The Cook by Harry Kressing Read Free Book Online Page B

floating in green sauce.
    “Next week,” Conrad promised.
    Conrad spent all of Sunday afternoon and evening at the Shepard’s Inn drinking and listening to the gossip of the workingmen and servants who gathered there for the same purpose. Until quite recently most of these people would have gone to Ben’s or the White Door or one of the other taverns. But word soon spread that whenever Conrad was at Shepard’s, free hors-d’oeuvres and canapés were available. He prepared the tid-bits himself in the small kitchen in the rear of the inn. Also, Conrad was very liberal with his money; he would stand many rounds of beer and never ask for any in return. Word of this also spread, attracting customers.
    There was a large table in a far corner, and this soon became known as Conrad’s table. The customers who dropped in were made to feel free to pull up a chair and join him there, or leave him—as they chose.
    Nell had been reduced to his willing but nervous slave. She did everything he said as fast as she could: if his beer was warm, she took it back; if it was flat, she took it back; if more plates were needed, she ran to the kitchen; if something was wanted from a shop, she screamed at Gimpy to fetch it; if Conrad left a message for someone, it was delivered; if someone left a package for Conrad, it was put on ice; if his table needed cleaning, she cleaned it, etc., etc. And it was always: “Yes, Mr. Conrad,” or “No, Mr. Conrad,” or “I’m sorry, Mr. Conrad.”
    Nell also related to Conrad any gossip which she thought he had missed and which might be of interest to him; and it was from her that he first heard that Ester Hill was seeing a boy in Highlands. “His family’s none too good,” Nell whispered, “and that’s why Ester Hill is keeping it a secret.” The boy’s name was Lance Brown.
    Conrad also learned from Nell that Brogg had been saying some very bad things about “that new cook at the Hills’.”
    And from some of the others Conrad heard that Mr. Hill had been proclaiming that he had the best cook this side of the City: “My fellow is really a magician with food.”
    Mr. Hill had added that he never felt better in his life and that he had actually taken off a little weight, though he was eating everything he wanted to.

12
    Most of the people who came to Shepard’s had heard of Conrad’s Tuesday dinners at the Prominence Inn. They knew that he reserved the private dining room for the occasion, that Charles cooked him special foods, that he ate all by himself and that he dressed formally. No one knew what to make of this, of course, but they opined that it surely must be expensive.
    That was Maxfield’s comment too.
    He was fixing pre-dinner drinks. It had been the first time in three days that he had felt well enough to perform that duty.
    “I hear you have rather expensive tastes,” he murmured.
    Conrad, who was putting up some preserves, looked up from the row of glistening jars that filled his worktable. “Meaning, I suppose, that I don’t like to eat slop with pigs on my day off . . .”
    Maxfield sniffed. “If you call eating with people of your own station—”
    “Just fix the drinks,” Conrad snapped; “that’s what they’re paying you for.”
    Maxfield spun around, livid.
    “I’ll thank you to remember I’m your superior,” he spluttered. “I won’t have you talk to me that way.”
    In his agitation he knocked over one of the glasses, spilling liquor on the floor.
    Conrad laughed derisively. “What are you going to do about it? Sick butlers aren’t at a premium. Neither are butlers who fake sickness. Either way you cut it, you’re out.—Eggy! Clean up this mess—old Maxfield here is getting as clumsy as Betsy.”
    Maxfield started to reply, but as usual he suddenly felt too weak to fight Conrad. Besides, he was only just recovering from his sickness. He had been laid up for three days, supposedly with a severe stomach disorder. He took to his bed the afternoon