Too Many Cooks

“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—”

“You won’t tell the police.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t. You must trust my discretion. I was about to ask, has anyone questioned you particularly—except the police and me—regarding your visit to the night? Any of the guests here?”

“No.”

“You’re quite sure? Not even a casual question?”

“No, I don’t remember …” Her brow was puckered above the narrow eyes. “Of course my husband—”

A tapping on the door interrupted her. Wolfe nodded at me and I went and opened it. It was Louis Servan. I let him in.

He advanced and told Wolfe apologetically, “I don’t like to disturb you, but the dinner … it’s five minutes past eight. …”

“Ah!” Wolfe made it to his feet in less than par. “I have been looking forward to this for six months. Thank you, Mrs. Coyne.—Archie, will you take Mrs. Coyne?—Could I have a few words with you, Mr. Servan? I’ll make it as brief as possible?”

8

THE DINNER of the dean of The Fifteen Masters that evening, which by custom was given on the second day of their gathering once in every five years, was ample and elaborate as to fleshpots, but a little spotty as an occasion of festivity. The chatter during the hors d’oeuvres was nervous and jerky, and when Domenico Rossi made some loud remark in French three or four of them began to laugh and then suddenly stopped, and in the silence they all looked at one another.