Poison à la Carte

II

The dining room, on the same floor as the kitchen, three feet or so below street level, would have been too gloomy for my taste if most of the dark wood paneling hadn’t been covered with pictures of geese, pheasants, fish, fruit, vegetables, and other assorted edible objects; and also it helped that the tablecloth was white as snow, the wineglasses, seven of them at each place, glistened in the soft light from above, and the polished silver shone. In the center was a low gilt bowl, or maybe gold, two feet long, filled with clusters of Phalaenopsis Aphrodite, donated by Wolfe, cut by him that afternoon from some of his most treasured plants.

As he sat he was scowling at them, but the scowl was not for the orchids; it was for the chair, which, though a little fancy, was perfectly okay for you or me but not for his seventh of a ton. His fundament lapped over at both sides. He erased the scowl when Schriver, at the end of the table, complimented him on the flowers, and Hewitt, across from him, said he had never seen Phalaenopsis better grown, and the others joined in the chorus, all but the aristologist who sat between Wolfe and me. He was a Wall Street character and a well-known theatrical angel named Vincent Pyle, and was living up to his reputation as an original by wearing a dinner jacket, with tie to match, which looked black until you had the light at a certain slant and then you saw that it was green. He eyed the orchids with his head cocked and his mouth puckered, and said, “I don’t care for flowers with spots and streaks. They’re messy.”

I thought, but didn’t say, Okay, drop dead. If I had known that that was what he was going to do in about three hours I might not even have thought it. He got a rise, not from Wolfe or me, or Schriver or Hewitt, but from three others who thought flowers with spots and streaks were wonderful: Adrian Dart, the actor who had turned down an offer of a million a week, more or less, from Hollywood; Emil Kreis, Chairman of the Board of Codex Press, book publishers; and Harvey M. Leacraft, corporation lawyer.

Actually, cupbearers was what the Hebes were not. The wines, beginning with the Montrachet with the first course, were poured by Felix; but the girls delivered the food, with different routines for different items. The first course, put on individual plates in the kitchen, with each girl bringing in a plate for her aristologist, was small Minis sprinkled with chopped chives, piled with caviar, and topped with sour cream — the point, as far as Fritz was concerned, being that he had made the blinis, starting on them at eleven that morning, and also the sour cream, starting on that Sunday evening. Fritz’s sour cream is very special, but Vincent Pyle had to get in a crack. After he had downed all of his blinis he remarked, loud enough to carry around the table, “A new idea, putting sand in. Clever. Good for chickens, since they need grit.”

The man on my left, Emil Kreis, the publisher, muttered at my ear, “Ignore him. He backed three flops this season.”

The girls, who had been coached by Fritz and Felix that afternoon, handled the green turtle soup without a splash. When they had brought in the soup plates Felix brought the bowl, and each girl ladled from it as Felix held it by the plate. I asked Pyle cordially, “Any sand?” but he said no, it was delicious, and cleaned it up.

I was relieved when I saw that the girls wouldn’t dish the fish — flounders poached in dry white wine, with a mussel-and-mushroom sauce that was one of Fritz’s specialties. Felix did the dishing at a side table, and the girls merely carried. With the first taste of the sauce there were murmurs of appreciation, and Adrian Dart, the actor, across from Wolfe, sang out, “Superb!” They were making various noises of satisfaction, and Leacraft, the lawyer, was asking Wolfe if Fritz would be willing to give him the recipe, when Pyle, on my right, made a face and dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter. I thought he was putting on an act, and still thought so when his head drooped and I heard him gnash his teeth, but then his shoulders sagged and he clapped a hand to his mouth, and that seemed to be overdoing it. Two or three of them said something, and he pushed his chair back, got to his feet, said, “You must excuse me, I’m sorry,” and headed for the door to the hall. Schriver arose and followed him out. The others exchanged words and glances.

