The Cook (14 page)

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 to 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?”

“Oh, Conrad!” Mrs. Hill looked at Conrad despairingly.

“All our work undone . . .”

For several seconds the two of them communed with each other in silence, seemingly sharing a vision of an elephantine Daphne. Once or twice Mrs. Hill shook her head and muttered something under her breath. Then she picked up her polishing cloth and began twisting it.

At last Conrad spoke: “We cannot afford to trust Dr. Law.”

“No.”

“Besides, specialists from the City are coming out.”

“Yes.”

“And maybe they can help Daphne.”

Mrs. Hill had stopped twisting her polishing cloth. She was looking quite happy again, and Conrad smiled at her. Then, pointing a finger for emphasis, he said, “You must tell Mrs. Vale.”

“Yes, I certainly will. I will tell her today.”

“You must tell her”—Conrad pointed his forefinger straight at Mrs. Hill’s eyes—“that we do not trust Dr. Law, and that we refuse to call him in. He is not acceptable. He was not able to help Daphne before. He was not able to make the Vales healthy. For years he treated Maxfield for his stomach, and look what happened to him. Such is Dr. Law’s past—hardly something to inspire confidence, is it?”

“No, it is not.”

Conrad lowered his finger and smiled warmly at Mrs. Hill. “Shall we drink to that? Shall we drink to the rejection of Dr. Law? It seems appropriate, don’t you agree? And I know just . . .” He turned around and removed a tall, narrow-necked bottle from the top shelf in the cupboard. “This will do fine.”

Mrs. Hill got the glasses Conrad told her to—long, slender ones—and held them out to him. He filled each one to the very brim. Then he took the one she was holding in her left hand, and bending down a little, put his arm around her shoulder.

They touched glasses.

Thursday evening of the following week Daphne’s recorded weight was one hundred and eight pounds. The Vales were over that night, and when Daphne said she felt too tired to stay downstairs for dinner, Mrs. Vale became very upset.

“Indeed, it was all I could do,” Mrs. Hill reported later, “to keep Eva Vale here; she wanted to send for Dr. Law immediately. I had to remind her that specialists from the City were coming. She couldn’t seem to remember. She kept repeating Dr. Law’s name, and I had to tell her over and over that Dr. Law was not—”

“You did very well,” Conrad assured her. “The specialists will be here tomorrow.”

The next afternoon four somberly attired, serious-looking gentlemen arrived.

“We have been sent by Mr. Springhorn,” the oldest one announced. “Where is the patient?”

They spent several hours alone with Daphne, and when at last they repaired to the dining room it was time for pre-dinner drinks. Mr. Hill served them, explaining that Conrad would be in shortly.

Two of the specialists sat and two stood. They talked in low tones and shrugged frequently. One of them held Daphne’s weight chart in his hand. Every so often the other three would consult it, and then sigh and shrug in unison.

After a while Conrad arrived and the specialists spoke quietly to him for about an hour.

When they were through, Conrad thanked them and said that business was over for the day.

“It is time to enjoy ourselves now,” he smiled. “Gentlemen, tell me about yourselves . . . Do you all know Monte? . . . And how did you get interested in the fine art of dining—or, as some prefer to put it, the refined science of gluttony?”

Soon the four specialists were all laughing and talking at once.

Throughout dinner they talked and laughed, and Conrad regaled them with gourmet stories till after midnight. So light hearted and gay was the company that again Ester stayed up way past her bedtime.

Saturday morning at ten o’clock sharp Mr. and Mrs. Vale arrived. Mr. Hill let them in and took them to the dining room, where Mrs. Hill, Conrad and Harold awaited them.

There was a seriousness about the Hill group which the Vales—plump and jolly though they were—immediately sensed and their smiles faded away. They took the chairs Mr. Hill indicated, and said nothing.

Conrad presided. He waited till all were settled.

