The Convivial Codfish (9 page)

As for drinking, by Bittersohn’s own family standards most of them had indeed drunk a great deal and eaten shockingly little. These were Jeremy Kelling’s cronies, though, and judging from what he knew of Jem, Max realized they’d hardly begun. Added to that, bellies trained on baked beans and boiled dinners didn’t heave easily. So far, Max had seen various of his new in-laws and their friends amorous, bellicose, and somose but almost never nauseated, except perhaps by a misquoted passage from John Greenleaf Whittier or a laudatory reference to Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

“Hadn’t we better do something for him?” Tom was asking nervously.

“He’ll be okay,” said Max.

After another heave or two, Ogham wiped his face with a handful of snow, then began mopping at himself with his handkerchief.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he muttered. “You’d better have a sharp word with your liquor dealer, Tom, or quit making your own bathtub gin.”

Max studied Ogham’s face in the light from the train. He was still flushed and his pale blue eyes were bloodshot, but he didn’t look to be in desperate shape. He certainly wasn’t drunk in the usual sense of the word.

Taken simply as a face, Ogham’s was not remarkable. Now, with its customary arrogant expression wiped off, it could have been mistaken easily enough for one of the other men’s. That was interesting. Max hadn’t thought to include him among the possibles before, but he was in fact about the right build and type to have masqueraded as the vanished wine steward. The question was, could Ogham have subordinated that obnoxiously overbearing personality to a servant’s role?

He wouldn’t have had to keep it up for long. Furthermore, what about the personality of the actor? If the man had been one of the Comrades of the Convivial Codfish, as his possession of the Great Chain appeared to indicate, he must have had the gall of an ox to risk pulling off his act in front of his closest friends. Ogham qualified on that score, anyway. Whether Ogham could have managed Wouter Tolbathy’s murder remained to be seen, but Max personally couldn’t think of anybody in this crowd he’d rather hang it on.

“Obed, you should go back to the house and lie down a while,” said Tolbathy.

“Think I will.” Ogham was about two-thirds of the way up the slope when a police ambulance screeched into the drive.

“I’d better go to meet them,” Tom remarked with obvious relief. “Will you stay here with Wouter, Max? And John Wripp, of course.”

“You might as well stay, too. They’re coming down to the train.”

Ogham was waving and shouting, “This way.” Men were coming to meet him, carrying a stretcher. He turned and led them toward the train but seemed to be having some trouble walking. The ambulance men edged past him, until he was bringing up the rear.

“Understand you’ve got a problem here, Mr. Tolbathy,” the man who was now the leader called out.

“Rather a serious one, I’m afraid,” Tolbathy replied with his eyes on Ogham. “Obed, why don’t you let one of these officers help you up to the house? Perhaps Hester can give you something to settle your—Obed, what’s wrong? Catch him, one of you!”

Ogham was down on his knees in the path, clawing at his throat, grunting with pain.

“Mac, you and Willy get him on to the stretcher, quick,” the leader ordered. “Take him up and radio the hospital for instructions. Willy, stay with him. Mac, bring the other stretcher. I understand there’s a man with a broken leg aboard, Mr. Tolbathy?”

“We’re not sure, but he seems very ill. This way, please.”

Wripp was barely conscious now, the age spots standing out stark and brown against his tight-stretched yellow skin in pitiful contrast to the opulent crimson velvet pillow and lap robe Hester Tolbathy had used to make him comfortable. The head of the ambulance crew knelt on the floor beside him and shook his own head.

“He’s in shock. Looks like we’re going to need some help here. As soon as Mac gets here, could you two gentlemen slide the stretcher under him while we lift? If that hip’s really broken, we don’t dare juggle him around any more than we have to.”

“Of course,” said Tolbathy. He sounded relieved at the prospect of being able to do something. When Mac puffed up with the stretcher, Tom knelt at the old man’s head, Max at the feet.

“Say when.”

Working together, the men got Wripp on the stretcher wrapped in a gray blanket, then passed straps around him to hold him safely in place.

“Can’t take any chances with a man his age. It’s kind of slippery on that path,” said the crew leader. “Okay, that should do it. So that’s the story, eh, Mr. Tolbathy?”

