Too Many Cooks

by Rex Stout

  Then Lawrence Coyne’s Chinese wife came in. She was dressed for dinner in red silk, with a sprig of mountain laurel in her black hair, and with her slim figure and little face and narrow eyes she looked like an ad for a Round the World cruise. At once I got a hint that it was her we were laying for, for Wolfe told me sharply to take my notebook, which he hadn’t done for any of the others, but all he did was ask her the same line of questions and explain about the prints before I took them. However, there appeared to be more to come. As I gave her my handkerchief, already ruined, to wipe the tips of her fingers on, Wolfe settled back.

  He murmured, “By the way, Mrs. Coyne, Mr. Tolman tells me that while you were outdoors last evening you saw no one but one of the attendants on one of the paths. You asked him about a bird you heard and he told you it was a whippoorwill. You had never heard a whippoorwill before?”

  She had displayed no animation, and didn’t now. “No, there aren’t any in California.”

  “So I understand. I believe you went outdoors before the tasting of the sauces began, and returned to the parlor shortly after Mr. Vukcic entered the dining room. Isn’t that right?”

  “I went out before they began. I don’t know who was in the dining room when I came back.”

  “I do. Mr. Vukcic.” Wolfe’s voice was so soft and unconcerned that I knew she was in for something. “Also, you told Mr. Tolman that you were outdoors all the time you were gone. Is that correct?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “When you left the parlor, after dinner, didn’t you go to your room before you went outdoors?”

  “No, it wasn’t cold and I didn’t need a wrap…”

  “All right. I’m just asking. While you were outdoors, though, perhaps you entered the left wing corridor by way of the little terrace and went to your room that way?”

  “No.” She sounded dull and calm. “I was outdoors all the time.”

  “You didn’t go to your room at all?”

  “No.”

  “Nor anywhere else?”

  “Just outdoors. My husband will tell you, I like to go outdoors at night.”

  Wolfe grimaced. “And when you re-entered, you came straight through the main hall to the large parlor?”

  “Yes, you were there. I saw you there with my husband.”

  “So you did. And now, Mrs. Coyne, I must admit you have me a little puzzled. Perhaps you can straighten it out. In view of what you have just told me, which agrees with your account to Mr. Tolman, what door was it that you hurt your finger in?”

  She deadpanned him good. There wasn’t a flicker. Maybe her eyes got a little narrower, but I couldn’t see it. But she wasn’t good enough to avoid stalling. After about ten seconds of the stony-facing she said, “Oh, you mean my finger.” She glanced down at it and up again. “I asked my husband to kiss it.”

  Wolfe nodded. “I heard you. What door did you hurt it in?”

  She was ready. “The big door at the entrance. You know how hard it is to push, and when it closed—”

  He broke in sharply, “No, Mrs. Coyne, that won’t do. The doorman and the hallman have been questioned and their statements taken. They remember your leaving and reentering—in fact, they were questioned about it Tuesday night by Mr. Tolman. And they are both completely certain that the doorman opened the door for you and closed it behind you, and there was no caught finger. Nor could it have been the door from the hall to the parlor, for I saw you come through that myself. What door was it?”

  She was wearing the deadpan permanently. She said calmly, “The doorman is telling a lie because he was careless and let me get hurt.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I know it. He is lying.” Quickly and silently, she was on her feet. “I must tell my husband.”

  She was off, moving fast. Wolfe snapped, “Archie!” I skipped around and got in front of her, on her line to the door. She didn’t try dodging, just stopped and looked up at my face. Wolfe said, “Come back and sit down. I can see that you are a person of decision, but so am I. Mr. Goodwin could hold you with one hand. You may scream and people will come, but they will go again and we’ll be where we are now. Sit down, please.”

  She did so, and told him, “I have nothing to scream about. I merely wanted to tell my husband…”

  “That the doorman lied. But he didn’t. However, there’s no need to torment you unnecessarily.—Archie, give me the photograph of those fingerprints on the dining room door.”

  I thought to myself, darn you, some day you’re going to push the button for my wits when they’re off on vacation, and then you’ll learn to let me in on things ahead of time. But of course there was only one answer to this one. I reached in my pocket for the plate of reproductions I had cut from the magazine page, and handed it to him. Then, being on at last, I pushed across the specimens I had just taken from Lio Coyne’s fingers. Wolfe took the magnifying glass and began to compare. He took his time, holding the two next to each other, looking closely through the glass back and forth, with satisfied nods at the proper intervals.

  Finally he said, “Three quite similar. They would probably do. But the left index finger is absolutely identical and it’s exceptionally clear. Here, Archie, see what you think.”

  I took the prints and the glass and put on a performance. The prints from the magazine happened to be from some blunt-fingered mechanic, and I don’t believe I ever saw any two sets more unlike. I did a good job of it with the comparison, even counting out loud, and handed them back to Wolfe.

  “Yes, sir.” I was emphatic. “They’re certainly the same. Anyone could see it.”