Hewitt said, “A damn shame, but I’m going to finish this,” and used his fork. Someone asked if Pyle had a bad heart, and someone else said no. They all resumed with the flounder, and the conversation, but the spirit wasn’t the same.

When, at a signal from Felix, the maidens started removing the plates, Lewis Hewitt got up and left the room, came back in a couple of minutes, sat, and raised his voice. “Vincent is in considerable pain, and a doctor has come. There is nothing we can do, and Ben wishes us to proceed. He will rejoin us when — when he can.”

“What is it?” someone asked.

Hewitt said the doctor didn’t know. Zoltan entered bearing an enormous covered platter, and the Hebes gathered at the side table, and Felix lifted the cover and began serving the roast pheasant, which had been larded with strips of pork soaked for twenty hours in Tokay, and then — but no. What’s the use? The annual dinner of the Ten for Aristology was a flop. Since for years I have been eating three meals a day cooked by Fritz Brenner I would like to show my appreciation by getting in print some idea of what he can do in the way of victuals, but it won’t do here. Sure, the pheasant was good enough for gods if there had been any around, and so was the suckling pig, and the salad, with a dressing which Fritz calls Devil’s Rain, and the chestnut croquettes, and the cheese — only the one kind, made in New Jersey by a man named Bill Thompson under Fritz’s supervision; and they were all eaten, more or less. But Hewitt left the room three more times and the last time was gone a good ten minutes, and Schriver didn’t rejoin the party at all, and while the salad was being served Emil Kreis went out and didn’t come back.

When, as coffee and brandy were being poured and cigars and cigarettes passed, Hewitt left his chair for the fifth time, Nero Wolfe got up and followed him out. I lit a cigar just to be doing something, and tried to be sociable by giving an ear to a story Adrian Dart was telling, but by the time I finished my coffee I was getting fidgety. By the glower that had been deepening on Wolfe’s face for the past hour I knew he was boiling, and when he’s like that, especially away from home, there’s no telling about him. He might even have had the idea of aiming the glower at Vincent Pyle for ruining Fritz’s meal. So I put what was left of the cigar in a tray, arose, and headed for the door, and was halfway to it when here he came, still glowering.

“Come with me,” he snapped, and kept going.

The way to the kitchen from the dining room was through a pantry, twenty feet long, with counters and shelves and cupboards on both sides. Wolfe marched through with me behind. In the kitchen the twelve maidens were scattered around on chairs and stools at tables and counters, eating. A woman was busy at a sink. Zoltan was busy at a refrigerator. Fritz, who was pouring a glass of wine, presumably for himself, turned as Wolfe entered and put the bottle down.

Wolfe went to him, stood, and spoke. “Fritz. I offer my apologies. I permitted Mr. Hewitt to cajole you. I should have known better. I beg your pardon.”

Fritz gestured with his free hand, the wineglass steady in the other. “But it is not to pardon, only to regret. The man got sick, that’s a pity, only not from my cooking. I assure you.”

“You don’t need to. Not from your cooking as it left you, but as it reached him. I repeat that I am culpable, but I won’t dwell on that now; it can wait. There is an aspect that is exigent.” Wolfe turned. “Archie. Are those women all here?”

I had to cover more than half a circle to count them, scattered as they were. “Yes, sir, all present. Twelve.”

“Collect them. They can stand” — he pointed to the alcove — “over there. And bring Felix.”

It was hard to believe. They were eating; and for him to interrupt a man, or even a woman, at a meal, was unheard of. Not even me. Only in an extreme emergency had he ever asked me to quit food before I was through. Boiling was no name for it. Without even bothering to raise a brow, I turned and called out, “I’m sorry, ladies, but if Mr. Wolfe says it’s urgent that settles it. Over there, please? All of you.” Then I went through the pantry corridor, pushed the two-way door, caught Felix’s eye, and wiggled a beckoning finger at him, and he came. By the time we got to the kitchen the girls had left the chairs and stools and were gathering at the alcove, but not with enthusiasm. There were mutterings, and some dirty looks for me as I approached with Felix. Wolfe came, with Zoltan, and stood, tight-lipped, surveying them.

