicken and corn pudding, with onion, parsley and eggs—is not only distinctive, it is unique; and it is assuredly haute cuisine. This is even a better illustration of my thesis than the ham, for Europeans could not have fed peanuts to pigs, since they had no peanuts. But they did have chickens—chickens, Archie?”

  “Poultry.”

  “No matter. They did have chickens and blueberries, and for centuries no one thought of having the one assimilate the other and bless us with the result. Another demonstration of the inventiveness—”

  “Hey, wait! You left out a whole paragraph. ‘You will say perhaps—’”

  “Very well. Do you think you might sit still? You keep that chair creaking. You will say, perhaps, that all this does not belong in a discussion of cookery, but on consideration I believe you will agree that it does. Vatel had his own farm, and gave his personal attention to its husbandry. Escoffier refused fowl from a certain district, however plump and well-grown, on account of mine
rals in the drinking water available for them there. Brillat-Savarin paid many tributes…”

  I was on my feet. Seated, I had twitches in my arms and legs and I couldn’t sit still. With my eye on the script, I moved across to the table and got hold of the carafe and poured myself a glass of water and drank it. Wolfe went on, droning it out. I decided not to sit down again, and stood in the middle of the floor, flexing and unflexing the muscles of my legs to make the twitching stop.

  I don’t know what it was that alarmed me. I couldn’t have seen anything, because my eyes were on the script, and the open window was at my left, at least a dozen feet away, at right angles to my line of vision. I don’t think I heard anything. But something made me jerk my head around, and even then all I saw was a movement in the shrubbery outside the window, and I have no idea what made me throw the script. But I threw it, straight at the window. At the same moment a gun went off, good and loud. Simultaneously smoke and the smell of powder came in at the window, the script fluttered and dropped to the floor, and I heard Wolfe’s voice behind me:

  “Look here, Archie.”

  I looked and saw the blood running down the side of his face. For a second I stood dead in my tracks. I wanted to jump through the window and catch the son of a—the sharp-shooter, and give him personal treatment. And Wolfe wasn’t dead, he was still sitting up. But the blood looked plenteous. I jumped to the side of the bed.

  He had his lips compressed tight, but he opened them to demand, “Where is it? Is it my skull?” He shuddered. “Brains?”

  “Hell no.” I was looking, and was so relieved my voice cracked. “Where would brains come from? Take your hand away and hold still. Wait till I get a towel.” I raced to the bathroom and back, and wrapped one towel around his neck and sopped with the other one. “I don’t think it touched the cheekbone at all, it just went through skin and meat. Do you feel faint?”

  “No. Bring me my shaving mirror.”

  “You wait till I—”

  “Bring the mirror!”