The Devil's Cook

1

Handclasp, which is not defined in the dictionary, connotes friendliness. If your dictionary has a gazetteer, you might find Handclasp listed as a city, population 125,407, in north-central United States.

It is reasonable to assume that the founders of Handclasp named their settlement with fair visions of an inland oasis in which the habitants would live in harmony with each other, and maybe even with the Indians. Alas for visions! Although there is no record of trouble with the Indians, there has been, from time to time, a generous dollop of it among the citizenry. Some of this trouble has been trivial, some has ben serious, but most of it, as in the wider world, has been neither one nor the other. There has been a continuity of political wars, social antagonisms, personal vendettas, and marital shenanigans. Here and there, in this haphazard chronicle of standard deviations, some of which went as far as the courts, an occasional item of gaudier aspect pops up.

Like murder.

The propaganda issued by the Chamber of Commerce to entice new industry will tell you that Handclasp has, in addition to parks, libraries, and wide streets, over one hundred churches of various denominations and almost fifty elementary and secondary schools, public, parochial, and private. The inference is clear. Although dedicated to profits and progress, the Chamber is civilization-conscious. If further proof is demanded, look at Handclasp University.

Founded as a private institution in 1869, taken over by the city in 1893 and by the state in 1924, Handclasp University has grown into a flourishing association of five fully accredited colleges boasting a total enrollment of nearly seven thousand students. On or near the campus there are almost enough dormitories and fraternity and sorority houses to accommodate the enrollment. For the overflow, including tenant faculty members, there are convenient rooms in private houses carefully screened by the university lodging service, and habitable apartment buildings. Of these, although it is not mentioned by the Chamber, The Cornish Arms is one.

The grandest thing about The Cornish Arms is its name. Otherwise, it is fair to call it ordinary. It is a buff brick building set flush with the sidewalk and rising two stories. The ground floor is bisected by a hall from street to back-alley and this design is duplicated on the floor above. There is an apartment to each side of each hall — four all told — and they are, if not posh, at least comfortable. In the basement there is a fifth apartment which is occupied, or was, by Orville Reasnor, the superintendent and maintenance man.

The Cornish Arms, in brief, is not singled out for attention because it is in any way distinguished. It is described because, at this particular time, certain people lived there.

One of these was Terry Miles. Terry cannot be casually dismissed. From, metatarsus to auburn crown, she stood five feet four of scenic stuff. It was scenery, moreover, that she knew how to display to most graphic effect. Cézanne never did more with a landscape than Terry did with hers; and if he did it to more people, it was only because Terry never hung in a gallery or was constructed of materials as durable. While they lasted however, they did have the advantage of mobility. She could, for example, pick her spots and a special class of tourist. Let it be said that the lucky nature-lovers who were permitted to pause and admire Terry’s scenery in detail, while differing considerably among themselves, possessed a common denominator. They were all men.

On this afternoon, which was the afternoon of a Friday in November, Terry went calling. She had not to go very far — to be exact, seven feet, which was the width of the hall outside her door. Having crossed that distance and reached another door exactly like hers, she knocked on it, and it was opened after a delay by a young man in a deplorable gray sweatshirt, wheat jeans, and rather soiled sneakers. His dark hair was tousled, having a tendency to curl, and his eyes were a disconcerting pale gray in color, darkening near the pupils to a shade that seemed sometimes slatish and sometimes green. His mouth was small, but it was filled with good if small teeth, and so it appeared to be bigger than it was. He was, in sum, a young man of striking good looks; he might have been handsome enough to look dull if he had not, being shrewd, fought the effect off with deliberate sloppiness.

In his right hand he was clasping a can of beer that had been plugged in two places and was perspiring invitingly.

“Hello, Terry,” he leered. “Come in and join the orgy.”

“Really? A real orgy?” Terry stretched on her toes to peer over Farley’s shoulder in search of the lurid details. “I don’t see any signs of it.”

“We’ve taken cover. We thought you might be the vice squad. Damn it, Terry, come on in before the super gets suspicious.”

Terry stepped into a room that was, except for personal items and colors and an accumulated disorder, a mirror image of the one she had just left. Books were stacked on a straight chair. More books were tumbled carelessly onto one end of a well-worn sofa. At the other end of the sofa, slumped on his spine with a can of beer balanced precariously on his stomach, sat a young man who seemed to have one eye that was incapable of opening as wide as its mate. This produced the disconcerting effect of a squint; he was apparently peering malevolently when he was in fact only looking at you. Below the eyes jutted a crooked nose, surrounded by a face of engaging ugliness. Furthermore he was short, slight of build, and seemed at the moment overcome by a feeling of unshakable lassitude. He made no move to rise when Terry entered the room, compromising on a limp wave that caused the can of beer to tilt dangerously on his stomach.

“Hi, Terry,” he said, in a surprisingly baritone voice. “I’m afraid Farley was telling you a whopper. No orgy.”

“Oh, Ben, I knew he was just joking,” Terry said. “I mean, there would have been a lot of noise and everything. Orgies are by definition noisy. Everyone knows that.”