“I remind you,” he said, “that the first course you brought to the table was caviar on blinis topped with sour cream. The portion served to Mr. Vincent Pyle, and eaten by him, contained arsenic. Mr. Pyle is in bed upstairs, attended by three doctors, and will probably die within an hour. I am speaking—”

He stopped to glare at them. They were reacting, or acting, no matter which. There were gasps and exclamations, and one of them clutched her throat, and another, baring her arms, clapped her palms to her ears. When the glare had restored order Wolfe went on, “You will please keep quiet and listen. I am speaking of conclusions formed by me. My conclusion that Mr. Pyle ate arsenic is based on the symptoms: burning throat, faintness, intense burning pain in the stomach, dry mouth, cool skin, vomiting. My conclusion that the arsenic was in the first course is based, first, on the amount of time it takes arsenic to act; second, on the fact that it is highly unlikely it could have been put in the soup or the fish; and third, that Mr. Pyle complained of sand in the cream or caviar. I admit the possibility that one or both of my conclusions will be proven wrong, but I regard it as remote and I am acting on them.” His head turned. “Fritz. Tell me about the caviar from the moment it was put on the individual plates. Who did that?”

I had once told Fritz that I could imagine no circumstances in which he would look really unhappy, but now I wouldn’t have to try. He was biting his lips, first the lower and then the upper. He began, “I must assure you—”

“I need no assurance from you, Fritz. Who put it on the plates?”

“Zoltan and I did.” He pointed. “At that table.”

“And left them there? They were taken from that table by the women?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Each woman took one plate?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, they were told to. I was at the range.”

Zoltan spoke up. “I watched them, Mr. Wolfe. They each took one plate. And believe me, nobody put any arsenic—”

“Please, Zoltan. I add another conclusion: that no one put arsenic in one of the portions and then left to chance which one of the guests would get it. Surely the poisoner intended it to reach a certain one — either Mr. Pyle, or, as an alternative, some other one and it went to Mr. Pyle by mishap. In any case, it was the portion Pyle ate that was poisoned, and whether he got it by design or by mischance is for the moment irrelevant.” His eyes were at the girls. “Which one of you took that plate to Mr. Pyle?”

No reply. No sound, no movement.

Wolfe grunted. “Pfui. If you didn’t know his name, you do now. The man who left during the fish course and who is now dying. Who served him?”

No reply; and I had to hand it to them that no pair of eyes left Wolfe to fasten on Peggy Choate, the redhead. Mine did. “What the heck,” I said. “Speak up, Miss Choate.”

“I didn’t!” she cried.

“That’s silly. Of course you did. Twenty people can swear to it. I looked right at you while you were dishing his soup. And when you brought the fish—”

“But I didn’t take him that first thing! He already had some! I didn’t!”

Wolfe took over. “Your name is Choate?”

“Yes.” Her chin was up. “Peggy Choate.”

“You deny that you served the plate of caviar, the first course, to Mr. Pyle?”

“I certainly do.”

“But you were supposed to? You were assigned to him?”

“Yes. I took the plate from the table there and went in with it, and started to him, and then I saw that he had some, and I thought I had made a mistake. We hadn’t seen the guests. That man” — she pointed to Felix — “had shown us which chair our guest would sit in, and mine was the second from the right on this side as I went in, but that one had already been served, and I thought someone else had made a mistake or I was mixed up. Anyway, I saw that the man next to him, on his right, hadn’t been served, and I gave it to him. That was you. I gave it to you.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe was frowning at her. “Who was assigned to me?”

That wasn’t put on. He actually didn’t know. He had never looked at her. He had been irritated that females were serving, and besides, he hates to twist his neck. Of course I could have told him, but Helen Iacono said, “I was.”

