Too Many Cooks

“Was someone tasting the sauces when you were in there?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Keith.”

“Mr. Laszio was there alive?”

“Yes, sir, he was plenty alive. He bawled me out for putting in too much ice. He said it froze the palate.”

“So it does. Not to mention the stomach. When you were in there, I don’t suppose you happened to look behind either of those screens.”

“No, sir. We had shoved the screens back when we cleaned up after dinner.”

“And after, you didn’t enter the dining room again until after Mr. Laszio’s body was discovered?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Nor look into the dining room?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure. I guess I’d remember my movements.”

“I suppose you would.” Wolfe frowned, fingered at this glass of beer, and raised it to his mouth and gulped. The headwaiter, self-possessed, took a sip of his highball, but I noticed that his eyes didn’t leave Wolfe.

Wolfe put his glass down. “Thank you, Mr. Moulton.” He put his eyes on the one on Moulton’s left, a medium-sized one with gray showing in his kinky hair and wrinkles on his face. “Now Mr. Grant. You’re a cook?”

“Yes, sir.” His tone was husky and he cleared his throat and repeated, “Yes, sir. I work on fowl and game over at the hotel, but here I’m helping Crabby. All of us best ones, Mr. Servan sent us over here, to make an impression.”

“Who is Crabby?”

“He means me.” It was the plump runt with a ravine in his chin, the sergeant.

“Ah. Mr. Crabtree. Then you helped with the shad roe mousse.”

Mr. Grant said, “Yes, sir. Crabby just supervised. I done the work.”

“Indeed. My respects to you. On Tuesday evening, you were in the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir. I can make it short and sweet, mister. I was in the kitchen, I didn’t leave the kitchen, and in the kitchen I remained. Maybe that covers it.”

“It seems to. You didn’t go to the dining room or the pantry hall?”

“No, sir. I just said about remaining in the kitchen.”

“So you did. No offense, Mr. Grant. I merely want to make sure.” Wolfe’s eyes moved on. “Mr. Whipple. I know you, of course. You are an alert and efficient waiter. You anticipated my wants at dinner. You seem young to have developed such competence. How old are you?”

The muscular kid with the flat nose looked straight at Wolfe and said, “I’m twenty- one.”

Moulton, the headwater, gave him an eye and told him, “Say sir.” Then turned to Wolfe: “Paul’s a college boy.”

“I see. What college, Mr. Whipple?”

“Howard University. Sir.”

Wolfe wiggled a finger. “If you feel rebellious about the sir, dispense with it. Enforced courtesy is worse than none. You are at college for culture?”

“I’m interested in anthropology.”

“Indeed. I have met Franz Boas, and have his books autographed. You were, I remember, present on Tuesday evening. You waited on me at dinner.”

“Yes, sir. I helped in the dining room after dinner, cleaning up and arranging for that demonstration with the sauces.”

“Your tone suggests disapproval.”

“Yes, sir. If you ask me. It’s frivolous and childish for mature men to waste their time and talent, and other people’s time-”

“Shut up, Paul.” It was Moulton.

Wolfe said, “You’re young, Mr. Whipple. Besides, each of us has his special set of values, and if you expect me to respect yours you must respect mine. Also I remind you that Paul Lawrence Dunbar said ‘the best thing a ’possum ever does is fill an empty belly.’”

The college boy looked at him in surprise. “Do you know Dunbar?”

“Certainly. I am not a barbarian. But to return to Tuesday evening, after you finished helping in the dining room did you go to the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir.”