Too Many Cooks

To my surprise, Constanza Berin was there, but not adjoining me as on the evening before. She was on the other side, between Louis Servan, who was at the end, and a funny little duck with an uncontrolled mustache who was new to me. Leon Blanc, on my right, told me he was the French Ambassador. There were several other extra guests, among them my friend Odell’s prospective employer, Raymond Liggett of the Hotel Churchill, Clay Ashley, the manager of Kanawha Spa, and Albert Malfi. Malfi’s black eyes kept darting up and down the table, and on meeting the eyes of a master he delivered a flashing smile. Leon Blanc pointed a fork at him and told me, “See that fellow Malfi? He wants votes for to-morrow morning as one of Les Quinze Maîtres. Bah! He has no creation, no imagination! Berin trained him, that’s all!” He waved the fork in contemptuous dismissal and then used it to scoop a mouthful of shad roe mousse.

The swamp-woman, now a swamp-widow, was absent, but everyone else—except Berin, of course—was there. Apparently Rossi hadn’t been much impressed by the murder of his son-in-law; he was still ready for a scrap and full of personal and national comments. Mondor paid no attention to him. Vukcic was gloomy and ate like ten minutes for lunch. Ramsey Keith was close to pie-eyed, and about every five minutes he had a spell of giggles that might have been all right coming from his niece. During the entrée Leon Blanc told me, “That little Berin girl is a good one. You see her hold herself? Louis put her between him and the ambassador as a gesture to Berin. She justifies him; she represents her father bravely.” Blanc sighed. “You heard what I told Mr. Wolfe in there when he questioned me. This was to be expected of Phillip Laszio, to let his sins catch up with him on this occasion. Infamy was in his Wood. If he were alive I could kill him now—only I don’t kill. I am a chef, but I couldn’t be a butcher.” He swallowed a mouthful of stewed rabbit and sighed again. “Look at Louis. This is a great affair for him, and this civet de lapin is in fact perfection, except for a slight excess of bouquet garni, possibly because the rabbits were young and tender flavored. Louis deserved gayety for this dinner and this salute to his cuisine, and look at us!” He went at the rabbit again.

The peak of the evening for me came with the serving of coffee and liqueurs, when Louis Servan arose to deliver his talk, which he had worked on for two years, on The Mysteries of Taste. I was warm and full inside, sipping a cognac which made me shut my eyes as it trickled into my throat—and I’m not a gourmet—so as not to leave any extra openings for the vapor to escape by, and I was prepared to be quietly entertained, maybe even instructed up to a point. Then he began: “Mesdames et messieurs, mes confrères des Quinze Maîtres: Il y a plus que cent ans un homme fameux, Brillat-Savarin le grand …” He went on from there. I was stuck. If I had known beforehand of the dean’s intentions as to language I would have negotiated some sort of arrangement, but I couldn’t simply get up and beat it. Anyway, the cognac bottle was two-thirds full, and the fundamental problem was to keep my eyes open, so I settled back to watch his gestures and mouth work. I guess it was a good talk. There were signs of appreciation throughout the hour and a half it lasted, nods and smiles and brows lifted, and applause here and there, and once in a while Rossi cried “Bravo!” and when Ramsey Keith got a fit of giggles Servan stopped and waited politely until Lisette Putti got him shushed. Once it got embarrassing, at least for me, when at the end of a sentence Servan was silent, and looked slowly around the table and couldn’t go on, and two big tears left his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. There were murmurs, and Leon Blanc beside me blew his nose, and I cleared my throat a couple of times and reached for the cognac. When it was over they all left their places and gathered around him and shook hands, and a couple of them kissed him.

They drifted into the parlor in groups. I looked around for Constanza Berin, but apparently she had used up all her bravery for one evening, for she had disappeared. I turned to a hand on my arm and a voice:

“Pardon me, you are Mr. Goodwin? Mr. Rossi told me your name. I saw you … this afternoon with Mr. Wolfe. …”

I acknowledged everything. It was Albert Malfi, the entrée man with no imagination. He made a remark or two about the dinner and Servan’s speech and then went on, “I understand that Mr. Wolfe has changed his mind. He has been persuaded to investigate the … that is, the murder. I suppose that was because Mr. Berin was arrested?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s just because he’s a guest. A guest is a jewel resting on the cushion of hospitality.”

“No doubt. Of course.” The Corsicans eyes darted around and back to me. “There is something I think I should tell Mr. Wolfe.”