The Devil's Cook

15

“I have a little gin,” said Fanny, “if anyone would care for a martini or something.”

“I’d care for one,” Ben said. “But I imagine there is a regulation against it so far as Captain Bartholdi is concerned.”

“So far as I’m concerned,” Captain Bartholdi said, “regulations are flexible.”

“In that case,” Fanny said, “we will all have one. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

Bartholdi, in an easy chair, had no apparent difficulty in doing so, but for Ben it was harder. After all, when it came to feeling comfortable in the company of a police captain on official business, it was much easier said than done. Fanny was creating small musical sounds in the kitchen with glasses and ice and a long spoon. Ben stared at his extended legs, wondering if the wiser course would be to lie or simply clam up.

“You’re a graduate student at the university, Mr. Green?” Bartholdi asked.

“That’s right.”

“Your roommate, I understand, is studying law. Is that your field?”

“No. History.”

“Oh? Do you plan to teach?”

“I’ve had some such notion.”

“I was told that you’ve been away over the weekend.”

“Yes,” Ben said.

“When did you leave?”

“Friday afternoon. Two o’clock or thereabouts. I don’t know exactly.”

“And you got back this afternoon?”

“Yes. Late. After Farley and Jay had left to see you.”

“Do you mind telling me where you’ve been?”

“Yes.”

“You mind?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I just like to keep my business to myself.”

“So do I, when possible. Sometimes, unfortunately, it’s not. I congratulate you, at any rate, on reaching the better of two bad decisions.”

“What decision?”

“To tell me nothing instead of lies. If you had lied, it would have been the worse for you in the end. As it is, it may be bad enough.”

“Cool it, man! You don’t even know there’s anything wrong. Or do you?”

“A woman’s missing. Isn’t that enough?”

“Not to rate a captain.”

“One thing about captains, we’re discreet, if that’s any reassurance to you.”

“It isn’t,” Ben said.

“We’ll find out anyhow. You’d be better off telling me voluntarily.”

“That,” said Fanny, returning with a tray of martinis, “remains uncertain. He might be better off with the police, Captain, but it is by no means established that he would be better off with me.”

“Oh?” Bartholdi glanced curiously from Fanny to Ben, who was looking sourly at Fanny. “Perhaps, Miss Moran, I’d better talk to Ben alone.”

Ben was not deceived, by the use of his given name, into any false sense of security.

“Don’t pay any attention to Fan, Captain,” he said. “She wants to deprive other girls of the entertainment she persistently rejects for herself.”

“Could it be that you’re admitting something?” Fanny cried.

“Damn it, you can badger me all night, and that’s all it will get you! You may as well let me alone.”

“That’s true.” Fanny addressed Bartholdi, who was tasting his martini and finding it cold and dry and as good as cheap gin could make it. “I can testify that he’s a hopelessly obdurate little devil when he gets his back up.”

“In that event, we will save time and effort by doing as he says. We will let him alone. Temporarily, anyway.” Bartholdi settled back and looked at Ben without animosity. “I can understand your reluctance to talk about your activities since leaving here Friday, but I’m sure you won’t have the same reluctance concerning events prior to your leaving.”

“What events? What’s to tell that’s worth telling?”

“Let me be the judge. I understand Terry Miles dropped in on you and Farley Moran shortly before you left — before she disappeared. I want you to tell me, as nearly as you can remember, what happened and what was said while the three of you were together.”

“Nothing of any consequence. She wanted to borrow three carrots for some damn ragout. She said she had an appointment at three o’clock, and she wanted to make the ragout before she left so it would be ready for dinner when she and Jay got back in the evening. I gave her the carrots, and we had a beer together and talked nonsense. That’s all there was to it.”

“This appointment. Did she say what it was, or where, or with whom?”

“No. In fact, she made a point of not saying.”

“Did this strike you as odd?”

“With Terry? Not much!”

“If I wanted to,” said Fanny, “I could say something apropos the pot and the kettle.”

“She did fix the ragout and leave it cooking,” Bartholdi said. “Did you know that?”

“She said she was going to, so why wouldn’t she? I’m going to fix one myself soon. It sounded damn good.”

“Did she give you the recipe?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Sure. There’s nothing complicated about it.”

“I wonder if you’d pass it on to me? I’m a bachelor, and I rather fancy myself as an amateur chef.”

“Happy to oblige. You start with bacon...”

He stopped in response to Bartholdi’s gesture. The captain dug into a pocket and produced a mechanical pencil and a small notebook.

