bored, “You say it happened about here?”
He pointed. “Over yonder, from the other side of the path. It was old Crisler that got it both times, you know, the fountain pen Crisler, his daughter married Ambassador Willetts.”
There were sounds from down the way. Soon the hoofbeats were plainer, and in a minute a couple of genteel but good-looking horses came down the path from around a curve, and trotted by, close enough so that I could have tripped them with a fishing pole. On one of them was a dashing chap in a loud-checked jacket, and on the other a dame plenty old and fat enough to start on service to others any time the spirit moved her.
Odell said, “That was Mrs. James Frank Osborn, the Baltimore Osborn, ships and steel, and Dale Chatwin, a good bridge player on the make. See him worry his horse? He can’t ride worth a damn.”
“Yeah? I didn’t notice. You sure are right there on the social list.”
“Got to be, on this job.” He spit at the fern again, scratched the back of his head, and plucked a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth. “I guess nine out of ten that come to this joint, I know ’em without being told. Of course sometimes there’s strangers. For instance, take your crowd. Who the hell are they? I understand they’re a bunch of good cooks that the chef invited. Looks funny to me. Since when was Kanawha Spa a domestic science school?”
I shook my head. “Not my crowd, mister.”
“You’re with ’em.”
“I’m with Nero Wolfe.”
“He’s with ’em.”
I grinned. “Not this minute, he ain’t. He’s in Suite 60, on the bed fast asleep. I think I’ll have to chloroform him Thursday to get him on the train home.” I stretched in the sun. “At that, there’s worse things than cooks.”
“I suppose so,” he admitted. “Where do they all come from, anyway?”
I pulled a paper from my pocket-a page I had clipped from the magazine section of the
LES QUINZE MAITRES
Jerome Berin, the Corridona, San Remo.
Leon Blanc, the Willow Club, Boston.
Ramsey Keith, Hotel Hastings, Calcutta.
Phillip Laszio, Hotel Churchill, New York.
Domenico Rossi, Empire Cafe, London.
Pierre Mondor, Mondor’s, Paris.
Marko Vukcic, Rusterman’s Restaurant, New York.
Sergei Vallenko, Chateau Montcalm, Quebec.
Lawrence Coyne, The Rattan, San Francisco.
Louis Servan, Kanawha Spa, West Virginia.
Ferid Khaldah, Cafe de l’Europe, Istanbul.
Henri Tassone, Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo.
DECEASED:
Armand Fleury, Fleury’s, Paris.
Pasquale Donofrio, the Eldorado, Madrid.
Jacques Raleine, Emerald Hotel, Dublin.
Odell took a look at the extent of the article, made no offer to read it, and then went over the names and addresses with his head moving slowly back and forth. He grunted. “Some bunch of names. You might think it was a Notre Dame football team. How’d they get all the press? What does that mean at the top, less quinzy something?”
“Oh, that’s French.” I pronounced it adequately. “It means ‘The Fifteen Masters.’ These babies are famous. One of them cooks sausages that people fight duels over. You ought to see him and tell him you’re a detective and ask him to give you the recipe; he’d be glad to. They meet every five years on the home grounds of the oldest one of their number; that’s why they came to Kanawha Spa. Each one is allowed to bring one guest-it’s all there in the article. Nero Wolfe is Servan’s guest, and Vukcic invited me so I could be with Wolfe. Wolfe’s the guest of honor. Only ten of ’em are here. The last three died since 1932, and Khaldah and Tassone couldn’t come. They’ll do a lot of cooking and eating and drinking, and tell each other a lot of lies, and elect three new members, and listen to Nero Wolfe make a speech-and oh yeah, one of ’em’s going to get killed.”
“That’ll be fun.” Odell spit through his teeth again. “Which one?”
“Phillip Laszio, Hotel Churchill, New York. The article says his salary is sixty thousand berries per annum.”
“Which may be. Who’s going to kill him?”
