Rex Stout - Too Many Cooks

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 impression.”

“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?”