Too Many Cooks

“He has stolen from everyone. God apparently created him to steal, let God defend him.” Berin sat up. “I arrived in New York Saturday, on the Rex. That evening I went with my daughter to dine at the Churchill, driven by an irresistible hatred. We went to a salon which Laszio calls the Resort Room; I don’t know where he stole the idea. The waiters wear the liveries of the world-famous resorts, each one different: Shepheard’s of Cairo, Les Figuiers of Juan-les-pins, the Continental of Biarritz, the Del Monte of your California, the Kanawha Spa where this train carries us—many of them, dozens—everything is big here. We sat at a table, and what did I see? A waiter—a waiter carrying Laszio slop—in the livery of my own Corridona! Imagine it! I would have rushed to him and demanded that he take it off—I would have torn it from him with these hands”—he shook them violently at Wolfe’s face—“but my daughter held me. She said I must not disgrace her; but my own disgrace? No matter, that?”

Wolfe shook his head, visibly, in sympathy, and reached to pour beer. Berin went on: “Luckily his table was far from us, and I turned my back on it. But wait. Hear this. I looked at the menu. Fourth of the entrées, what did I see? What?”

“Not, I hope, saucisse minuit.”

“Yes! I did! Printed fourth of the entrées! Of course I had been informed of it before. I knew that Laszio had for years been serving minced leather spiced with God knows what and calling it saucisse minuit—but to see it printed there, as on my own menu! The whole room, the tables and chairs, all those liveries, danced before my eyes. Had Laszio appeared at that moment I would have killed him with these hands. But he did not. I ordered two portions of it from the waiter—my voice trembled as I pronounced it. It was served on porcelain—bah!—and looked like—I shall not say what. This time I gave my daughter no chance to protest. I took the services, one in each hand, arose from my chair, and with calm deliberation turned my wrists and deposited the vile mess in the middle of the carpet! Naturally, there was comment. My waiter came running. I took my daughter’s arm and departed. We were intercepted by a chef des garçons. I silenced him! I told him in a sufficient tone: I am Jerome Berin of the Corridona at San Remo! Bring Phillip Laszio here and show him what I have done, but keep me from his throat!’ I said little more; it was not necessary. I took my daughter to Rusterman’s, and met Vukcic, and he soothed me with a plate of his goulash and a bottle of Chateau Latour. The ’29.”

Wolfe nodded. “It would soothe a tiger.”

“It did. I slept well. But the next morning—yesterday—do you know what happened? A man came to me at my hotel with a message from Phillip Laszio inviting me to lunch! Can you credit such effrontery? But wait, that was not all. The man who brought the message was Alberto Malfi!”

“Indeed. Should I know him?”

“Not now. Now he is not Alberto, but Albert—Albert Malfi, once a Corsican fruit slicer whom I discovered in a café in Ajaccio. I took him to Paris—I was then at the Provencal—trained and taught him, and made a good entrée man of him. He is now Laszio’s first assistant at the Churchill. Laszio stole him from me in London in 1930. Stole my best pupil, and laughed at me! And now the brazen frog sends him to me with an invitation to lunch! Alberto appears before me in a morning coat, bows, and as if nothing had ever happened, delivers such a message in perfect English!”

“I take it you didn’t go.”

“Pah! Would I eat poison? I kicked Alberto out of the room.” Berin shuddered. “I shall never forget—once in 1926, when I was ill and could not work, I came that close”—he held thumb and forefinger half an inch apart—“to giving Alberto the recipe for saucisse minuit. God above! If I had! He would be making it now for Laszio’s menu! Horrible!”

Wolfe agreed. He had finished another bottle, and he now started on a suave speech of sympathy and understanding. It gave me a distinct pain. He might have seen it was wasted effort, that there wasn’t a chance of his getting what he wanted; and it made me indignant to see him belittling himself trying to horn a favor out of that wild-eyed sausage cook. Besides, the train had made me so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I stood up.

Wolfe looked at me. “Yes, Archie?”

I said in a determined voice, “Club car,” opened the door, and beat it.