Too Many Cooks

Another knock on the door made me leave Wolfe simmering in the juice of the stew he had made. I had always known that some day he would talk too much for his own good, and as I went to the foyer I was wearing a grin—I admit malicious—and reflecting on how it probably felt at the moment to be a jewel on the cushion of hospitality.

The new arrival was only Vukcic, but he served as well as another bullet through the window would have done to make a break in the conversation and take it away from vulgar things like payments for services rendered. Vukcic was in a mood. He acted embarrassed, gloomy, nervous and abstracted. A few minutes after he arrived the Berins left, and then he stood in front of Wolfe with his arms folded, frowning down, and told him that in spite of Wolfe’s impertinence that morning on the subject of howling on a hillside, it was a duty of old friendship to call personally to offer sympathy and regrets for an injury suffered. …

Wolfe snapped, “I was shot over six hours ago. I might have died by now.”

“Oh, come, Nero. Surely not. They said it was only your cheek, and I can see for myself—”

“I lost a quart of blood.—Archie! Did you say a quart?”

I hadn’t said anything, but I’m always loyal. “Yes, sir. At least that. Closer to two. Of course I couldn’t stop to measure it, but it came out like a river, like Niagara Falls, like—”

“That will do. Thank you.”

Vukcic still stood frowning down. His tangle of hair was tumbling for his eyes, but he didn’t unfold his arms to comb it back with his fingers. He growled, “I’m sorry. It was a close call. If he had killed you …” A pause. “Look here, Nero. Who was it?”

“I don’t know. Not with certainty—yet.”

“Are you finding out?”

“Yes.”

“Was it the murderer of Laszio?”

“Yes—Confound it, I like to move my head when I talk, and I can’t.” Wolfe put the tips of his fingers gingerly to the bandage, felt it, and let his hand drop again. “I’ll tell you something, Marko. This mist that has arisen between your eyes and mine—we can’t ignore it and it is futile to discuss it. All I can say is, it will shortly be dispelled.”

“The devil it will. How?”

“By the course of history. By Atropos, and me as her agent. At any rate, I am counting on that. In the meantime, there is nothing we can say to each other. You are drugged again—there, I didn’t mean to say that. You see we can’t talk. I would offend you, and you would bore me insufferably. Au revoir, Marko.”

“Good God, I don’t deny I’m drugged.”

“I know it. You know what you’re doing, and you do it anyway. Thank you for coming.”

Vukcic did then unfold his arms to comb his hair. He ran his fingers through it three times, slowly, and then without saying anything turned and walked out.

Wolfe sat a long while with his eyes closed. Then he sighed deeply and asked me to take the script of the speech for a final rehearsal.

The only interruptions that time were some phone calls, from Tolman and Clay Ashley and Louis Servan. It was six o’clock before we had another caller, and when I opened the door and saw it was Raymond Liggett of the Hotel Churchill, I put on a welcoming grin because right away I smelled a fee, and among all the other irritations I was being subjected to was my dislike of seeing Wolfe exercising his brain, blowing money on long distance calls and drinks for fourteen dark-skinned men, losing two nights’ sleep, and getting shot, with maybe a permanent scar, all for nothing relating to the bank account. As a side issue, there was also the question of a job for my friend Odell. Not that I owed him anything, but in the detective business around New York you never know in which spot it may become desirable to be greeted by a friendly face. To have the house dick of the Churchill, or even one of his staff, a protégé of mine, might come in handy any time.

Sure enough, it appeared that a fee was in prospect. The first thing Liggett said, after he had got seated and expressed the proper sentiments regarding Wolfe’s facial casualty, was that one of the objects of his call was to ask if Wolfe would be willing to reconsider the matter of approaching Berin about the job of chef de cuisine at the Hotel Churchill.

Wolfe murmured, “I’m surprised that you still want him—a man who has been accused of murder. The publicity?’

Liggett dismissed that with a gesture. “Why not? People don’t eat publicity, they eat food. And you know what Berin’s prestige is. Frankly, I’m more interested in his prestige than in his food. I have an excellent kitchen staff, from top to bottom.”

“People do eat prestige then.” Wolfe gently patted his tummy. “I don’t believe I’d care for it.”