Too Many Cooks

I shook my head. “I gave you the crop.”

“You haven’t remembered anything at all that happened, in the parlor or anywhere else, any peculiar conduct, any significant conversation?”

I said no.

“Anything during the day, for instance?”

“Nope. Day or night.”

“When Wolfe called you secretly into the dining room and showed you Laszio’s body behind the screen, what did he say to you?”

“He didn’t call me secretly. Everybody heard him.”

“Well, he called you alone. Why?”

I lifted the shoulders and let them drop. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“What did he say?”

“I’ve already told you. He asked me to see if Laszio was dead, and I saw he was, and he asked me to call Servan.”

“Was that all he said?”

“I think he remarked something about it being a pleasant holiday. Sometimes he’s sarcastic.”

“He seems also to be cold-blooded. Was there any special reason for his being cold-blooded about Laszio?”

I put my foot down a little harder on the brake. Wolfe would never forgive me if by some thoughtless but relevant remark I got this buzzard really down on us. I knew why Wolfe had bothered to get me in the dining room alone and inquire about my memory before broadcasting the news: it had occurred to him that in a murder case a material witness may be required to furnish bond not to leave the state without permission, or to return to testify at the trial, and it was contrary to his idea of the good life to do either one. It wasn’t easy to maintain outward respect for a guy who had been boob enough to fall for that ginger ale act in the club car, but while I had nothing at all against West Virginia I wasn’t much more anxious to stay there or return there than Wolfe was.

I said, “Certainly not. He had never met Laszio before.”

“Had anything happened during the day to make him—er, indifferent to Laszio’s welfare?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And had you or he knowledge of a previous attempt on Laszio’s life?”

“You’ll have to ask him. Me, no.”

My friend Tolman forsook friendship for duty. He put an elbow on the table and pointed a finger at me and said in a nasty tone, “You’re lying.” I also noticed that the squint-eyed sheriff had a scowl on him not to be sneezed at, and the atmosphere of the whole room was unhealthy.

I put my brows up. “Me lying?”

“Yes, you. What did Mrs. Laszio tell you and Wolfe when she called at your suite yesterday afternoon?”

I hope I didn’t gulp visibly. I know my brain gulped, but only once. No matter how he had found out, or how much, there was but one thing to do. I said, “She told us that her husband told her that he found arsenic in the sugar shaker and dumped it in the sink, and she wanted Wolfe to protect her husband. She also said that her husband had instructed her not to mention it to anyone.”

“What else?”

“That’s all.”

“And you just told me that you had no knowledge of a previous attempt on Laszio’s life. Didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Well?” He stayed nasty.

I grinned at him. “Look, Mr. Tolman. I don’t want to try to get smart with you, even if I knew how. But consider a few things. In the first place, without any offense—you’re just a young fellow in your first term as a prosecutor—Nero Wolfe has solved more tough ones than you’ve even heard about. You know that, you know his reputation. Even if either of us knew anything that would give you a trail, which we don’t, it wouldn’t pay you to waste time trying to squeeze juice out of us without our consent, because we’re old hands. I’m not bragging, I’m just stating facts. For instance, about my knowing about an attempt to kill Laszio, I repeat I didn’t. All I knew was that Mrs. Laszio told us that her husband told her that he found something in the sugar shaker besides sugar. How could he have been sure it was arsenic? Laszio wasn’t poisoned, he was stabbed. In my experience—”

“I’m not interested in your experience.” Still nasty. “I asked you if you remember anything that might have any significance regarding this murder. Do you?”

“I’ve told you what Mrs. Laszio told us—”

“So has she. Pass that for the moment. Anything else?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Tolman told the state cop, “Bring Odell in.”

It came to me. So that was it. A fine bunch of friends I had made since entering the dear old Panhandle State—which nickname I had learned from my pal Gershom Odell, house dick of Kanawha Spa. My brain was gulping again, and this time I wasn’t sure whether it would get it down or not. The process was interrupted by the entry of my pal, ushered in by the cop. I turned a stare on him which he did not meet. He came and stood near me at the table, so close I could have smacked him one without getting up.

Tolman said, “Odell, what was it this man told you yesterday afternoon?”

The house dick didn’t look at me. He sounded gruff. “He told me Phillip Laszio was going to be killed by somebody, and when I asked him who was going to do it he said they were going to take turns.”

“What else?”

“That’s all he said.”