Too Many Cooks/Champagne for One (17 page)

Somebody mumbled something. Wolfe disregarded it and went on: “I asked Mr. Servan to have you come over here tonight because I want to ask you some questions and find out something. That’s the only thing I’m interested in: the information I want to get. I’ll be frank with you; if I thought I could get it by bullying you and threatening you, I wouldn’t hesitate a moment. I wouldn’t use physical violence even if I could, because one of my romantic ideas is that physical violence is beneath the dignity of a man, and that whatever you get by physical aggression costs more than it is worth. But I confess that if I thought threats or tricks would serve my purpose with you, I wouldn’t hesitate to use them. I’m convinced they wouldn’t, having meditated on this situation, and that’s why I’m in a hole. I have been told by white Americans that the only way to get anything out of black Americans is by threats, tricks, or violence. In the first place, I doubt if it’s true; and even if it is true generally I’m sure it isn’t in this case. I know of no threats that would be effective, I can’t think up a trick that would work, and I can’t use violence.”

Wolfe put his hands at them palms up. “I need the information. What are we going to do?”

Someone snickered, and others glanced at him—a tall skinny one squatting against the wall, with high cheekbones,
dark brown. The runt whom Wolfe had complimented on the shad roe mousse glared around like a sergeant at talking in the ranks. The one that sat stillest was the one with the flattest nose, a young one, big and muscular, a greenjacket that I had noticed at the pavilion because he never opened his mouth to reply to anything. The headwaiter with the chopped-off ear said in a low silky tone:

“You just ask us and we tell you. That’s what Mr. Servan said we was to do.”

Wolfe nodded at him. “I admit that seems the obvious way, Mr. Moulton. And the simplest. But I fear we would find ourselves confronted by difficulties.”

“Yes, sir. What is the nature of the difficulties?”

A gruff voice boomed: “You just ask us and we tell you anything.” Wolfe aimed his eyes at the source of it:

“I hope you will. Would you permit a personal remark? That is a surprising voice to come from a man named Hyacinth Brown. No one would expect it. As for the difficulties—Archie, there’s the refreshment. Perhaps some of you would help Mr. Goodwin?”

That took another ten minutes, or maybe more. Four or five of them came along, under the headwaiter’s direction, and we carried the supplies in and got them arranged on a table against the wall. Wolfe was provided with beer. I had forgot to include milk in the order, so I made out with a bourbon highball. The muscular kid with the flat nose, whose name was Paul Whipple, took plain ginger ale, but all the rest accepted stimulation. Getting the drinks around, and back to their places on the floor, they loosened up a little for a few observations, but fell dead silent when Wolfe put down his empty glass and started off again:

“About the difficulties, perhaps the best way is to illustrate them. You know of course that what we are concerned with is the murder of Mr. Laszio. I am aware that you have told the sheriff that you know nothing about it, but I want some details from you, and besides, you may have recollected some incident which slipped your minds at the time you talked with the sheriff. I’ll begin with you, Mr. Moulton. You were in the kitchen Tuesday evening?”

“Yes, sir. All evening. There was to be the oeufs au cheval served after they got through with those sauces.”

“I know. We missed that. Did you help arrange the table with the sauces?”

“Yes, sir.” The headwaiter was smooth and suave. “Three of us helped Mr. Laszio. I personally took in the sauces on the serving wagon. After everything was arranged he rang for me only once, to remove the ice from the water. Except for that, I was in the kitchen all the time. All of us were.”

“In the kitchen, or the pantry hall?”

“The kitchen. There was nothing to go to the pantry for. Some of the cooks were working on the oeufs au cheval, and the boys were cleaning up, and some of us were eating what was left of the duck and other things. Mr. Servan told us we could.”

“Indeed. That was superlative duck.”

“Yes, sir. All of these gentlemen can cook like nobody’s business. They sure can cook.”

“They are the world’s best. They are the greatest living masters of the subtlest and kindliest of the arts.” Wolfe sighed, opened beer, poured, watched it foam to the top, and then demanded abruptly, “So you saw and heard nothing of the murder?”

“No, sir.”

“The last you saw of Mr. Laszio was when you went in to take the ice from the water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand there were two knives for slicing the squabs. One of stainless steel with a silver handle, the other a kitchen carver. Were they both on the table when you took the ice from the water?”

