Эллери Куин: The Devil's Cook

“Now that you ask,” Ben said, “I can’t think of a thing.”

“Returning reluctantly to the ragout,” Farley said, “I must say that I was fetched by the sound of it. Ben, you’re a better cook than I am. You’ll have to try it when you get back from your weekend.”

“The proportions are just suggested, of course,” Terry said. “You can change them to suit your taste.”

“The principle, I would say,” said Ben, “is the same as that of Huck Finn’s garbage cans. The object is to get the flavors swapped around.”

“Besides being delicious,” Terry said, “it has another great advantage. You don’t have to stay around and watch it. That’s why I decided to fix it for dinner this evening. I have an appointment after a while, and I’ll just leave the ragout simmering in the skillet. When Jay gets home, screaming for his dinner, it will be ready to serve.”

“Where are you going?” Ben asked.

“None of your business. If you can be a clam about your affairs, so can I.”

“That’s right, Ben,” said Farley. “Fair’s fair. If you’ll tell us where you’re going, Terry will tell where she’s going.”

“Never mind,” Ben said.

“Neither will I,” said Terry.

Farley sighed. “Speaking of Jay, Terry, how is he?”

“Who was speaking of him?”

“You were, damn it. You said something about him screaming for his dinner.”

“That was an exaggeration, to be honest. Jay never screams. He never even yells. It wouldn’t fit in with being an assistant professor of economics. If you are an assistant professor of economics, you must be dignified and stuffy. And if you are the wife of an assistant professor of economics, you are expected to be dignified and stuffy also.”

“That’s not reasonable,” Ben protested. “How can a sexy wife be dignified and stuffy?”

“It’s very difficult,” said Terry. “If not impossible.”

“It’s worse than that — it isn’t even healthy . As between dignity and sex, I’ll take sex every time.”

“Has a tone of discontent crept into this conversation,” Farley said, “or do I imagine it?”

“It is no secret,” Terry said, “that Jay and I are not on the most amiable of terms. He disapproves of almost everything I do.”

“Is that a fact?” Ben said. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Yes, Ben,” said Farley, “you mustn’t be sarcastic. It’s hardly appropriate for a fellow who is going on a top-secret weekend. As for me, Terry, I am on your side in the matter. If old Jay walks out on you, I’m prepared to console you.”

“If so,” said Terry, “you will have to wait your turn.”

Ben looked at his wristwatch, drained his can, and managed to stand up.

“I’m beginning to feel like a crowd,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s time for me to leave.”

He carried the empty can into the kitchen, came out again, and went into the bedroom. When he reappeared he was wearing a hat and topcoat and carrying a leather bag.

“I’m off!” he said. “See you Sunday evening.”

“I’m convinced that you have no intentions whatever of being good,” said Farley, “so just be careful.”

“Right. Old Ben Green proceeds with caution.”

He went out. Terry shook her beer can, which was empty, and rose after depositing the can on the floor.

“I suppose I should leave, too,” she said.

“Why?”

“I told you I have an appointment. And I have to fix the ragout before I go.”

“You could stay for a little while, couldn’t you?”

“It wouldn’t look right.”

“Damn the looks. Have another beer.”

“Since you ask me, I will.”

She sat down again while Farley went to the kitchen and returned with two fresh cans. He handed one to Terry and sat down beside her on the sofa.

“‘Shoulder the sky,’” he said, “‘and drink your ale.’”

“Is that original? Didn’t someone else say it first?”

“Doesn’t someone always?”

“Anyway, it isn’t ale we’re drinking. It’s beer.”

“A mere technicality,” Farley said.

Soon after five o’clock Fanny Moran, Farley Moran’s little sister upstairs, returned to The Cornish Arms. She did not, however, climb directly to her second-floor apartment. She spoke cheerfully to Orville Reasnor, who was on his hands and knees in the vestibule near the entrance, and paused briefly to check her mailbox, which was empty. While she was thus engaged, Orville exploited the opportunity to survey her with considerable admiration from end to end, and he concluded as usual that she was a neat little package. It was a short excursion, actually, from end to end of Fanny, for she stood only one inch over five feet, although a natural tendency of the observer to linger on the way usually prolonged the trip. Orville, who was a trained observer, took his time going from strawberry blonde hair, cut short and slightly shaggy, to a small pair of nyloned feet raised for added height on high heels.

“You ain’t got any mail,” Orville said.

“So I see,” Fanny said. “Thank you for looking for me, Orville.”

“I didn’t look. You’ll never catch Orville Reasnor prying into tenants’ affairs. I was working in the hall when the postman came, that’s all, and I saw what boxes he opened. Miles and Bowers is all.”

“Oh?” Fanny turned and looked down at Orville. “What are you doing down there on your hands and knees? Saying your prayers?”

“Not hardly. I been replacing some of this asphalt tile. A couple pieces got kicked up and cracked.”

“Is my brother at home?”

“Not knowing, I couldn’t say. He ain’t come out this way. ’Course, he might have gone out the back door.”

“Yes, Farley often goes in and out of back doors. It’s a kind of instinct with him.”

“You want to see him about something?”

“Not particularly. I wonder if Terry Miles is home. Don’t bother to answer, Orville. I’ll just go back and knock on her door and find out, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Why should I?”

Not knowing, Fanny couldn’t say. At any rate, she lingered no longer. Orville Reasnor, still in a prayerful posture above his pot of tile cement, watched her ascend four steps to the lower hall level, and offered thanks for short skirts.

Down the hall a way, Fanny knocked, on Terry’s door. There was no answer, and she knocked again. This time there was an immediate response, but it was not the one she was waiting for. The wrong person opened the wrong door. The wrong person was Farley, and the wrong door was his.

“Hello, Fan,” Farley said. “No use banging on Terry’s door. She isn’t home. She said she was going out somewhere.”

Fanny jumped as if she had been caught with a jimmy in her hands. When her heart had snapped back into place, she turned and glared at her brother, who was, technically, only half a brother. (They had shared a father who had been accommodated in the course of his marital fiascoes by two wives who had succeeded in becoming mothers. The third wife, fortunately, had failed.)

“Damn it, Farley,” Fanny said, “I wish you would quit leaping out of doors at people. It’s very disconcerting, to say the least. Went out where?”

“She didn’t say. Just out. She said something about having an appointment.”

“Did she say when she’d be back?”

“No, she didn’t. I assume, however, that it will be before six. I’m invited at six to share the ragout with her and Jay.”

“What ragout? Please don’t be so cryptic about everything!”

“The ragout that Terry left cooking in her skillet. Don’t you smell it?”