Too Many Cooks

by Rex Stout

  “Yes.”

  “And whether by accident or design, you did detain Vukcic and dance with him while your husband was being murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Tuesday evening after dinner you were absent from the gathering here nearly an hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “And since your husband is dead … if it were not for the unfortunate circumstance that Liggett will soon be dead too, you would expect to marry him, wouldn’t you?”

  “I…” Her mouth twisted. “No! You can’t say … no!”

  “Please, Mrs. Laszio. Keep your nerve. You need it.” Wolfe’s tone suddenly got gentle. “I don’t want to bully you. I am perfectly aware that as regards you the facts permit of two vastly different constructions. One something like this: You and Mr. Liggett wanted each other—at least he wanted you, and you wanted his name and position and wealth. But your husband was the sort of man who hangs on to his possessions, and that made it difficult. The time finally arrived when the desire was so great, and the obstacle so stubborn, that you and Liggett decided on a desperate course. It appeared that the meeting of Les Quinze Maîtres offered a good opportunity for the removal of your husband, for there would be three persons present who hated him—plenty of targets for suspicion. So Liggett came to Charleston by airplane and on here by car, and met you somewhere outside, as previously arranged, at half past nine Tuesday evening. It was only then that the arrangements were perfected in detail, for Liggett could not previously have known about the wager between Servan and Keith and the test of Sauce Printemps that was being prepared to decide it. Liggett posted himself in the shrubbery. You returned to the parlor, and turned on the radio at the proper time, and delayed Vukcic by dancing with him in order to give Liggett the opportunity to enter the dining room and kill your husband. Confound it, madam, don’t stare at me like that! As I say, that is one possible interpretation of your actions.”

  “But it’s wrong. It’s lies! I didn’t—”

  “Permit me. Don’t deny too much. I confess there may be lies in it, for there’s another possible construction. But understand this, and consider it well.” Wolfe aimed a finger at her, and pointed his tone. “It is going to be proven that Liggett came here, and was told by someone about the test of the sauces, and that he knew precisely the moment when he could safely enter this room to kill Laszio without danger of interruption; that he knew that Vukcic would not enter to disturb him before the deed was done. Otherwise his proceeding as he did was senseless. That’s why I say don’t deny too much. If you try to maintain that you didn’t meet Liggett outdoors, that you made no arrangement with him, that your turning on the radio when you did was coincidence, that your keeping Vukcic from the dining room during those fatal minutes was also coincidence—then I fear for you. Even a jury of twelve men, and even looking at you on the stand—I’m afraid they wouldn’t swallow it. I believe, to put it brutally, I believe you would be convicted of murder.

  “But I haven’t said you’re a murderer.” Wolfe’s tone was almost soothing. “Since the crime was committed you have unquestionably, at least by silence, tried to shield Liggett, but a woman’s heart being what it is…” He shrugged. “No jury would convict you for that. And no jury would convict you at all, you wouldn’t even be in jeopardy, if it could be shown that the arrangement you entered into with Liggett Tuesday evening, when you met him outdoors there, was on your part an innocent one. Merely as a hypothesis, let’s say, for example, that you understood that Liggett was engaged in nothing more harmful than a practical joke. No matter what; I couldn’t guess at the details even as a hypothesis, for I’m not a practical joker. But the joke required that he have a few minutes alone with Laszio before the entrance of Vukcic. That of course would explain everything—your turning on the radio, your detaining Vukcic—everything you did, without involving you in guilt. You understand, Mrs. Laszio, I’m not suggesting this as a retreat for you. I am only saying that while you can’t deny what happened, you may possibly have an explanation for it that will save you. In that case, it would be quixotic to try to save Liggett too. You can’t do it. And if there is such an explanation, I wouldn’t wait too long … until it’s too late…”

  It was too much for Liggett. Slowly his head turned, irresistibly as if gripped in enormous pliers, square around, until he faced Dina Laszio. She didn’t look at him. She was chewing at her lip again, and her eyes were on Wolfe, fixed and fascinated. You could almost see her chewing her brain too. That lasted a full half a minute, and then by God she smiled. It was a funny one, but it was a smile; and then I saw that her eyes had shifted to Liggett and the smile was supposed to be one of polite apology. She said in a low tone but without anything shaky in it, “I’m sorry, Ray. Oh, I’m sorry, but…”

  She faltered. Liggett’s eyes were boring at her.