The greenjacket hesitated only a second. “Yes, sir, I think they were. I glanced around the table to see that everything was all right, because I felt responsible, and I would have noticed if one of the knives had been gone. I even looked at the marks on the dishes—the sauces.”

“You mean the numbered cards?”

“No, sir, you wouldn’t, because the numbers were small, dishes with chalk so they wouldn’t get mixed up in the kitchen or while I was taking them in.”

“I didn’t see them.”

“No, sir, you wouldn’t because the numbers were small, below the rim on the far side from you. When I put the dishes by the numbered cards I turned them so the chalk numbers were at the back, facing Mr. Laszio.”

“And the chalk numbers were in the proper order when you took the ice from the water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was someone tasting the sauces when you were in there?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Keith.”

“Mr. Laszio was there alive?”

“Yes, sir, he was plenty alive. He bawled me out for putting in too much ice. He said it froze the palate.”

“So it does. Not to mention the stomach. When you were in there, I don’t suppose you happened to look behind either of those screens.”

“No, sir. We had shoved the screens back when we cleaned up after dinner.”

“And after, you didn’t enter the dining room again until after Mr. Laszio’s body was discovered?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Nor look into the dining room?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure. I guess I’d remember my movements.”

“I suppose you would.” Wolfe frowned, fingered at this glass of beer, and raised it to his mouth and gulped. The headwaiter, self-possessed, took a sip of his highball, but I noticed that his eyes didn’t leave Wolfe.

Wolfe put his glass down. “Thank you, Mr. Moulton.” He put his eyes on the one on Moulton’s left, a medium-sized one with gray showing in his kinky hair and wrinkles on his face. “Now Mr. Grant. You’re a cook?”

“Yes, sir.” His tone was husky and he cleared his throat and repeated, “Yes, sir. I work on fowl and game over at the hotel, but here I’m helping Crabby. All of us best ones, Mr. Servan sent us over here, to make an
im
pression.”

“Who is Crabby?”

“He means me.” It was the plump runt with a ravine in his chin, the sergeant.

“Ah. Mr. Crabtree. Then you helped with the shad roe mousse.”

Mr. Grant said, “Yes, sir. Crabby just supervised. I done the work.”

“Indeed. My respects to you. On Tuesday evening, you were in the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir. I can make it short and sweet, mister. I was in the
kitchen, I didn’t leave the kitchen, and in the kitchen I remained. Maybe that covers it.”

“It seems to. You didn’t go to the dining room or the pantry hall?”

“No, sir. I just said about remaining
in
the kitchen.”

“So you did. No offense, Mr. Grant. I merely want to make sure.” Wolfe’s eyes moved on. “Mr. Whipple. I know you, of course. You are an alert and efficient waiter. You anticipated my wants at dinner. You seem young to have developed such competence. How old are you?”

The muscular kid with the flat nose looked straight at Wolfe and said, “I’m twenty-one.”

Moulton, the headwater, gave him an eye and told him, “Say sir.” Then turned to Wolfe: “Paul’s a college boy.”

“I see. What college, Mr. Whipple?”

“Howard University. Sir.”

Wolfe wiggled a fìnger. “If you feel rebellious about the sir, dispense with it. Enforced courtesy is worse than none. You are at college for culture?”

“I’m interested in anthropology.”

“Indeed. I have met Franz Boas, and have his books autographed. You were, I remember, present on Tuesday evening. You waited on me at dinner.”

“Yes, sir. I helped in the dining room after dinner, cleaning up and arranging for that demonstration with the sauces.”

“Your tone suggests disapproval.”

“Yes, sir. If you ask me. It’s frivolous and childish for mature men to waste their time and talent, and other people’s time—”

“Shut up, Paul.” It was Moulton.

Wolfe said, “You’re young, Mr. Whipple. Besides, each of us has his special set of values, and if you expect me to respect yours you must respect mine. Also I remind you that Paul Lawrence Dunbar said ‘the best thing a possum ever does is fill an empty belly.”

The college boy looked at him in surprise. “Do you know Dunbar?”