“Your name, please?”

“Helen Iacono.” She had a rich contralto that went fine with the deep dark eyes and dark velvet skin and wavy silky hair.

“Did you bring me the first course?”

“No. When I went in I saw Peggy serving you, and a man on the left next to the end didn’t have any, so I gave it to him.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I do,” Nora Jaret said. “From the card. He was mine.” Her big brown eyes were straight at Wolfe. “His name is Kreis. He had his when I got there. I was going to take it back to the kitchen, but then I thought, someone had stage fright but I haven’t, and I gave it to the man at the end.”

“Which end?”

“The left end. Mr. Schriver. He came and spoke to us this afternoon.”

She was corroborated by Carol Annis, the one with hair like corn silk who had no sense of humor, “That’s right,” she said. “I saw her. I was going to stop her, but she had already put the plate down, so I went around to the other side of the table with it when I saw that Adrian Dart didn’t have any. I didn’t mind because it was him.”

“You were assigned to Mr. Schriver?”

“Yes. I served him the other courses, until he left.”

It was turning into a ring-around-a-rosy, but the squat was bound to come. All Wolfe had to do was get to one who couldn’t claim a delivery, and that would tag her. I was rather hoping it wouldn’t be the next one, for the girl with the throaty voice had been Adrian Dart’s, and she had called me Archie and had given Helen Iacono a nice tribute. Would she claim she had served Dart herself?

No. She answered without being asked. “My name is Lucy Morgan,” she said, “and I had Adrian Dart, and Carol got to him before I did. There was only one place that didn’t have one, on Dart’s left, the next but one, and I took it there. I don’t know his name.”

I supplied it. “Hewitt. Mr. Lewis Hewitt.” A better name for it than ring-around-a-rosy would have been passing-the-buck. I looked at Fern Faber, the tall self-made blonde with a wide lazy mouth who had been my first stop on my phone-number tour. “It’s your turn, Miss Faber,” I told her. “You had Mr. Hewitt. Yes?”

“I sure did.” Her voice was pitched so high it threatened to squeak.

“But you didn’t take him his caviar?”

“I sure didn’t.”

“Then who did you take it to?”

“Nobody.”

I looked at Wolfe. His eyes were narrowed at her. “What did you do with it, Miss Faber?”

“I didn’t do anything with it. There wasn’t any.”

“Nonsense. There are twelve of you, and there were twelve at the table, and each got a portion. How can you say there wasn’t any?”

“Because there wasn’t. I was in the john fixing my hair, and when I came back in she was taking the last one from the table, and when I asked where mine was he said he didn’t know, and I went to the dining room and they all had some.”

“Who was taking the last one from the table?”

She pointed to Lucy Morgan. “Her.”

“Whom did you ask where yours was?”

She pointed to Zoltan. “Him.”

Wolfe turned. “Zoltan?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, yes, sir, she asked where hers was. I had turned away when the last one was taken. I don’t mean I know where she had been, just that she asked me that. I asked Fritz if I should go in and see if they were one short and he said no, Felix was there and would see to it.”

Wolfe went back to Fern Faber. “Where is that room where you were fixing your hair?”

She pointed toward the pantry. “In there.”

“The door’s around the corner,” Felix said.

“How long were you in there?”

“My God, I don’t know, do you think I timed it? When Archie Goodwin was talking to us, and Mr. Schriver came and said they were going to start, I went pretty soon after that.”

Wolfe’s head jerked to me. “So that’s where you were. I might have known there were young women around. Supposing that Miss Faber went to fix her hair shortly after you left — say three minutes — how long was she at it, if the last plate had been taken from the table when she returned to the kitchen?”

I gave it a thought. “Fifteen to twenty minutes.”

He growled at her, “What was wrong with your hair?”

“I didn’t say anything was wrong with it.” She was getting riled. “Look, Mister, do you want all the details?”