  She moved her gaze to Wolfe and said firmly, “You’re right. Of course you’re right and I can’t help it. When I met him outdoors after dinner as we had arranged—”

  “Dina! Dina, for God’s sake—”

  Tolman, the blue-eyed athlete, jerked Liggett back in his chair. The swamp-woman was going on:

  “He had told me what he was going to do, and I believed him, I thought it was a joke. Then afterwards he told me that Phillip had attacked him, had struck at him—”

  Wolfe said sharply, “You know what you’re doing, madam. You’re helping to send a man to his death.”

  “I know. I can’t help it! How can I go on lying for him? He killed my husband. When I met him out there and he told me what he had planned—”

  “You tricky bastard!” Liggett broke training completely. He jerked from Tolman’s grasp, plunged across Mondor’s legs, knocked Blanc and his chair to the floor, trying to get at Wolfe. I was on my way, but by the time I got there Berin had stopped him, with both arms around him, and Liggett was kicking and yelling like a lunatic.

  Dina Laszio, of course, had stopped trying to talk, with all the noise and confusion. She sat quietly looking on with her long sleepy eyes.

  17

  JEROME BERIN SAID POSITIVELY, “She’ll stick to it. She’ll do whatever will push danger farthest from her, and that will be it.”

  The train was sailing like a gull across New Jersey on a sunny Friday morning, somewhere east of Philadelphia. In sixty minutes we would be tunneling under the Hudson. I was propped against the wall of the pullman bedroom again, Constanza was on the chair, and Wolfe and Berin were on the window seats with beer between them. Wolfe looked pretty seedy, since of course he wouldn’t have tried to shave on the train even if there had been no bandage, but he knew that in an hour the thing would stop moving and the dawn of hope was on his face.

  Berin asked, “Don’t you think so?”

  Wolfe shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. The point was to nail Liggett down by establishing his presence at Kanawha Spa on Tuesday evening, and Mrs. Laszio was the only one who could do that for us. As you say, she is undoubtedly just as guilty as Liggett, maybe more, depending on your standard. I rather think Mr. Tolman will try her for murder. He took her last night as a material witness, and he may keep her that way to clinch his case against Liggett—or he may charge her as an accomplice. I doubt if it matters much. Whatever he does, he won’t convict her. She’s a special kind of woman, she told me so herself. Even if Liggett is bitter enough against her to confess everything in order to involve her in his doom, to persuade any dozen men that the best thing to do with that woman is to kill her would be quite a feat. I question whether Mr. Tolman is up to it.”

  Berin, filling his pipe, frowned at it. Wolfe upped his beer glass with one hand as he clung to the arm of the seat with the other.

  Constanza smiled at me. “I try not to hear them. Talking about killing people.” She shivered delicately.

  I grunted. “You seem to be doing a lot of smiling. Under the circumstances.”

  She lifted brows above the dark purple eyes. “What circumstances?”

>   I just waved a hand. Berin had got his pipe lit and was talking again. “Well, it turned my stomach. Poor Rossi, did you notice him? Poor devil. When Dina Rossi was a little girl and I had her many times on this knee, and she was quiet and very sly but a nice girl. Of course, all murderers were once little children, which seems astonishing.” He puffed until the little room was nicely filled with smoke. “By the way, did you know that Vukcic made this train?”

  “No.”

  Berin nodded. “He came leaping on at the last minute, I saw him, like a lion with fleas after him. I haven’t seen him around this morning, though I’ve been back and forth. No doubt your man told you that I stopped here at your room around eight o’clock.”

  Wolfe grimaced. “I wasn’t dressed.”

  “So he told me. So I came back. I wasn’t comfortable. I never am comfortable when I’m in debt, and I’ve got to find out what I owe you and pay it. There at Kanawha Spa you were a guest and didn’t want to talk about it, but now you can. You got me out of a bad hole and maybe you even saved my life, and you did it at the request of my daughter for your professional help. That makes it a debt and I want to pay it, only I understand your fees are pretty steep. How much do you charge for a day’s work?”

  “How much do you?”

  “What?” Berin stared. “God above. I don’t work by the day. I am an artist, not a potato peeler.”

  “Neither am I.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “Look here, sir. Let’s admit it as a postulate that I saved your life. If I did, I am willing to let it go as a gesture of amity and goodwill and take no payment for it. Will you accept that gesture?”

  “No. I’m in debt to you. My daughter appealed to you. It is not to be expected that I, Jerome Berin, would accept such a favor.”

  “Well…” Wolfe sighed. “If you won’t take it in friendship, you won’t. In that case, the only thing I can do is render you a bill. That’s simple. If any valuation at all is to be placed on the professional services I rendered it must be a high one, for the services were exceptional. So … since you insist on paying … you owe me the recipe for saucisse minuit.”

  “What!” Berin glared at him. “Pah! Ridiculous!”

  “How ridiculous? You ask what you owe. I tell you.”

  Berin sputtered. “Outrageous, damn it!” He waved his pipe until sparks and ashes flew. “That recipe is priceless! And you ask it … God above, I’ve refused half a million francs! And you have the impudence, the insolence—”

  “If you please.” Wolfe snapped. “Let’s don’t row about it. You put a price on your recipe. That’s your privilege. I put a price on my services. That’s mine. You have refused half a million francs. If you were to send me a check for half a million dollars I would tear it up—or for any sum whatever. I saved your life or I rescued you from a minor annoyance, call it what you please. You ask me what you owe me, and I tell you, you owe me that recipe, and I will accept nothing else. You pay it or you don’t, suit yourself. It would be an indescribable pleasure to be able to eat saucisse minuit at my own table—at least twice a month, I should think—but it would be quite a satisfaction, of another sort, to be able to remind myself—much oftener than twice a month—that Jerome Berin owes me a debt which he refuses to pay.”

  “Bah!” Berin snorted. “Trickery!”

  “Not at all. I attempt no coercion. I won’t sue you. I’ll merely regret that I employed my talents, lost a lot of sleep, and allowed myself to get shot at, without either acquiring credit for a friendly and generous act, or receiving the payment due me. I suppose I should remind you that I offered a guarantee to disclose the recipe to no one. The sausage will be prepared only in my house and served only at my table. I would like to reserve the right to serve it to guests—and of course to Mr. Goodwin, who lives with me and eats what I eat.”

  Berin, staring at him, muttered, “Your cook.”

  “He won’t know it. I spend quite a little time in the kitchen myself.”

  Berin continued to stare, in silence. Finally he growled, “It can’t be written down. It never has been.”

  “I won’t write it down. I have a facility for memorizing.”

  Berin got his pipe to his mouth without looking at it, and puffed. Then he stared some more. At length he heaved a shuddering sigh and looked around at Constanza and me. He said gruffly, “I can’t tell it with these people in here.”

  “One of them is your daughter.”

  “Damn it, I know my daughter when I see her. They’ll have to get out.”

  I got up and put up my brows at Constanza. “Well?” The train lurched and Wolfe grabbed for the other arm of the seat. It would have been a shame to get wrecked then.

  Constanza arose, reached down to pat her father on the head, and passed through the door as I held it open.

  I supposed that was the fitting end to our holiday, since Wolfe was getting that recipe, but there was one more unexpected diversion to come. Since there was still an hour to go I invited Constanza to the club car for a drink, and she swayed and staggered behind me through three cars to that destination. There were only eight or ten customers in the club car, mostly hid behind morning papers, and plenty of seats. She specified ginger ale, which reminded me of old times, and I ordered a highball to celebrate Wolfe’s collection of his fee. We had only taken a couple of sips when I became aware that a fellow passenger across the aisle had arisen, put down his paper, walked up to us, and was standing in front of Constanza, looking down at her.