“Certainly. I am not a barbarian. But to return to Tuesday evening, after you finished helping in the dining room did you go to the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And left there—”

“Not at all. Not until we got word of what had happened.”

“You were in the kitchen all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Wolfe’s eyes moved again. “Mr. Daggett …”

He went on, and got more of the same. I finished my highball and tilted my chair back against the wall and closed my eyes. The voices, the questions and answers, were just noises in my ears. I didn’t get the idea, and it didn’t sound to me as if there was any. Of course Wolfe’s declaration that he wouldn’t try any tricks because he didn’t know any, was the same as a giraffe saying it couldn’t reach up for a bite on account of its short neck. But it seemed to me that if he thought that monotonous ring around the rosie was a good trick, the sooner he got out of the mountain air of West Virginia and back to sea level, the better. On the questions and answers went; he didn’t skimp anybody and he kept getting personal; he even discovered that Hyacinth Brown’s wife had gone off and left him three pickaninnies to take care of. Once in awhile I opened my eyes to see how far around he had got, and then closed them again. My wrist watch said a quarter to two when I heard, through the open window, a rooster crowing away off.

I let my chair come down when I heard my name. “Archie. Beer please.”

I was a little slow on the pickup and Moulton got to his feet and beat me to it. I sat down again. Wolfe invited the others to replenish, and a lot of them did. Then, after he had emptied a glass and wiped his lips, he settled back and ran his eyes over the gang, slowly around and back, until he had them all waiting for him.

He said in a new crisp tone: “Gentlemen, I said I would illustrate the difficulty I spoke of. It now confronts us. It was suggested that I ask for the information I want. I did so. You have all heard everything that was said. I wonder how many of you know that one of you told me a direct and deliberate lie.”

Perfect silence. Wolfe let it gather for five seconds and then went on:

“Doubtless you share the common knowledge that on Tuesday evening some eight or ten minutes elapsed from the moment that Mr. Berin left the dining room until the moment that Mr. Vukcic entered it, and that Mr. Berin says that when he left Mr. Laszio was there alive, and Mr. Vukcic says that when he entered Mr. Laszio was not there at all. Of
course Mr. Vukcic didn’t look behind the screen. During that interval of eight or ten minutes someone opened the door from the terrace to the dining room and looked in, and saw two colored men. One, in livery, was standing beside the screen with his finger to his lips; the other had opened the door, a few inches, which led to the pantry hall, and was peering through, looking directly at the man by the screen. I have no idea who the man by the screen was. The one peering through the pantry hall door was one of you who are now sitting before me. That’s the one who has lied to me.”

Another silence. It was broken by a loud snicker, again from the tall skinny one who was still squatting against the wall. This time he followed it with a snort: “You tell ’em, boss!” Half a dozen black heads jerked at him and Crabtree said in disgust, “Boney, you damn drunken fool!” and then apologized to Wolfe, “He’s a no good clown, that young man. Yes, sir. About what you say, we’re all sorry you’ve got to feel that one of us told you a lie. You’ve got hold of some bad information.”

“No. I must contradict you. My information is good.”

Moulton inquired in his silky musical voice, “Might I ask who looked in the door and saw all that?”

“No. I’ve told you what was seen, and I know it was seen.” Wolfe’s eyes swept the faces. “Dismiss the idea, all of you, of impeaching my information. Those of you who have no knowledge of that scene in the dining room are out of this anyway; those who know of it know also that my information comes from an eye-witness. Otherwise how would I know, for instance, that the man by the screen had his finger to his lips? No, gentlemen, the situation is simple: I know that at least one of you lied, and he knows that I know it. I wonder if there isn’t a chance of ending so simple a situation in a simple manner and have it done with? Let’s try. Mr. Moulton, was it you who looked through that door—the door from the dining room to the pantry hall and saw the man by the screen with his finger to his lips?”

The headwaiter with the chopped-off ear slowly shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Mr. Grant, was it you?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Whipple, was it you?”

“No, sir.”

He went on around, and piled up fourteen negatives out of
fourteen chances. Still batting a thousand. When he had completed that record he poured a glass of beer and sat and frowned at the foam. Nobody spoke and nobody moved. Finally, without drinking the beer, Wolfe leaned back and sighed patiently. He resumed in a murmur: