The Cook Page 7

  Like lightning Conrad grabbed the knife with his right hand and plunged it with great force into the back of Brogg’s left hand, pinioning it to the table, while Conrad himself was half catapulted to his feet, so great was the force of his downward thrust.

  A loud gasp of astonishment arose from the men at the door.

  Conrad sat down and folded his arms, while Brogg stared in stupid wonder at the knife sticking through his hand—and at the blood beginning to run around the blade and ooze over his hand onto the table. Three red rivulets started slowly toward his lap . . .

  Slowly, as if he might hurt himself, Brogg’s right hand touched the knife handle, and then closed around it. He seemed to have forgotten Conrad’s presence completely. Gingerly, very gingerly, he began to pull at the knife handle. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Now the red rivulets cascaded silently into his lap—

  The witnesses gathered silently around the table. Not a word was spoken.

  The moisture from Brogg’s brow dropped onto the table, mixing with his blood, while in the hushed silence he pulled with all his might at the knife handle.

  And then there was a sound: the sound of blood dripping on the floor—

  Silently Brogg continued to tug at the knife handle. The knuckles of his right hand turned white with the strain. Any prizing movement would slice or tear the flesh further. He had to pull the knife straight up—

  And then there was another sound: Brogg had begun to whimper.

  Tears started from his eyes, and the fingers of his right hand slowly, jerkily, like a robot’s, let go of the knife handle.

  “I can’t get it out!” he cried, almost inaudibly, his eyes fixed on the knife handle. “I can’t get it out—”

  Slowly he raised his frightened eyes to the circle of faces. His gaze passed from face to face, including Conrad’s, whom he did not seem to distinguish from the other witnesses. “I can’t get it out,” he repeated. A note of hysteria crept into his voice.

  He looked back at the knife handle—and at the confluence of the three rivulets at the edge of the table.

  The sound of his dripping blood had changed: it was no longer dripping onto a hard floor; it was dripping into a pool . . .

  “And I’m bleeding—” he whimpered, looking up at the faces again. “I’m bleeding—”

  17

  “Let someone else try,” Conrad suggested coldly. “Perhaps they’re stronger than you are, Brogg.”

  “Yes—let someone else try,” Brogg agreed quickly, hope suddenly flashing in his eyes.

  “Who wants to try . . . why don’t you try?” Conrad indicated a fairly strong-looking man, who had been at the bar when Conrad came in.

  “Yes, Ed, you try, you try . . .” Brogg exclaimed, almost happy through his tears—rather like a dog licking the hand that frees it from the trap.

  “Try it!” Conrad demanded harshly when Ed seemed to hold back.

  The man stepped forward and warily grasped the knife handle.

  “Careful, Ed, careful . . . pull straight up—straight up—” Brogg directed in a weak voice, his tear-stained face now white and dripping with sweat. “Don’t move it to the side . . . you’ll cut me—you’ll cut me if you move it to the side, Ed—”

  But Ed muttered that he couldn’t move it at all, and backed away from the table.

  “Who else wants to try?”

  Someone suggested that Curly try.

  “Yes—you try, Curly,” Brogg said eagerly.

  Curly was the fat tavern-keeper. But as he grabbed the knife handle a wave of nausea suddenly swept over him, and he quickly left the table.

  “Who’s next?”

  Someone—a little man—stepped forward. “I have small hands,” he mumbled by way of an excuse. He grabbed the handle with both hands and tugged—

  “Next?” Conrad called as the little man shook his head and backed off.

  No one came forward.

  “How about you?” Conrad asked a stocky, expressionless workman.

  The man declined with a shrug. “Brogg’s the strongest one in here. If he can’t pull it out, no one can.”

  Brogg, listening intently, started to smile in silly agreement, but then suddenly bethought himself: “Sam, I’m left-handed . . . I’m left-handed. That’s why I can’t do it. You try . . . you try, Sam. You’re strong—after me you’re the strongest . . .” Hope again shone in the pinioned man’s eyes.

  “If you say so, Brogg, I’ll try.”