“No.” Wolfe surveyed them for a moment, not amiably, took in enough air to fill all his middle — say two bushels — let it out again, turned his back on them, saw the glass of wine Fritz had left on a table, went and picked it up, smelled it, and stood gazing at it. The girls started to make noises, and, hearing them, he put the glass down and came back.

“You’re in a pickle,” he said. “So am I. You heard me apologize to Mr. Brenner and avow my responsibility for his undertaking to cook that meal. When, upstairs, I saw that Mr. Pyle would die, and reached the conclusions I told you of, I felt myself under compulsion to expose the culprit. I am committed. When I came down here I thought it would be a simple matter to learn who had served poisoned food to Mr. Pyle, but I was wrong. It’s obvious now that I have to deal with one who is not only resourceful and ingenious, but also quick-witted and audacious. While I was closing in on her just now, as I thought, inexorably approaching the point where she would either have to contradict one of you or deny that she had served the first course to anyone, she was fleering at me inwardly, and with reason, for her coup had worked. She had slipped through my fingers, and—”

“But she didn’t!” It came from one of them whose name I didn’t have. “She said she didn’t serve anybody!”

Wolfe shook his head. “No. Not Miss Faber. She is the only one who is eliminated. She says she was absent from this room during the entire period when the plates were being taken from the table, and she wouldn’t dare to say that if she had in fact been here and taken a plate and carried it in to Mr. Pyle. She would certainly have been seen by some of you.”

He shook his head again. “Not her. But it could have been any other one of you. You — I speak now to that one, still to be identified — you must have extraordinary faith in your attendant godling, even allowing for your craft. For you took great risks. You took a plate from the table — not the first probably, but one of the first — and on your way to the dining room you put arsenic in the cream. That wasn’t difficult; you might even have done it without stopping if you had the arsenic in a paper spill. You could get rid of the spill later, perhaps in the room which Miss Faber calls a john. You took the plate to Mr. Pyle, came back here immediately, got another plate, took it to the dining room, and gave it to one who had not been served. I am not guessing; it had to be like that. It was a remarkably adroit stratagem, but you can’t possibly be impregnable.”

He turned to Zoltan. “You say you watched as the plates were taken, and each of them took only one. Did one of them come back and take another?”

Zoltan looked fully as unhappy as Fritz. “I’m thinking, Mr. Wolfe. I can try to think, but I’m afraid it won’t help. I didn’t look at their faces, and they’re all dressed alike. I guess I didn’t watch very close.”

“Fritz?”

“No, sir. I was at the range.”

“Then try this, Zoltan. Who were the first ones to take plates — the first three or four?”

Zoltan slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s no good, Mr. Wolfe. I could try to think, but I couldn’t be sure.” He moved his eyes right to left and back again, at the girls. “I tell you, I wasn’t looking at their faces.” He extended his hands, palms up. “You will consider, Mr. Wolfe, I was not thinking of poison. I was only seeing that the plates were carried properly. Was I thinking which one has got arsenic? No.”

“I took the first plate,” a girl blurted — another whose name I didn’t know. “I took it in and gave it to the man in my chair, the one at the left corner at the other side of the table, and I stayed there. I never left the dining room.”

“Your name, please?”

“Marjorie Quinn.”

“Thank you. Now the second plate. Who took it?”

Apparently nobody. Wolfe gave them ten seconds, his eyes moving to take them all in, his lips tight. “I advise you,” he said, “to jog your memories, in case it becomes necessary to establish the order in which you took the plates by dragging it out of you. I hope it won’t come to that.” His head turned. “Felix, I have neglected you purposely, to give you time to reflect. You were in the dining room. My expectation was that after I had learned who had served the first course to Mr. Pyle you would corroborate it, but now that there is nothing for you to corroborate I must look to you for the fact itself. I must ask you to point her out.”