She went over and sat down on the sofa between the young man named Ben and the books. The other young man, the one called Farley, seated himself by the simple expedient of backing against the arm of an overstuffed chair and falling across it into the seat. During this maneuver, he adroitly preserved the integrity of his beer.

“Are you disappointed?” Farley said.

“I am, rather,” Terry said. “Orgies can be quite pleasant if they’re conducted properly.”

“That comment,” said the young man with the squint and the crooked nose, “requires some excogitating. It raises an arguable point. Are orgies ever proper?”

“Moreover,” said Farley, “I doubt that they are ‘conducted.’ In my experience, they just start somehow and grow.”

“That is exactly the kind of academic quibbling I’d expect from a law student and an embryo historian,” Terry said. “You’re just making excuses for not providing me with interesting entertainment.”

“You’re right.” Ben, the young man on the sofa, deftly snared his can, took a long swallow from it, and rebalanced it on his stomach. “If I had time, I’d get an orgy started. Unfortunately, I have to leave soon. I hate to walk out on any kind of entertainment, proper or otherwise.”

“That’s true,” said Farley. “Old Ben is off on a mysterious excursion for the weekend. Even I have not been admitted to his confidence, but I suspect the complicity of my sweet little sister in the apartment upstairs. Damn it, Ben, would you actually consort with the little sister of your friend and roomie?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Old Ben squinted at his friend and roomie with incredible malevolence. “Fanny has nothing to do with it.”

“Where are you going?” Terry said.

“That,” said Ben, “is for me to know and you to find out.”

“There’s no use asking him,” said Farley. “He simply won’t tell me. For my part, I’m reconciled to his lack of faith in me, shabby though it is. We were just having a couple of parting beers.”

“As I see it,” Terry said, “you are still having them, and I would have one with you, if only someone had the good manners to ask me.”

“Farley,” said Ben, “what in hell has happened to your manners? Why don’t you ask Terry to have a beer?”

“Excuse me,” Farley said. “Terry, will you have a beer?”

“Yes, I will,” Terry said.

Farley, bailed out of his chair over the arm, as he had got in, and started for the kitchen.

“While you are in the refrigerator,” said Terry, “I’d appreciate it if you would get me three fresh carrots.”

Farley came to an abrupt halt. He seemed to be having difficulty with the message.

“Did you say three fresh carrots?” he said.

“Yes, medium-sized, if you please.”

“Why in the devil, if I may ask, would you simply assume that you could borrow anything like three fresh carrots from a couple of bachelor students?”

“Why not? You and Ben cook most of your own meals, don’t you? It’s perfectly reasonable to assume that you might have carrots around the place.”

“I consider it most unlikely. Ben, do we have any carrots around the place?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” Ben said. “I bought some yesterday at the market.”

“Well, I’ll be!” Farley turned again and got into motion. “I wouldn’t be more surprised to find the damn refrigerator stocked with opium.”

They could hear him rattling around in the refrigerator and cursing mildly because he couldn’t remember where he had left the beer opener.

“How long have you and Farley known each other?” Terry asked Ben.

“Not long. We met on campus a week or two before we decided to move in here together.”

“I’ve been wondering about that. Why did you? I mean, decide to move in here together?”

“Because it’s better than a single room. Two can pay the rent on an apartment easier than one.”

“I thought maybe it was so Farley could live near Fanny.”

“You thought wrong, honey. It’s true that Fanny put us on to the vacancy, but Farley grabbed it because there wasn’t anything else available. You didn’t take that brotherly indignation seriously, did you? Fanny’s a complicated little devil. Declaration of independence, and all that. She knows her way around.”

“Farley’s very goodlooking. I wonder why he always deliberately looks as if he bought his clothes at a rummage sale? After all, he’s going to be a lawyer in a year or so. Aren’t lawyers supposed to wear collars and ties and coats and like that?”

“He practicing to be Clarence Darrow.”

“Really? Who’s that?”

“Never mind.”

At that moment Farley returned bearing beer and carrots. He gave both to Terry, who laid the carrots on the sofa beside her and took a drink out of the can. Farley, employing the same technique as before, resumed his seat in the chair.

“As a matter of curiosity,” he said, “would you mind telling me what you’re going to do with those carrots?”

“It will be a pleasure,” Terry said. “I’m going to put them in a Student’s Ragout.”

“What the hell is a ragout?”

“A ragout,” said Ben, “is a hell of a mess cooked together.”

“Roughly speaking,” Terry said, “that’s it.”

“But what, precisely,” Ben said, “is a Student’s Ragout? As a dyspeptic bachelor, I’m always interested in recipes.”

“Student’s Ragout is the Crown Prince of all ragouts.”

“Well, you needn’t sound so damn esoteric about it. Is the recipe a jealously guarded secret or something?”

“Not in the least. Would you like me to tell it to you?”

“That’s what I was hinting at.”