  He said, “You can’t do this to me, you can’t! I don’t deserve it and you can’t do it.” He sounded urgent. “You ought to see—you ought to realize—”

  Constanza said to me, chattering prettily, “I didn’t suppose my father would ever tell that recipe to anyone. Once in San Remo I heard him tell an Englishman, some very important person—”

  The intruder moved enough inches to be standing between us, and rudely interrupted her: “Hello, Goodwin. I want to ask you—”

  “Hello, Tolman.” I grinned up at him. “What’s the idea? You with two brand new prisoners in your jail, and here you are running around—”

  “I had to get to New York. For evidence. It was too important … Look here. I want to ask you if Miss Berin has any right to treat me like this. Your unbiased opinion. She won’t speak to me. She won’t look at me. Didn’t I have to do what I did? Was there anything else I could do?”

  “Certainly. You could have resigned. But then of course you’d have been out of a job, and God knows when you’d have been able to marry. It was really a problem, I see that. But I wouldn’t worry. Only a little while ago I wondered why Miss Berin was doing so much smiling, there didn’t seem to be any special reason for it, but now I understand. She was smiling because she knew you were on the train.”

  “Mr. Goodwin! That isn’t true!”

  “But if she won’t even speak to me—”

  I waved a hand. “Shell speak to you all right. You just don’t know how to go about it. Her own method is as good a one as I’ve seen recently. Watch me now, and next time you can do it yourself.”

  I tipped my highball glass and spilled about a jigger on her skirt where it was round over her knee.

  She ejaculated and jerked. Tolman ejaculated and bent over and reached for his handkerchief. I arose and reassured them, “It’s rite all kight, it doodn’t stain.” Then I went over and picked up his morning paper and sat down where he had been.

  • A NERO WOLFE MYSTERY •

  Here are special advance preview chapters from THE BLOODIED IVY, the new Nero Wolfe novel by Robert Goldsborough.

  The Bloodied Ivy

  Robert Goldsborough

  ONE

  Hale Markham’s death had been big news, of course. It was even the subject of a brief conversation I had with Nero Wolfe. We were sitting in the office, he with beer and I with a Scotch-and-water, going through our copies of the Gazette before dinner.

  “See where this guy up at Prescott U. fell into a ravine on the
campus and got himself killed?” I asked, to be chatty. Wolfe only grunted, but I’ve never been one to let a low-grade grunt stop me. “Wasn’t he the one whose book—they mention it here in the story: Bleeding Hearts Can Kill—got you so worked up a couple of years back?”

  Wolfe lowered his paper, sighed, and glared at a spot on the wall six inches above my head. “The man was a political Neanderthal,” he rumbled. “He would have been supremely happy in the court of Louis XIV. And the book to which you refer is a monumental exercise in fatuity.” I sensed the subject was closed, so I grunted myself and turned to the sports pages.

  I probably wouldn’t have thought any more about that scrap of dialogue except now, three weeks later, a small, balding, fiftyish specimen with brown-rimmed glasses and a sportcoat that could have won a blue ribbon in a quilting contest perched on the red leather chair in the office and stubbornly repeated the statement that had persuaded me to see him in the first place.

  “Hale Markham was murdered,” he said. “I’m unswerving in this conviction.”

  Let me back up a bit. The man before me had a name: Walter Willis Cortland. He had called the day before, Monday, introducing himself as a political science professor at Prescott University and a colleague of the late Hale Markham’s. He then dropped the bombshell that Markham’s death had not been a mishap.

  I had asked Cortland over the phone if he’d passed his contention along to the local cops. “It’s no contention, Mr. Goodwin, it’s a fact,” he’d snapped, adding that he had indeed visited the town police in Prescott, but they hadn’t seemed much interested in what he had to say. I could see why: Based on what little he told me over the phone, Cortland didn’t have a scrap of evidence to prove Markham’s tumble was murder, nor did he seem inclined, in his zeal for truth, to nominate a culprit. So why, you ask, had I agreed to see him? Good question. I must admit it was at least partly vanity.

  When he phoned at ten-twenty that morning and I answered “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking,” Cortland had cleared his throat twice, paused, and said, “Ah, yes, Mr. Archie Goodwin. You’re really the one with whom I wish to converse. I’ve read about your employer, Nero Wolfe, and how he devotes four hours every day, nine to eleven before lunch and four to six in the afternoon, to the sumptuous blooms on the roof of your brownstone. That’s why I chose this time to call. I also know how difficult it is to galvanize Mr. Wolfe to undertake a case, but that you have a reputation for being a bit more, er … open-minded.”