  Sam stepped forward; he spat in his hands and rubbed them together. He planted his feet solidly. A look of determination came in his eyes, just as if he were essaying a feat of strength for a carnival prize.

  He pulled with all his might. After several seconds he quit pulling and tried to jerk it out. He tried several hard tugs before he gave up. “No use,” he muttered. “It can’t be budged.”

  Brogg, who had been watching Sam’s efforts with great hope, broke down completely at these words. “Please, please—someone pull it out . . . someone pull it out,” he blubbered in a piteous voice. “Please—I’m bleeding—and it hurts . . . it hurts—Do something . . . please do something—Men, for God’s sake—”

  The group clustered around the table looked at each other. They obviously didn’t know what to do. Two or three of the men looked at Brogg with some sympathy, but not too much. After all, he was the local bully, and they felt he was only getting what he had had coming to him for a long time.

  Conrad, still sitting with his arms crossed, seemed to be the director of the scene but not one of the actors: having created the situation, no further contribution was expected from him. But when at last he cleared his throat all eyes turned to him.

  “There is only one way, Brogg,” he said quietly. “Only one way.”

  “Yes, yes—” Brogg exclaimed eagerly. But he obviously did not comprehend.

  “Only one way,” Conrad repeated.

  For a moment Brogg continued to look dumbly at him—and then his eyes lit up with understanding. “Yes—yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of it? You can pull it out! Of course—you can pull it out! You stuck it in, so you can pull it out!” Brogg began to laugh hysterically while he kept repeating: “You stuck it in, so you can pull it out!”

  Conrad said nothing, but with great deliberation he reached into the folds of his black coat and withdrew a broad, gleaming meat cleaver, and held it before Brogg’s eyes. Not a sound greeted the appearance of this unexpected instrument. Even Brogg’s blood seemed to have stopped dripping.

  “I’m going to cut off your hand, Brogg. That’s the only solution.”

  Brogg’s mouth fell open. He started to protest, but instead a low scream escaped from the bottom of his throat.

  Conrad drew the meat cleaver across Brogg’s left wrist. A thin line of blood followed its path.

  He drew the cleaver again across Brogg’s wrist, this time below the wrist knuckle. “I think that will be better,” he decided as he let the blade of the cleaver rest in the second cut.

  Brogg’s right hand moved slowly toward the cleaver, and touched it very gently. He seemed to think of trying to push it away. But there was obviously no hope of that. His will seemed to be completely broken. He let his hand rest against the side of the cleaver, as if with affection.

  Pleadingly he raised his eyes to the group of witnesses—wouldn’t someone help him? Wouldn’t someone say something to Conrad on his behalf?

  But he found no reassurance in the faces of the men observing his plight. Not only did everyone hate him—he had bullied them too long—but they were all afraid of Conrad. He was a kind of person they had never encountered before. He seemed to be without emotion, without anger. Perfectly calm and collected. He had pinioned Brogg to the table with no change of expression. And so firmly that no one could release him. And now he held a great, wicked-looking cleaver in his hand. No one felt like crossing Conrad. No one would take it upon himself to come between Conrad and his victim.

  “Mercy . . .
mercy—” Brogg whimpered. “Please have mercy—”

  “No mercy. I’m going to free you.”

  Conrad pressed down harder on the cleaver. “Just one neat chop, right along this line.” He raised the cleaver.

  Brogg’s eyes widened in momentary terror; then they rolled back and he fainted, his head falling forward on the table.

  “Throw come cold beer on him,” Conrad snapped.

  Two or three hands obeyed immediately as Conrad jerked Brogg’s head up by his hair. Beer streamed down his face and neck . . .

  Brogg opened his eyes. For an instant he looked confused, then the horror of his situation returned to him.

  “Try to pull the knife out again,” Conrad told him. “I’ll give you that chance.”

  Meekly Brogg did as Conrad told him. But he was too weak and broken in spirit, and he did little more than grasp the knife handle.

  “That’s enough. You’re just wasting time. Better take your other hand away, or I’ll cut that one off too.”

  In sick horror Brogg’s eyes followed the slowly ascending arc of the cleaver while the witnesses backed silently away from the table.