“It’s quite simple. To begin with, you take a heavy pot or a deep skillet. Myself, I use my electric skillet. Then you cut strips of bacon in half and cover the bottom of the skillet with them. Next, you cut a pound or so of lean round steak into strips about one-half inch by an inch and a half. Cover the bacon with these and salt and pepper them. Take the carrots next. Slice them paper-thin and spread the slices over the steak. Then slice three good-sized onions paper-thin and spread them over the carrots. Finally add three or four potatoes, depending on the size, also sliced paper-thin and spread over the onions. Salt and pepper the potatoes and cook covered, over low heat. In my opinion, you should add a generous amount of water to be sure that the ragout stays good and moist. There’s lots of liquid in the vegetables, of course, but a little more is necessary, and quite a bit more doesn’t hurt.”

Farley and Ben, during this recital, stared at Terry with expressions of astonishment. When she was finished they were silent for a moment, then Farley turned to Ben.

“Did you hear how she rattled that off?” he said.

“By God,” said Ben, “it was absolutely incredible.”

“That’s true,” Farley said. “Somehow you don’t think of old Terry in the kitchen. You think of her in the bedroom, surrounded by silk sheets and mirrors and oceans of lotions, painting her toe-nails and plucking her brows and doing other things.”

“What do you mean by ‘other things’?” demanded Terry.

“What he had in mind,” Ben said, “was sex. You’ll have to admit, in all fairness, Terry, that you’re sexy.”

“Well,” said Terry, “what’s wrong with sex in the kitchen?”

“Now that you ask,” Ben said, “I can’t think of a thing.”

“Returning reluctantly to the ragout,” Farley said, “I must say that I was fetched by the sound of it. Ben, you’re a better cook than I am. You’ll have to try it when you get back from your weekend.”

“The proportions are just suggested, of course,” Terry said. “You can change them to suit your taste.”

“The principle, I would say,” said Ben, “is the same as that of Huck Finn’s garbage cans. The object is to get the flavors swapped around.”

“Besides being delicious,” Terry said, “it has another great advantage. You don’t have to stay around and watch it. That’s why I decided to fix it for dinner this evening. I have an appointment after a while, and I’ll just leave the ragout simmering in the skillet. When Jay gets home, screaming for his dinner, it will be ready to serve.”

“Where are you going?” Ben asked.

“None of your business. If you can be a clam about your affairs, so can I.”

“That’s right, Ben,” said Farley. “Fair’s fair. If you’ll tell us where you’re going, Terry will tell where she’s going.”

“Never mind,” Ben said.

“Neither will I,” said Terry.

Farley sighed. “Speaking of Jay, Terry, how is he?”

“Who was speaking of him?”

“You were, damn it. You said something about him screaming for his dinner.”

“That was an exaggeration, to be honest. Jay never screams. He never even yells. It wouldn’t fit in with being an assistant professor of economics. If you are an assistant professor of economics, you must be dignified and stuffy. And if you are the wife of an assistant professor of economics, you are expected to be dignified and stuffy also.”

“That’s not reasonable,” Ben protested. “How can a sexy wife be dignified and stuffy?”

“It’s very difficult,” said Terry. “If not impossible.”

“It’s worse than that — it isn’t even healthy. As between dignity and sex, I’ll take sex every time.”

“Has a tone of discontent crept into this conversation,” Farley said, “or do I imagine it?”

“It is no secret,” Terry said, “that Jay and I are not on the most amiable of terms. He disapproves of almost everything I do.”

“Is that a fact?” Ben said. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Yes, Ben,” said Farley, “you mustn’t be sarcastic. It’s hardly appropriate for a fellow who is going on a top-secret weekend. As for me, Terry, I am on your side in the matter. If old Jay walks out on you, I’m prepared to console you.”

“If so,” said Terry, “you will have to wait your turn.”

Ben looked at his wristwatch, drained his can, and managed to stand up.

“I’m beginning to feel like a crowd,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s time for me to leave.”

He carried the empty can into the kitchen, came out again, and went into the bedroom. When he reappeared he was wearing a hat and topcoat and carrying a leather bag.

“I’m off!” he said. “See you Sunday evening.”

“I’m convinced that you have no intentions whatever of being good,” said Farley, “so just be careful.”

“Right. Old Ben Green proceeds with caution.”

He went out. Terry shook her beer can, which was empty, and rose after depositing the can on the floor.

“I suppose I should leave, too,” she said.

“Why?”

“I told you I have an appointment. And I have to fix the ragout before I go.”

“You could stay for a little while, couldn’t you?”

“It wouldn’t look right.”

“Damn the looks. Have another beer.”

“Since you ask me, I will.”

She sat down again while Farley went to the kitchen and returned with two fresh cans. He handed one to Terry and sat down beside her on the sofa.

“‘Shoulder the sky,’” he said, “‘and drink your ale.’”

“Is that original? Didn’t someone else say it first?”

“Doesn’t someone always?”

“Anyway, it isn’t ale we’re drinking. It’s beer.”

“A mere technicality,” Farley said.