“Well, no, I’m afraid it isn’t. My brother’s dead up ahead in the cab. You’d better send another ambulance.”

T
HEY WERE GOING TO
need a whole flock of ambulances. Somebody up at the house must have already pushed the panic button, for two more vehicles came hooting and flashing up the drive while Max and Tom Tolbathy were still at the train, waiting for the police cruiser the first crew had promised to send.

“Max, could you for God’s sake go and see what’s happening?” Tolbathy begged. “I know I ought to go myself, but damn it, I’ve got to stay with Wouter. Tell Hester. She’ll understand. Besides,” his face twisted and he clutched at his stomach the way Ogham had done, “I’m not sure I could make it.”

“Jesus,” said Max, and went.

What the flaming hell was going on here? When he ran up to the mansion on the hill, he found the three caterers and an elderly couple who must be Jessie and Rollo the only ones really able to function. Hester Tolbathy was doing her gallant best, but Max could see she was in no better shape than some of her guests.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with everybody,” she was groaning. “Where’s Tom? Is he all right?”

Max avoided telling her. “Tom’s still at the train. He sent me to say he’d be along soon. They’ve got Mr. Wripp away in the ambulance, you’ll be glad to know.”

“And Wouter?”

Max had a bit of luck dodging that one, too. Somebody who must be the family doctor was hurrying over to Mrs. Tolbathy, looking frazzled and furious.

“For God’s sake, Hester, what did you give these people to eat?”

“We’d only got to the caviar. Why, Fred? What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to say for sure until we’ve had a chance to run the proper tests, but they’re all showing symptoms of acute arsenical poisoning.”

“Arsenic? How could they possibly? Oh, my God! Excuse me.”

Clapping a hand tight over her mouth, Hester Tolbathy darted away. The doctor moved to go after her, but Max grabbed his sleeve.

“Just a second, please, doctor. Tom Tolbathy sent me up to get a report on what’s going on here. Why do you say arsenical poisoning?”

“I didn’t say that’s what it is. I said that’s what it looks like. Vomiting, diarrhea, burning sensations in the throat and skin, extreme weakness—those are typical symptoms. How do you yourself feel, by the way?”

“Fine,” Max told him.

“But you’re a member of the party? You ate what the others did?”

“No, I didn’t. All I had was one small Scotch and water. Most of the rest had champagne and caviar, but I don’t happen to care for either.”

“What about those three waitresses or whatever they are? The women in the black uniforms. Did they have any?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

Max described the ritual around the epergne. The doctor grabbed Marge, who was rushing past with a pile of clean towels.

“Just a moment. Did you eat any caviar?”

“What?” Marge blinked, then shook her head. “Oh, I get you. No, I didn’t have any and I’m sure neither of my helpers did. It was opened and served right in front of the guests, you see.”

“So I understand. Was anything else served at the same time?”

“Just bread and melba toast and the usual garnishes. Sweet butter, chopped onion, and egg yolk.”

“Did you prepare these garnishes?”

“No, Mrs. Tolbathy brought them to the train all ready to serve, except for putting them into the dishes.”

“Could they have been tampered with on the train?”

“I don’t see how. They were in plastic bowls with tight-fitting lids and we didn’t open them until we were ready to take them in. We three were working right there in the caboose where the bowls were. Nobody else came in except the bartender. He picked up the olives and sliced lime and stuff for the bar, but he never went near the food.”

“Olives and limes don’t count as food?”

“Not specially, in this case. Anyway, we had them ready on a separate tray at the far end of the counter, so all he had to do was pick them up and go out. I doubt if much of the stuff got used, but you could ask him.”

“I will. And who served the garnishes for the caviar?”

“I did. That is, I transferred them from the plastic bowls to the dishes that fit on the epergne. A man dressed up as a wine steward came and carried them into the dining car.”

“Did you watch him serve them there?”

“I didn’t myself, but my two helpers did. Actually he didn’t serve them, he only put the dishes on the epergne. Then he opened the caviar and went away. One of my helpers made the canapes, and the other passed them around to the guests. Doctor, you’re not trying to say one of us three tampered with those garnishes?”