  Conrad held the cleaver poised for the stroke. Brogg’s eyes, fixed on the cleaver, started to turn glassy . . .

  One of the men coughed—

  And then someone scraped his foot—

  The cleaver still remained poised, about two feet above Brogg’s pinioned hand: a horizontal furrow had begun to crease Conrad’s brow. He looked somewhat thoughtful . . .

  “Do you know, Brogg,” he said quietly; “I’ve suddenly thought of something. Just this instant it has occurred to me that there might be an alternative.”

  He continued to hold the cleaver poised for the stroke.

  Brogg’s lips tried to form the word “What?”, but neither his lips nor his tongue would do his bidding any more, and no sound came.

  “Do you agree to the alternative?” Conrad demanded.

  Brogg made his head nod.

  “You still don’t know what it is,” Conrad reminded him.

  “I agree—”

  Brogg’s eyes showed no spark at the unexpected reprieve. It was as if he were beyond hope.

  “After I tell you what it is,” Conrad explained, “if you refuse I will immediately chop off your hand, six inches closer to your elbow—is that understood?”

  Again Brogg nodded.

  “Are you sure you understand?”

  “Yes—”

  “Very well.” Conrad leaned forward and whispered in Brogg’s ear. No one could hear what he said. Then he straightened up.

  For a moment Brogg looked stunned. Then his expression became one of incredulity—

  He began nodding wildly, even smiling. “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes!”

  “You understand?”

  Fresh tears began streaming from Brogg’s eyes. Tears of relief.

  “Yes, yes!” he repeated.

  “Good. When?”

  “When?” Brogg repeated. “Tomorrow . . . tonight—any time—tonight . . . tonight!” His voice rose out of control.

  “Excellent. If you back out, Brogg,” Conrad continued, “I will go over to your kitchen and cut off both your hands—do you understand?” He emphasized his intention by pressing the edge across Brogg’s wrist again, drawing a third line of blood.

  Brogg almost collapsed from fright, and blubbered and swore—

  “Very well.”

  Conrad put the cleaver back in his belt, and grabbed the knife handle. With great effort he levered it forward, and blood poured from the fresh cut in Brogg’s hand. Then, bracing himself against the table, he extracted the knife while Brogg let out a yelp of pain and grabbed his wounded hand, hugging it to his chest.

  Someone threw him a rag and he began binding his bleeding hand.

  “Now get out!” Conrad snapped.

  Brogg pushed his chair back and stumbled to his feet. Broken, he staggered toward the door without looking around.

  For a few seconds there wasn’t a sound inside the White Door.

  And then—

  “Drinks for the house!” Conrad called. “Where’s the innkeeper? And if anyone knows where Paul is, fetch him for me. I want to see him—Drinks!”

  18

  Rud Brogg was seen no more in Cobb. He was replaced at the Vale mansion by Paul, on Conrad’s recommendation. Mrs. Vale had come to Mrs. Hill in distress at the loss of her cook to ask if she knew of someone to replace him. Mrs. Hill had said she would speak to Conrad.

  “But Paul is not a very good cook,” Mrs. Hill objected when Conrad came up with his name. “I remember what the food was like when he was here.”

  Conrad agreed. “I know. But I will teach him to be a good cook. In six months he will be cooking better than Brogg ever dreamed of.”

  Conrad was as good as his word. He gave Paul constant advice and direction concerning the preparation of food, and provided him with numerous recipes. He also sent over special ingredients for Paul—ingredients which Conrad prepared and without which the dishes would have been only satisfactory and not superior. Paul turned out to be a capable and ambitious young man. He also acquired much of Conrad’s dedication to the culinary art, so that under Conrad’s excellent tutelage he was soon turning out dishes which earned him the Vales’ appreciation and praise.

  PART III

  19

  “It’s quite late and Daphne is already falling asleep—why doesn’t she stay the night? We would be delighted to have her.”

  With this ritual invitation from Mrs. Hill, Daphne’s annual house visit began.