“I will repeat,” he told the newcomers, “what I have already told Mr. and Mrs. Hill and Harold. Four specialists examined Daphne yesterday. Four of the top specialists from the City. They substantially agreed on their findings: something is wrong with Daphne but just what they haven’t the slightest notion. Nor have they any idea what to do. Diet was the one thing they had in mind, but when I told them what she was eating they answered that that was precisely what they would have prescribed. They had no suggestions.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, two tears rolled down Mrs. Vale’s plump cheeks. She whimpered something about wishing she could give her poor girl some of her own weight.

“I’m sure we all wish the best for her,” Conrad said in a very matter-of-fact voice.

He continued, “The doctors had some advice, non-medical. I told them Daphne was engaged to be married in June. They said there was no medical objection to her marriage. But they advised—all four of them—that the marriage not be delayed till June. They did not give their reasons. There was no need to.”

Mrs. Vale began crying uninhibitedly.

Conrad ignored her.

“I assume,” he went on, “that we’re all agreed the marriage should take place as soon as possible.”

Everyone nodded.

“Good. Now, her clothes already need altering. We can get Louise busy on them immediately. How soon,” he asked, looking at Mrs. Hill, “do you think we can have the wedding, all things considered?”

Mrs. Hill wrinkled her brow thoughtfully, and then began counting on her fingers. “To be on the safe side, Conrad,” she answered at last, “I think we should say about four weeks. That way . . .”

The Vales stayed for lunch. The only subject of conversation was the wedding; the problems attendant upon advancing the date, the usual myriad of details, etc.—and Mrs. Vale soon became her jolly self again, dismissing from her thoughts the specialists’ visit and what they had said. Nor did she take notice of Daphne’s absence from the table. Of course there was no unused place setting drawing attention. But the prospective wedding alone seemed to occupy her. And it was only when she was leaving, after she had gone upstairs to say good-bye to her daughter, that Mrs. Vale seemed to recall why they were all talking about the wedding . . .

The wedding was also in Mrs. Hill’s thoughts to the virtual exclusion of all else, and hours after the Vales had left she was still talking about it, planning it and replanning it, seeing it one way and then seeing it another. It did not seem to matter whether anyone was listening, though occasionally she would ask Conrad if he agreed or what he thought about something.

“What should we have to drink at the reception?”

Conrad was leaning against the cupboard, glass in hand; dinner was almost ready and Mr. Hill had just fixed drinks, reminding Mrs. Hill that this was an aspect of the wedding affair she’d overlooked.

“I suppose,” Mrs. Hill said thoughtfully, answering herself, “that we should have something of everything, shouldn’t we, Conrad? After all, we want to celebrate an occasion which—” She was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

“I wonder who that can be? At this time—”

Mr. Hill left immediately to find out.

“Conrad, who do you suppose . . .” Mrs. Hill trailed off as another voice was heard—someone had come in—and a few moments later Mr. Hill reappeared.

He closed the door firmly behind him. His eyes met neither Conrad’s nor Mrs. Hill’s. Then he announced, in an utterly impersonal voice: “Dr. Law. He wishes to see Conrad.”

Mrs. Hill’s mouth fell open.

“Dr. Law!” she exclaimed. “What is he doing here? No one asked him . . .”

“Dr. Law,” repeated Mr. Hill impassively.

Conrad was still leaning against the cupboard sipping his drink, but he was looking past Mr. Hill at the door leading to the dining room.

Mrs. Hill turned to him. “Conrad, what do you think . . .”

Conrad continued to stare at the door. Then he finished his drink in a swallow, and straightening up to his full height, said, “Mrs. Hill, Dr. Law said he wished to see me, not Daphne. But perhaps he meant he wished to see me first. Therefore, I think you should go upstairs—patients often like to be at their best for the doctor. You understand? Just tell Daphne that Dr. Law is here.”

Dr. Law was standing in the center of the room, arms crossed, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet. He was staring into the fireplace. Idly, as if from habit, his right thumb and forefinger were twirling the tip of the left fork of his beard.

At the sound of footsteps Dr. Law spun around, and in the directness of his gaze upon Conrad there was something of a challenge.

“Seat?” Conrad suggested, nodding toward a chair by the fire.

“I always stand, thank you.”

Conrad sat down in the chair across from the one he had indicated. “Something on your mind?”