In a way Wolfe was Felix’s boss. When Wolfe’s oldest and dearest friend, Marko Vukcic, who had owned Rusterman’s restaurant, had died, his will had left the restaurant to members of the staff in trust, with Wolfe as the trustee, and Felix was the maître d’hôtel. With that job at the best restaurant in New York, naturally Felix was both bland and commanding, but now he was neither. If he felt the way he looked, he was miserable.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Pfui! You, trained as you are to see everything?”

“That is true, Mr. Wolfe. I knew you would ask me this, but I can’t. I can only explain. The young woman who just spoke, Marjorie Quinn, was the first one in with a plate, as she said. She did not say that as she served it one of the blinis slid off onto the table, but it did. As I sprang toward her she was actually about to pick it up with her fingers, and I jerked her away and put it back on the plate with a fork, and I gave her a look. Anyway, I was not myself. Having women as waiters was bad enough, and not only that, they were without experience. When I recovered command of myself I saw the red-headed one, Choate, standing back of Mr. Pyle, to whom she had been assigned, with a plate in her hand, and I saw that he had already been served. As I moved forward she stepped to the right and served the plate to you. The operation was completely upset, and I was helpless. The dark-skinned one, Iacono, who was assigned to you, served Mr. Kreis, and the—”

“If you please.” Wolfe was curt. “I have heard them, and so have you. I have always found you worthy of trust, but it’s possible that in your exalted position, maître d’hôtel at Rusterman’s, you would rather dodge than get involved in a poisoning. Are you dodging, Felix?”

“Good God, Mr. Wolfe, I am involved!”

“Very well. I saw that woman spill the blini and start her fingers for it, and I saw you retrieve it. Yes, you’re involved, but not as I am.” He turned to me. “Archie. You are commonly my first resort, but now you are my last. You sat next to Mr. Pyle. Who put that plate before him?”

Of course I knew that was coming, but I hadn’t been beating my brain because there was no use. I said merely but positively, “No.” He glared at me and I added, “That’s all, just no, but like Felix I can explain. First, I would have had to turn around to see her face, and that’s bad table manners. Second, I was watching Felix rescue the blini. Third, there was an argument going on about flowers with spots and streaks, and I was listening to it and so were you. I didn’t even see her arm.”

Wolfe stood and breathed. He shut his eyes and opened them again, and breathed some more. “Incredible,” he muttered. “The wretch has incredible luck.”

“I’m going home,” Fern Faber said. “I’m tired.”

“So am I,” another one said, and was moving, but Wolfe’s eyes pinned her. “I advise you not to,” he said. “It is true that Miss Faber is eliminated as the culprit, and also Miss Quinn, since she was under surveillance by Felix while Mr. Pyle was being served, but I advise even them to stay. When Mr. Pyle dies the doctors will certainly summon the police, and it would be well for all of you to be here when they arrive. I had hoped to be able to present them with an exposed murderer. Confound it! There is still a chance. Archie, come with me. Fritz, Felix, Zoltan, remain with these women. If one or more of them insist on leaving do not detain them by force, but have the names and the times of departure. If they want to eat feed them. I’ll be—”

“I’m going home,” Fern Faber said stubbornly.

“Very well, go. You’ll be got out of bed by a policeman before the night’s out. I’ll be in the dining room, Fritz. Come, Archie.”

He went and I followed, along the pantry corridor and through the two-way door. On the way I glanced at my wrist watch: ten past eleven. I rather expected to find the dining room empty, but it wasn’t. Eight of them were still there, the only ones missing being Schriver and Hewitt, who were probably upstairs. The air was heavy with cigar smoke. All of them but Adrian Dart were at the table with their chairs pushed back at various angles, with brandy glasses and cigars. Dart was standing with his back to a picture of honkers on the wing, holding forth. As we entered he stopped and heads turned.