  The Hills and the Vales had finished eating dinner and were sitting around the fireplace chatting idly. And Daphne was indeed asleep, just as she had been as a small child when Mrs. Hill suggested for the first time that she spend the night. The night had become two weeks, and then months. Everyone enjoyed her presence, and the following year the visit was repeated—with Mrs. Hill issuing the invitation in the same manner, but as a joke, because the visit had been planned and Daphne had arrived that night with several boxes of clothes.

  “Well, if you think she won’t be a bother . . .” Mrs. Vale had smiled, going along with the joke.

  “No bother at all. She can have the room next to Ester’s.”

  It was the same room she had had on her first visit, and the one she was always to occupy subsequently. Of course it became known as “Daphne’s room.”

  “Well, if you don’t think she’ll be a bother,” Mrs. Vale smiled.

  A few minutes later Mrs. Vale kissed her daughter good night, and Daphne went upstairs to “her” room.

  The biweekly weighing sessions, which had been instituted just before Daphne’s annual visit began, continued after she had arrived and quickly became the most anticipated domestic event of the week. Mrs. Hill induced Daphne to participate in these—she could weigh herself in privacy, before or after the others. The girl was at first extremely reluctant, but after recording a lower figure on three consecutive weighings she began looking forward to Monday and Thursday evenings more than anyone else. And it was this fact (that she was steadily losing weight—an open secret in the household, though no one knew exactly what she weighed) that lent to the sessions their significance and excitement: if Daphne continued to lose weight—why, wasn’t it possible that she would eventually make a bride for Harold Hill? And if the Hills and Vales intermarried—why, then the Prominence would once again become the ancestral home of the heirs and descendants of the family of Cobb.

  “Isn’t that wonderful, Conrad?” Mrs. Hill exclaimed one Thursday evening as she settled on his stool. “Daphne has lost another four pounds!”

  Conrad agreed it was wonderful. “We’ll have her in shape before anyone knows it.—And what about you?”

  Mrs. Hill laughed. “Oh, I’m not important. But I lost another half-pound, or just about. And so did Benjamin. He’s looking so much better!”

  It was true too. Mr. Hill looked fiv
e years younger than when Conrad arrived: he was trim rather than bulky and his face was no longer florid.

  “And feeling better too?” Conrad asked.

  “Oh, yes, much better.—And you, Conrad, did you gain any weight this week?”

  Conrad replied that he had put on another pound since Monday.

  “That makes me very happy,” Mrs. Hill smiled. “You must put on another forty or fifty pounds, maybe even more. You’re a very big man . . .”

  “Maybe even more,” he agreed.

  “And Mrs. Vale says she’s so glad I included them when I made up the charts,” continued Mrs. Hill. “She can’t wait to tell Dr. Law—not just about Daphne losing weight, though that will really surprise him, since he had given up on her completely. He said there was no way in the world to make that girl lose weight. But then, he also said that Mr. and Mrs. Vale were just naturally in delicate health and . . .”

  “They’re gaining too, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, yes. And feeling much better.”

  Conrad said he was glad to hear that. “Paul must be carrying out my orders.—More broth?”

  As Mrs. Hill took another cup of broth, Conrad told her that he had something to show her. “These just came from the City,” he said, handing her two very expensive-looking brochures. The word china was embossed on the cover of one, and on the other glass. “I thought you might be interested—they’re from the best china and glass shops in the City, as I’m sure you recognize from the names.”

  Mrs. Hill took the brochures, and almost at once her eyes began to pop with delight and excitement at the handsome colored illustrations.

  “They’re beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! I had no idea there were such things . . .”

  Conrad waited till she was quite carried away by the pictures of the china and glassware—indulging herself perhaps in dreams of possession—and then he said, “Well, you know we don’t have a complete set of either in the house. Betsy’s heavy hand has seen to that. I’ve spoken to Maxfield about it, but he’s too old and broken in spirit and too lacking in taste to appreciate the importance of proper tableware. He said that as far as he was concerned the family could continue to eat off cracked dishes and unmatched sets. But excellent food, supreme dishes, demand more than mere receptacles. Superb settings—not just adequate—are required.”