“Here, Ben, write it down.”

Ben took the notebook and pencil and began to write, pausing briefly once in a while to remember the proportions. Fanny, meanwhile, divided her attention between Ben and Bartholdi with an expression of comic incredulity.

“Well,” she said, “if this doesn’t beat anything I’ve ever seen or heard! I was under the impression that we were discussing something important, and all of a sudden, without warning, you two are off on a ragout. Can’t you stick to the subject?”

Bartholdi took the pencil and notebook from Ben and studied what Ben had written. “Are you sure these are the right ingredients?”

“Positive.”

“And the exact proportions? Proportions are very important in good cooking.”

“That’s just the way Terry told it to Farley and me.”

“It’s quite a lot of onions,” said Fanny, who had taken the liberty of reading over Bartholdi’s shoulder. “No wonder Jay complained.”

“Complained?” Bartholdi looked up. “Complained when?”

“Why, Friday evening, when he and Farley were eating the ragout. He said there were too many onions. You know, Captain, that could be a clue? To Terry’s state of mind Friday — her three o’clock appointment and all, I mean. Or maybe she put too many onions in it purposely to annoy him. The way I’ll make Ben’s martini with too much vermouth. It’s a woman’s way sometimes.”

Bartholdi shrugged. “We had better get back to the point. From remarks that have been dropped, I gather that Terry Miles was inclined to stray a bit.”

“Oh well, it’s an open secret,” Ben said. “It’s true.”

“If so,” said Fanny, glaring at Ben, “it is a habit she shares with certain others I could name, not necessarily females.”

“What particular man or men was she involved with? It may be important.”

“There was something once about Otis Bowers, but it didn’t amount to anything,” Ben said. “The only reason Terry gave old Otis a little exercise was for the pleasure of seeing Ardis in the saucepan. Terry is malicious as well as glandular.”

“Who,” demanded Bartholdi, “is Otis Bowers?”

“He teaches physics at the university. Lives across the hall.”

“And Ardis,” said Fanny, “is his bitch of a wife.”

“Oh? Why do you call her that, Miss Moran?”

“A bitch? Because that’s what Ardis is. Why else would you call someone a bitch?”

“Is that your considered opinion?”

“Very little consideration was called for. It’s perfectly evident.”

“You seem to be a young woman of decided views.”

“She’s a nut is what she is,” Ben said. “She thinks it makes her look taller when she talks dirty.”

Fanny greeted this commentary with all the hauteur it deserved. She took a scornful sip of her martini just to show that she was otherwise unaffected, and scratched for a moment in Her strawberry patch with fingers that weren’t engaged by the glass.

“If you are looking for a lover,” she said, “you are absolutely wasting your time with Otis. He is not only fat, but also home. At least, he was home all weekend. What would be the point in going somewhere to meet a lover who stayed home? It’s stupid on the face of it.”

“I agree,” Bartholdi said.

“As well as frustrating,” said Ben.

“On the other hand,” said Fanny, “Brian O’Hara could be considered a favorable prospect.”

Bartholdi sat up. Ben drained his glass, olive and all. It was difficult to tell if his voice was impaired by amazement or if it was merely the effect of talking around the olive.

“How in hell do you come up with these things, Fan? What does Brian O’Hara have to do with it?”

“I have it on good authority, confirmed by Jay himself, that Terry and Brian O’Hara have been seen together frequently. This, of course, does not mean a great deal in itself. What means a great deal is when they were together and not seen.”

“That,” said Ben, “is neatly put.”

“Do you know Brian O’Hara, Captain?” Fanny asked.

“Very well, both officially and unofficially. Officially, I’m compelled to take a dim view of O’Hara’s activities. Unofficially, I have to concede him certain qualities.”

“So does Terry, apparently,” said Fanny, “although I doubt that they are the same qualities.”

Bartholdi finished his martini. He set his glass aside and rose. “I’ll run along. In some respects, you’ve been quite helpful. In others—” with a look at Ben “—you haven’t.”

When Captain Bartholdi was gone, Ben said excitedly, “He slipped! He slipped! Did you notice it?”

“Slipped how? Notice what?” asked Fanny.

“In his tense. Once or twice he used the past tense in referring to Terry!”

“Whatever do you mean? Damn it, Ben, can’t you ever say right out what’s in your devious little mind?”

“Never mind.” Ben was still staring at the door. “Now I know why there’s a captain on this case.”