Dr. Law smiled professionally. “Yes, there are several things. Are you surprised?”

Conrad sighed and stretched his legs out toward the fire.

“No,” Dr. Law said after a moment, “I don’t think you are surprised. You have probably been expecting—”

“Get to the point, friend.”

Dr. Law’s smile vanished. He looked very hard at Conrad. “The point is this, sir: I see through you. You are not fooling me.”

Conrad glanced up at him. “Congratulations.”

“And I don’t like what I see.”

“Then don’t look.”

Dr. Law peered at Conrad very intently. For a few seconds he even discontinued his bouncing movement, as if he had to be perfectly still to get Conrad in proper focus. At last he said, almost admiringly, “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” And when Conrad didn’t answer: “You’re certain no one can touch you. You’ve taken care of everything. You’ve thought of all the possibilities. You have left nothing to chance. Nothing can change the course of events . . .”

“Except you, Doctor,” Conrad said in a bored voice; “is that what you’re trying to say?”

“You
are
very sure of yourself.”

“Bluff, Doctor. All bluff.”

“Possibly
too
sure.—No, not all bluff. If that’s what it was you’d be correct in your statement: I would do something about it; I would have done something before now. But it’s not that simple. Not that simple at all—”

Dr. Law paused. Conrad had turned away from him and was looking into the crackling flames, which made shadows dance across his face, distorting and concealing his expression. Dr. Law moved a step closer. Cocking his head to one side, he tried to see through the shadows to Conrad’s face. Slowly Conrad turned from the fire to look at Dr. Law. For a few seconds the two men examined each other.

“I am not your friend, sir,” Dr. Law stated abruptly. “I want you to know that. Indeed . . .”

Conrad turned back toward the fire.

“It’s not something personal, not at all: no more than, as a doctor, I am a
personal
enemy of disease. But I’m not its friend and I do fight it. And I hope the word doesn’t offend you. I mean nothing more by it than . . .” Dr. Law paused for a moment, evidently intent that his words convey precisely his meaning. “A disease,” he explained after a few thoughtful tugs at his beard, “is simply something to be treated and, if possible, eliminated. That is, after it has been diagnosed. If it cannot be eliminated it should be contained. If not contained, then inhibited. And so forth. At all events, it is not to be encouraged.

“Treatment follows diagnosis,” Dr. Law continued. “Diagnosis is simply recognizing the existence of something and calling it by its proper name.

“And now I will be perfectly frank. It isn’t always obvious what treatment to use. And sometimes the doctor calls in a consultant. Occasionally there are no consultants to call. And other times there is no doubt as to the prescribed treatment, only it cannot be counted on to work. It depends on the individual case. And in very rare instances it seems there is no treatment at all. Only diagnosis . . .”

Dr. Law trailed off meaningfully, and Conrad, who had slid down so that his shoulders were almost on the seat of the chair, turned over on his side and looked at him. “ ‘Seems,’ doctor? I gather you’re not certain.”

“No, sir, I am not. I am still hopeful. Having made the diagnosis, one can scarcely rest content . . .”

“And you have come to
me
for help? There are no consultants to call on this case—”

“I know that, sir.”

“I am glad. There is no one to help you, doctor. No one at all. You are alone. Just you and your diagnosis.”

Dr. Law began bouncing up and down more vigorously. Then he nodded slowly, evidently agreeing with what Conrad had just said. “Then why, sir,” he asked, “do you think I have come here? Granting, that is, the diagnosis—I mean yours—of my impotency.”

“Possibly,” Conrad murmured, half turning back to the fire, “you were just passing by.”

“No, I can assure you I came here quite on purpose.”

“Well, let me guess again: to exhibit your cleverness. You have come up with the perfect diagnosis . . . you alone—and of course such a feat should not pass unappreciated. So you come to me. Also, you have a nagging suspicion there’s nothing to be done. At least nothing you can do. And still, as you said, you are not without hope: it occurs to you that perhaps
I
, perhaps Conrad, can do something. That’s possible. Anything is possible. Do I have to make a third guess, doctor?”