“No. I’m trying to pinpoint the probable cause of this outbreak because I’ll have to make a report to the police and I want to get my facts straight. I’m correct in assuming, am I not, that not everybody would want the same garnish on his caviar? Some would want egg yolk, some onion, some would take both?”

“That’s right. And once the girls had begun serving, people would come over to the table and fix their own the way they wanted it. You know how they do.”

“Yes, of course. But everyone took caviar in one form or another?”

“I should think so. Who’d want a crackerful of plain egg yolk? Anyway, the dish was empty when we went to clean up.”

“There were no leftovers at all?”

“Just some of the bread and butter and a few pieces of melba toast. I’m sure of that because I washed the serving dishes myself. Angela brought them out empty and I gave them a quick scrub because we planned to use the epergne again on the dessert table. Fresh fruits, mints, salted nuts, chocolates—”

“Yes, yes. And the empty tin?”

“I washed that, too. It’s a rule we have, always rinse out the empties. On account of rats, you know. Wasn’t I supposed to?”

“You couldn’t have known,” the doctor reassured her. “You didn’t happen to notice anything wrong with the tin? A bulged top, anything of that sort?”

“Do you think I’d have been dumb enough to let it be served if I had?”

“But you did have a chance to look it over before it was opened?”

“Plenty of chances. Mrs. Tolbathy brought down the can along with the garnishes. I saw it and so did my helpers. So did everybody on the train, if it comes to that, because the wine steward held it up for them to see before he opened it.”

“He opened the caviar in the presence of the guests?”

“That’s right.”

“Um. That clinches it, I believe. All right, thank you. I must get back to my patients. God knows how many more I’ve got by now. At least this explains why some are so much sicker than others. Depends on how much they ate, I suppose. Damn Russians! If they can’t get at us one way, they’ll try another.”

Max hadn’t thought of that angle. He didn’t think much of it now. Another fleet of ambulances came up the drive. He left the stretcher-bearers and paramedics to attend to those who’d been so merry such a short time ago, and went back to the train.

He might have known a crowd would have gathered. Naturally that procession of howling ambulances had attracted attention, notably from the news media. Several policemen who might otherwise have been making themselves useful up here were having, he found out later, to stay down on the road keeping the driveway clear so that victims could be got to the hospital. Max cursed as he all but fell over a photographer with a camera perched on his shoulder and a young woman whose face he recognized from the evening news broadcasts. They were arguing with a uniformed policeman who was guarding the steps into the parlor car.

“But we’re from Channel Three.”

“I don’t care if you’re straight from the Garden of Eden,” the policeman told them. “I’ve got orders to let nobody on the train. Nobody means you, too, Mister,” he added for Max’s benefit.

“I’m a member of the party,” Max told him. “Mr. Tolbathy’s expecting me. He sent me to the house with a message for his wife, and he’s waiting for an answer.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Where is he, damn it? Tell him Max Bittersohn wants to come aboard.”

“Mr. Tolbathy’s talking to the chief.”

“Good. I want to talk to the chief, too.” Max took out his wallet and showed his private investigator’s license.

The policeman shook his head. “That don’t look like you.”

“My wife says I take a lousy picture. Oh.” Max had forgotten about his side-whiskers. He reached up and pulled them off. “That help any?”

“Not much. You got stickum on your face.”

“Come on, we’re wasting valuable time. I’ve got some important information for the chief.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“I can’t talk about it here.”

The reporters were beginning to pester Max with questions. He turned to glare. That was a mistake because several photographers immediately took his picture, stickum and all.

“Come on, for Christ’s sake,” he begged the policeman.

“Just a minute.”

The officer turned his back and said something to somebody inside. He must have got the right answer, for he squeezed aside and let Max go aboard.

The parlor car looked like the aftermath of a barroom brawl. Tom Tolbathy stood amid the shards, talking with a man in a more stylish uniform, who must be the local chief of police. When he caught sight of Max, he stared as if he couldn’t recall who it was. Then he blinked and nodded.

“Oh, Max. What’s going on up there? How’s Hester?”

This was no time to be tactful. “She’s running her legs off. Your guests are all sick and there’s a doctor who’s talking about arsenic in the caviar.”