Rex Stout - Too Many Cooks

I arose without excessive haste. I was prepared to stall with a little business with my notebook and pen, but it wasn’t necessary. Her face showed signs of life. She blinked up at me and put out a hand at me, and then blinked at Wolfe, and extended both her cute little hands in his direction.

“Mr. Wolfe,” she pleaded. “Please! I did no harm, I did nothing! Please not the police!”

“No harm, madam?” Wolfe was stern. “To the authorities investigating a murder you tell lies, and to me also, and you call that no harm? Archie, go on!”

“No!” She was on her feet. “I tell you I did nothing!”

“You entered the dining room within minutes, perhaps seconds, of the moment that Laszio was murdered. Did you kill him?”

“No! I did nothing! I didn’t enter the dining room!”

“Your hand was on that door. What did you do?”

She stood with her eyes on him, and I stood with a foot poised, aching to call the cops I don’t think. She ended the tableau by sitting down and telling Wolfe quietly, “I must tell you. Mustn’t I?”

“Either me or the police.”

“But if I tell you… you tell the police anyway.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends. In any event, you’ll have to tell the truth sooner or later.”

“I suppose so.” Her hands were on the lap of her red dress with the fingers closely twined. “You see, I’m afraid. The police don’t like the Chinese, and I am a Chinese woman, but that isn’t it. I’m afraid of the man I saw in the dining room, because he must have killed Mr. Laszio…”

Wolfe asked softly, “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. But if I told about him, and he knew that I had seen him and had told… anyway, I am telling now. You see, Mr. Wolfe, I was born in San Francisco and educated there, but I am Chinese, and we are never treated like Americans. Never. But anyway… what I told Mr. Tolman was the truth. I was outdoors all the time. I like outdoors at night. I was on the grass among the trees and shrubs, and I heard the whippoorwill, and I went across the driveway where the fountain is. Then I came back, to the side-not the left wing, the other side-and I could see dimly through the window curtains into the parlor, but I couldn’t see into the dining room because the shades were drawn on the glass doors. I thought it would be amusing to watch the men tasting those dishes, which seemed very silly to me, so I went to the terrace to find a slit I could see through, but the shades were so tight there wasn’t any. Then I heard a noise as if something had fallen over in the dining room. I couldn’t hear just what it was like, because the sound of the radio was coming through the open window of the parlor. I stood there I don’t know how long, but no other sound came, and I thought that if one of the men had got mad and threw the dishes on the floor that would be amusing, and I decided to open the door a crack and see, and I didn’t think I’d be heard on account of the radio. So I opened it just a little. I didn’t get it open enough even to see the table, because there was a man standing there by the corner of the screen, with his side turned to me. He had one finger pressed against his lips-you know, the way you do when you’re hushing somebody. Then I saw who he was looking at. The door leading to the pantry hall was open, just a few inches, and the face of one of the Negroes was there, looking at the man by the screen. The man by the screen started to turn toward me, and I went to close the door in a hurry and my foot slipped, and I grabbed with my other hand to keep from falling, and the door shut on my finger. I thought it would be silly to get caught peeking in the dining room, so I ran back among the bushes and stood there a few minutes, and then I went to the main entrance-and you saw me enter the parlor.”

Wolfe demanded, “Who was the man by the screen?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Now, Mrs. Coyne. Don’t start that again. You saw the man’s face.”

“I only saw the side of his face. Of course that was enough to tell he was a Negro.”

Wolfe blinked. I blinked twice. Wolfe demanded, “A Negro? Do you mean one of the employees here?”

“Yes. In livery. Like the waiters.”

“Was it one of the waiters at this pavilion?”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t. He was blacker than them and…I’m sure it wasn’t. It wasn’t anyone I could recognize.”

“‘Blacker than them and’ what? What were you going to say?”

“That it wouldn’t have been one of the waiters here because he came outdoors and went away. I told you I ran back among the bushes. I had only been there a few seconds when the dining room door opened and he came out and went around the path toward the rear. Of course I couldn’t see very well from behind the bushes, but I supposed it was him.”

“Could you see his livery?”

“Yes, a little, when he opened the door and had the light behind him. Then it was dark.”

“Was he running?”

“No. Walking.”

Wolfe frowned. “The one looking from the door to the pantry hall-was he in livery, or was it one of the cooks?”

“I don’t know. The door was only open a crack, and I saw mostly his eyes. I couldn’t recognize him either.”

“Did you see Mr. Laszio?”

“No.”

“No one else?”

“No. That’s all I saw, just as I’ve told you. Everything. Then, later, when Mr. Servan told us that Mr. Laszio had been killed-then I knew what it was I had heard. I had heard Mr. Laszio fall, and I had seen the man that killed him. I knew that. I knew it must be that. But I was afraid to tell about it when they asked me questions about going outdoors… and anyway…” Her two little hands went up in a gesture to her bosom, and fell to her lap again. “Of course I was sorry when they arrested Mr. Berin, because I knew it was wrong. I was going to wait until I got back home, to San Francisco, and tell my husband about it, and if he said to I was going to write it all down and send it here.”

“And in the meantime…” Wolfe shrugged. “Have you told anyone anything about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Then don’t.” Wolfe sat up. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Coyne, while you have acted selfishly, I confess you have acted wisely. But for the accident that you asked your husband to kiss your finger in my hearing, your secret was safe and therefore you were too. The murderer of Mr. Laszio probably knows that he was seen through that door, but not by whom, since you opened it only a few inches and outdoors was dark. Should he learn that it was you who saw him, even San Francisco might not be far enough away for you. It is in the highest degree advisable to do nothing that will permit him to learn it or cause him to suspect it. Tell no one. Should anyone show curiosity as to why you were kept so long in here while the other interviews were short, and ask you about it, tell him-or her-that you have a racial repugnance to having your fingerprints taken, and it required all my patience to overcome it. Similarly, I undertake that for the present the police will not question you, or even approach you, for that might arouse suspicion. And by the way-”