Too Many Cooks

“Chance? Certainly. Remote. If Vukcic did it, I hope with all my heart he left no rope for you to hang him by. And as for information regarding it, I have none, and if I had I wouldn’t reveal it.”

Tolman nodded. “That’s frank, but not very helpful. I don’t have to point out to you that if you’re interested in your friend Vukcic and think he didn’t do it, the quickest way to clear him is to find out who did. You were right there on the spot; you saw everyone and heard everything that was said. It seems to me that under those circumstances a man of your reputation and ability should find it possible to offer some help. If you don’t it’s bound to put more suspicion on your friend Vukcic, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Your suspicions are your affair; I can’t regulate them. Confound it, it’s four o’clock in the morning!” Wolfe sighed. Then he compressed his lips. He sat that way, and finally muttered, “Very well, I’ll help for ten minutes. Tell me about the routine—the knife, fingerprints, anything found—”

“Nothing. There were two knives on the table for slicing the squab, and it was one of them. You saw for yourself there was not the slightest sign of a struggle. Nothing anywhere. No prints that seem to mean anything; those on the knife handle were all smudged. The levers on the door to the terrace are rough wrought iron. Men are still in there working it over, but that angle looks hopeless.”

Wolfe grunted. “You’ve omitted possibilities. The cooks and waiters?”

“They’ve all been questioned by the sheriff, who knows how to deal with niggers. None of them went to the dining room, and they didn’t see or hear anything. Laszio had told them he would ring if anything was wanted.”

“Someone could have gone from the large parlor to the small one and from there entered the dining room and killed him. You should establish beyond doubt the presence of everyone in the large parlor, especially during the interim between Berin’s leaving the dining room and Vukcic’s entering it, which, as you say, was some eight or ten minutes.”

“I have done so. Of course, I covered everybody pretty fast.”

“Then cover them again. Another possibility: someone could have been concealed behind either of the screens and struck from there when the opportunity offered.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say.” Wolfe frowned. “I may as well tell you, Mr. Tolman, I am extremely skeptical regarding your two chief suspects, Mr. Berin and Mr. Vukcic. That is putting it with restraint. As for Mr. Blanc, I am without an opinion; as you have pointed out, he could unquestionably have left his room, made an exit at the end of the left wing corridor, circled the building, entered by the dining room terrace, achieved his purpose, and returned the way he had come. In that case, might he not have been seen by Mrs. Coyne, who was outdoors at the time, looking at the night?”

Tolman shook his head. “She says not. She was at the front and the side both. She was no one but a nigger in uniform, and stopped him and asked him what the sound of a whippoorwill was. We’ve found him—one of the boys from the spring on his way to Mingo Pavilion.”

“So. As for Berin and Vukcic, if I were you I would pigeonhole them for the present. Or at least—I offer a suggestion: get the slips, the tasting reports, from Mr. Servan—”

“I have them.”

“Good. Compare them with the correct list, which you also got from Mr. Servan no doubt—”

“He didn’t have it. It was in Laszio’s pocket.”

“Very well. Compare each list with it, and see how nearly each taster was correct.”

Sheriff Pettigrew snorted. Tolman asked dryly, “You call that being helpful, do you?”

“I do. I am already—by the way!” Wolfe straightened a little. “If you have the correct list there—the one you took from Laszio’s pocket—do you mind if I look at it a moment?”

Tolman, with his brows up, shuffled through the papers before him, extracted one, handed it to me, and I passed it to Wolfe. Wolfe looked at it with his forehead wrinkled, and exclaimed, “Good God!” He looked at it again, and turning to me, shaking the paper in his hand. “Archie. Coyne was right! Number 3 was shallots!”

Tolman asked sarcastically, “Comedy relief? Much obliged for that help.”

I grinned at him. “Comedy hell, he won’t sleep for a week, he guessed wrong.”