Too Many Cooks

“Got to be, on this job.” He spit at the fern again, scratched the back of his head, and plucked a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth. “I guess nine out of ten that come to this joint, I know ’em without being told. Of course sometimes there’s strangers. For instance, take your crowd. Who the hell are they? I understand they’re a bunch of good cooks that the chef invited. Looks funny to me. Since when was Kanawha Spa a domestic science school?”

I shook my head. “Not my crowd, mister.”

“You’re with ’em.”

“I’m with Nero Wolfe.”

“He’s with ’em.”

I grinned. “Not this minute, he ain’t. He’s in Suite 60, on the bed fast asleep. I think I’ll have to chloroform him Thursday to get him on the train home.” I stretched in the sun. “At that, there’s worse things than cooks.”

“I suppose so,” he admitted. “Where do they all come from, anyway?”

I pulled a paper from my pocket—a page I had clipped from the magazine section of the Times—and unfolded it and glanced at the list again before passing it across to him:

LES QUINZE MAITRES

Jerome Berin, the Corridona, San Remo.

Leon Blanc, the Willow Club, Boston.

Ramsey Keith, Hotel Hastings, Calcutta.

Phillip Laszio, Hotel Churchill, New York.

Domenico Rossi, Empire Café, London.

Pierre Mondor, Mondor’s, Paris.

Marko Vukcic, Rusterman’s Restaurant, New York.

Sergei Vallenko, Chateau Montcalm, Quebec.

Lawrence Coyne, The Rattan, San Francisco.

Louis Servan, Kanawha Spa, West Virginia.

Ferid Khaldah, Café de l’Europe, Istanbul.

Henri Tassone, Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo.

DECEASED:

Armand Fleury, Fleury’s, Paris.

Pasquale Donofrio, the Eldorado, Madrid.

Jacques Baleine, Emerald Hotel, Dublin.

Odell took a look at the extent of the article, made no offer to read it, and then went over the names and addresses with his head moving slowly back and forth. He grunted. “Some bunch of names. You might think it was a Notre Dame football team. How’d they get all the press? What does that mean at the top, less quinzy something?”

“Oh, that’s French.” I pronounced it adequately. “It means ‘The Fifteen Masters.’ These babies are famous. One of them cooks sausages that people fight duels over. You ought to see him and tell him you’re a detective and ask him to give you the recipe; he’d be glad to. They meet every five years on the home grounds of the oldest one of their number; that’s why they came to Kanawha Spa. Each one is allowed to bring one guest—it’s all there in the article. Nero Wolfe is Servan’s guest, and Vukcic invited me so I could be with Wolfe. Wolfe’s the guest of honor. Only ten of em are here. The last three died since 1932, and Khaldah and Tassone couldn’t come. They’ll do a lot of cooking and eating and drinking, and tell each other a lot of lies, and elect three new members, and listen to Nero Wolfe make a speech—and oh yeah, one of ’em’s going to get killed.”

“That’ll be fun.” Odell spit through his teeth again. “Which one?”

“Phillip Laszio, Hotel Churchill, New York. The article says his salary is sixty thousand berries per annum.”

“Which may be. Who’s going to kill him?”

“They’re going to take turns. If you want tickets for the series, I’d be glad to get you a couple of ringsides, and here’s a tip, you’d better tell the desk to collect for his room in advance, because you know how long it takes—well God bless my eyes! All with a few spoonfuls of ginger ale!”

A horseman and horsewoman had cantered by on the path, looking sideways at each other, laughing, their teeth showing and their faces flushed. As their dust drifted toward us I asked Odell, “Who’s that happy pair?”

He grunted. “Barry Tolman, prosecuting attorney of this county. Going to be president some day, ask him. The girl came with your crowd, didn’t she? Incidentally, she’s easy on the eyes. What was the crack about ginger ale?”

“Oh, nothing.” I waved a hand. “Just an old quotation from Chaucer. It wouldn’t do any good to throw stones at them, they wouldn’t notice anything less than an avalanche.—By the way, what is this stone-throwing gag?”

“No gag. Just part of the day’s work.”

“You call this work? I’m a detective. In the first place, do you suppose anyone is going to start a bombardment with you and me sitting here in plain sight? And this bridle path winds around here for six miles, and why couldn’t he pick another spot? Secondly, you told me that a Negro that got fired from the garage is suspected of doing it to annoy the management, but in that case it was just a coincidence that he picked fountain pen Crisler for a target both times? It’s a phony. You didn’t show me the bottom. Not that it’s any of my business, but just for fun I thought I’d demonstrate that I’m only dumb on Sundays and holidays.”

He looked at me with one eye. Then with both, and then he grinned at me. “You seem to be a good guy.”

I said warmly, “I am.”