Free Too Many Cooks by Rex Stout

to the gathering that no one but a fool would put as much salt as that in Sauce Printemps, but no one paid any attention to him. Nero Wolfe, last but not least, pried himself loose from his chair and, as the guest of honor, was conducted to the door by Louis Servan. I was darned glad that at last I could see bedtime peeping over the horizon.
    In ten minutes the door opened and Wolfe reappeared. He stood on the threshold and spoke:
    'Mr. Servan! Since I am the last, would you mind if I try an experiment with Mr. Goodwin?'
    Servan said no, and Wolfe beckoned to me. I was already on my feet, because I knew something was up. There are various kinds of experiments that Wolfe might try with me as the subject, but none of them would be gastronomical. I crossed the parlor and followed him into the dining room, and he shut the door. I looked at the table. There were the nine dishes, with numbered cards in front of them, and a big electric server, covered, and a pitcher of water and glasses, and plates and forks and miscellany.
    I grinned at Wolfe. 'Glad to help you out. Which one did you get stuck on?'
    He moved around the table. 'Come here.' He went on, to the right, to the edge of the big Pocahontas screen standing there, and I followed him. Behind the screen he stopped, and pointed at the floor. 'Look at that confounded mess.'
    I stepped back a step, absolutely surprised. I had discounted all the loose talk about killing on account of its being dagoes, and whatever I might have thought about the swamp-woman's little story, at least it hadn't prepared me for blood. But there was the blood, though there wasn't much of it, because the knife was still sticking in the left middle of Phillip Laszio's back, with only the hilt showing. He was on his face, with his legs straight out, so that you might have thought he was asleep if it hadn't been for the knife. I moved across and bent over and twisted the head enough to get a good look at one eye. Then I got up and looked at Wolfe.
    He said bitterly, 'A pleasant holiday! I tell you, Archie-but no matter. Is he dead?'
    'Dead as a sausage.'
    'I see. Archie. We have never been guilty of obstructing justice. That's the legal term, let them have it. But this is not our affair. And at least for the present-what do you remember about our trip down here?'
    'I think I remember we came on a train. That's about as far as I could go.'
    He nodded. 'Call Mr. Servan.'

Nero Wolfe 05 - Too Many Cooks
    4
    AT THREE O'CLOCK in the morning I sat in the small parlor of Pocahontas Pavilion. Across a table from me sat my friend Barry Tolman, and standing back of him was a big-jawed squint-eyed ruffian in a blue serge suit, with a stiff white collar, red tie and pink shirt. His name and occupation had not been kept a secret: Sam Pettigrew, sheriff of Marlin County. There were a couple of nondescripts, one with a stenographer's notebook at the end of the table, and a West Virginia state cop was on a chair tilted against the wall. The door to the dining room stood open and there was still a faint smell of photographers' flashlight bombs, and a murmur of voices came through from sleuths doing fingerprints and similar chores.
    The blue-eyed athlete was trying not to sound irritated: 'I know all that, Ashley. You may be the manager of Kanawha Spa, but I'm the prosecuting attorney of this county, and what do you want me to do, pretend he fell on the damn knife by accident'I resent your insinuation that I'm making a grab for the limelight-'
    'All right, Barry. Forget it.' Clay Ashley, standing beside me, slowly shook his head. 'Of all the rotten breaks! I know you can't suppress it, of course. But for God's sake get it over with and get 'em out of here-all right, I know you will as soon as you can. Excuse me if I said things& I'm going to try to get some sleep. Have them call me if I can do anything.'
    He beat it. Someone came from the dining room to ask Pettigrew a question, and Tolman shook himself and rubbed his