Emil Kreis spoke. “Oh, there you are. I was coming to the kitchen but didn’t want to butt in. Schriver asked me to apologize to Fritz Brenner. Our custom is to ask the chef to join us with champagne, which is barbarous but gay, but of course in the circumstances...” He let it hang, and added, “Shall I explain to him? Or will you?”

“I will.” Wolfe went to the end of the table and sat. He had been on his feet for nearly two hours — all very well for his twice-a-day sessions in the plant rooms, but not elsewhere. He looked around. “Mr. Pyle is still alive?”

“We hope so,” one said. “We sincerely hope so.”

“I ought to be home in bed,” another one said. “I have a hard day tomorrow. But it doesn’t seem...” He took a puff on his cigar.

Emil Kreis reached for the brandy bottle. “There’s been no word since I came down.” He looked at his wrist watch. “Nearly an hour ago. I suppose I should go up. It’s so damned unpleasant.” He poured brandy.

“Terrible,” one said. “Absolutely terrible. I understand you were asking which one of the girls brought him the caviar. Kreis says you asked him.”

Wolfe nodded. “I also asked Mr. Schriver and Mr. Hewitt. And Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Brenner, and the two men who came to help at my request. And the women themselves. After more than an hour with them I am still at fault. I have discovered the artifice the culprit used, but not her identity.”

“Aren’t you a bit premature?” Leacraft, the lawyer, asked. “There may be no culprit. An acute and severe gastric disturbance may be caused—”

“Nonsense. I am too provoked for civility, Mr. Leacraft. The symptoms are typical of arsenic, and you heard Mr. Pyle complain of sand, but that’s not all. I said I have discovered the artifice. None of them will admit serving him the first course. The one assigned to him found he had already been served and served me instead. There is indeed a culprit. She put arsenic in the cream en passant, served it to Mr. Pyle, returned to the kitchen for another portion, and came and served it to someone else. That is established.”

“But then,” the lawyer objected, “one of them served no one. How could that be?”

“I am not a tyro at inquiry, Mr. Leacraft. I’ll ravel it for you later if you want, but now I want to get on. It is no conjecture that poison was given to Mr. Pyle by the woman who brought him the caviar; it is a fact. By a remarkable combination of cunning and luck she has so far eluded identification, and I am appealing to you. All of you. I ask you to close your eyes and recall the scene. We are here at table, discussing the orchids — the spots and streaks. The woman serving that place” — he pointed — “lets a blini slip from the plate and Felix retrieves it. It helps to close your eyes. Just about then a woman enters with a plate, goes to Mr. Pyle, and puts it before him. I appeal to you: which one?”

Emil Kreis shook his head. “I told you upstairs, I don’t know. I didn’t see her. Or if I did, it didn’t register.”

Adrian Dart, the actor, stood with his eyes closed, his chin up, and his arms folded, a fine pose for concentration. The others, even Leacraft, had their eyes closed too, but of course they couldn’t hold a candle to Dart. After a long moment the eyes began to open and heads to shake.

“It’s gone,” Dart said in his rich musical baritone. “I must have seen it, since I sat across from him, but it’s gone. Utterly.”

“I didn’t see it,” another said. “I simply didn’t see it.”

“I have a vague feeling,” another said, “but it’s too damn vague. No.”

They made it unanimous. No dice.

Wolfe put his palms on the table. “Then I’m in for it,” he said grimly. “I am your guest, gentlemen, and would not be offensive, but I am to blame that Fritz Brenner was enticed to this deplorable fiasco. If Mr. Pyle dies, as he surely will—”

The door opened and Benjamin Schriver entered. Then Lewis Hewitt, and then the familiar burly frame of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide West.

Schriver crossed to the table and spoke. “Vincent is dead. Half an hour ago. Doctor Jameson called the police. He thinks that it is practically certain—”

“Hold it,” Purley growled at his elbow. “I’ll handle it if you don’t mind.”

“My God,” Adrian Dart groaned, and shuddered magnificently.

That was the last I heard of the affair from an aristologist.