Free Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 19 by Murder by the Book Page B

which I had wanted to make to someone upstairs but hadn’t got around to. She said yes, and it was agreed that for a signal I would pull at my right ear.
    “I am pleased to see,” I told her, “that you are sticking to vermouth and soda. A girl with temples like yours has an obligation to society. Keep ’em smooth.”
    “Not to society,” she dissented. “To spelling. Whisky or gin gives me a hangover, and if I have a hangover I can’t spell. Once I spelled lien l-e-a-n.”
    “Good God. No, that’s for Nina Perlman.”
    Having done all right with the soup, they did even better with the Mondor patties, As for talk and associated noises, they kept it going without much help from me, except for filling in a few gaps. But I was glad Wolfe wasn’t there to see how they treated the duckling, all but Eleanor Gruber and Helen Troy. The trouble was, they were full. I watched them pecking at it, or not even pecking, with two exceptions, and decided that something drastic was called for if I didn’t want a letdown. I raised my voice to get attention.
    “Ladies, I need advice. This is—”
    “Speech, speech!” Claire Burkhardt squeaked.
    “He’s making one, you idiot!” somebody told her.
    “Oyez, oyeth,” said Helen Troy.
    “This,” I said, “is a democracy. No one can shove anything down people’s throats, not even Fritz’s salad. As your host and by no means unknown admirer, I want you to have a good time and go away from here saying, ‘Archie Goodwin can be trusted. He had us at his mercy, but he gave us a chance to say yes or no.’”
    “Yes!” Blanche Duke called.
    “Thank you.” I inclined my head. “I was about toask, how many feel like eating salad? If you want it, Fritz will enjoy serving it. But what if you don’t? Yes or no?”
    There were six or seven noes.
    “Do you still say yes, Miss Duke?”
    “My God, no. I didn’t know you meant salad.”
    “Then we’ll skip it. However, I won’t ask for a vote on the almond parfait. You should taste it, at least.” I turned to Fritz, at my elbow. “That’s how it is, Fritz.”
    “Yes, sir.” He started removing plates still loaded with his duckling, one of his best dishes. I wasted no sympathy on him because I had warned him. I have had much more opportunity than he has to learn the eating habits of American females. At an affair of the Society of Gourmets that duckling would have drawn cheers.
    Their reaction to the almond parfait made up for it some. In their relaxed condition they were more or less ignoring the code, and a couple of them took spoonfuls while Fritz was still serving. Portia Liss exclaimed, “Oh! It’s absolutely heavenly! Isn’t it, Mrs. Adams?”
    “I can’t say, Portia. I haven’t any.”
    But a few minutes later she conceded grudgingly, “It’s remarkable. Quite remarkable.”
    Others had extravagant comments. Helen Troy finished first. She arose and shoved her chair back and put her palms on the table to lean on. Her pimples were purple now instead of pink.
    “Oyeth, oyeth,” she said.
    “Who’s making a speech?” someone demanded.
    “I am. This is my maiden effort.”
    Someone tittered.
    “My
maiden
effort,” she insisted, “at my age. I’ve been thinking what we can do for Mr. Goodwin and I’m standing up to put it in the form of a motion. I move thatone of us goes and puts her arms around Mr. Goodwin’s neck and kisses him and calls him Archie.”
    “Which one?” Mabel Moore demanded.
    “We’ll vote on it. I nominate me. I’m already up.”
    There were cries of dissent. Claire Burkhardt, at Helen Troy’s left, got her elbow and pulled her back onto her chair. Nominations were made. Someone suggested they should draw lots. Half an hour earlier I would have let it slide, on the chance that Sue or Eleanor would get elected, which would have been a pleasant experience, but at this stage I didn’t want to risk having a tone set that it might be hard to jostle them out of. So I spoke