  Wolfe told Mrs. Coyne gently, almost tenderly, “You see, madam. I must explain. Of course everyone knows, about fingerprints, but some of the newer methods of procuring them are not widely known. Mr. Goodwin here is an expert. He went over the doors from the dining room to the terrace—among other places—and brought out prints which the local police had been unable to discover, and made photographs of them. So as you see, modern methods of searching for evidence are sometimes fertile. They have given us conclusive proof that it was the door from the terrace to the dining room in which you caught your finger Tuesday evening. I had suspected it before, but there’s no need to go into that. I am not asking you to explain anything. Your explanation, naturally, will have to be given to the police, after I have turned this evidence over to them, together with an account of your false statement that it was the main entrance door in which you caught your finger. And by the way, I should warn you to expect little courtesy from the police. After all, you didn’t tell Mr. Tolman the truth, and they won’t like that. It would have been more sensible if you had admitted frankly, when he asked about your excursion to see the night, that you had entered the dining room from the terrace.”

  She was as good at the wooden-face act as anyone I could remember. You would have sworn that if her mind was working at all it was on nothing more important than where she could have lost one of her chopsticks. At last she said, “I didn’t enter the dining room.”

  Wolfe shrugged. “Tell the police that. After your lie to Mr. Tolman, and your lies to us here which are on record in Mr. Goodwin’s notebook, and your attempt to accuse the doorman—and above all, these fingerprints.”

  She stretched a hand out. “Give them to me. I’d like to see them.”

  “The police may show them to you. If they choose. Forgive me, Mrs. Coyne, but this photograph is important evidence, and I’d like to be sure of turning it over to the authorities intact.”

  She stirred a little, but there was no change on her face. After another silence she said, “I did go into the left wing corridor. By the little terrace. I went to my room and hurt my finger in the bathroom door. Then when Mr. Laszio was found murdered I was frightened and thought I wouldn’t say I had been inside at all.”

  Wolfe nodded and murmured, “You might try that. Try it, by all means, if you think it’s worth it. You realize, of course, that would leave your fin
gerprints on the dining room door to be explained. Anyhow you’re in a pickle; you’ll have to do the best you can.” He turned abruptly to me and got snappy. “Archie, go to the booth in the foyer and phone the police at the hotel. Tell them to come at once.”

  I arose without excessive haste. I was prepared to stall with a little business with my notebook and pen, but it wasn’t necessary. Her face showed signs of life. She blinked up at me and put out a hand at me, and then blinked at Wolfe, and extended both her cute little hands in his direction.

  “Mr. Wolfe,” she pleaded. “Please! I did no harm, I did nothing! Please not the police!”

  “No harm, madam?” Wolfe was stern. “To the authorities investigating a murder you tell lies, and to me also, and you call that no harm? Archie, go on!”

  “No!” She was on her feet. “I tell you I did nothing!”

  “You entered the dining room within minutes, perhaps seconds, of the moment that Laszio was murdered. Did you kill him?”

  “No! I did nothing! I didn’t enter the dining room!”

  “Your hand was on that door. What did you do?”

  She stood with her eyes on him, and I stood with a foot poised, aching to call the cops I don’t think. She ended the tableau by sitting down and telling Wolfe quietly, “I must tell you. Mustn’t I?”

  “Either me or the police.”

  “But if I tell you … you tell the police anyway.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends. In any event, you’ll have to tell the truth sooner or later.”

  “I suppose so.” Her hands were on the lap of her red dress with the fingers closely twined. “You see, I’m afraid. The police don’t like the Chinese, and I am a Chinese woman, but that isn’t it. I’m afraid of the man I saw in the dining room, because he must have killed Mr. Laszio…”

  Wolfe asked softly, “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. But if I told about him, and he knew that I had seen him and had told … anyway, I am telling now. You see, Mr. Wolfe, I was born in San Francisco and educated there, but I am Chinese, and we are never treated like Americans. Never. But anyway … what I told Mr. Tolman was the truth. I was outdoors all the time. I like outdoors at night. I was on the grass among the trees and shrubs, and I heard the whippoorwill, and I went across the driveway where the fountain is. Then I came back, to the side—not the left wing, the other side—and I could see dimly through the window curtains into the parlor, but I couldn’t see into the dining room because the shades were drawn on the glass doors. I thought it would be amusing to watch the men tasting those dishes, which seemed very silly to me, so I went to the terrace to find a slit I could see through, but the shades were so tight there wasn’t any. Then I heard a noise as if something had fallen over in the dining room. I couldn’t hear just what it was like, because the sound of the radio was coming through the open window of the parlor. I stood there I don’t know how long, but no other sound came, and I thought that if one of the men had got mad and threw the dishes on the floor that would be amusing, and I decided to open the door a crack and see, and I didn’t think I’d be heard on account of the radio. So I opened it just a little. I didn’t get it open enough even to see the table, because there was a man standing there by the corner of the screen, with his side turned to me. He had one finger pressed against his lips—you know, the way you do when you’re hushing somebody. Then I saw who he was looking at. The door leading to the pantry hall was open, just a few inches, and the face of one of the Negroes was there, looking at the man by the screen. The man by the screen started to turn toward me, and I went to close the door in a hurry and my foot slipped, and I grabbed with my other hand to keep from falling, and the door shut on my finger. I thought it would be silly to get caught peeking in the dining room, so I ran back among the bushes and stood there a few minutes, and then I went to the main entrance—and you saw me enter the parlor.”

  Wolfe demanded, “Who was the man by the screen?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “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.

  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.