Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (21 page)

“First-class kitchens, every one,” André said.

“And failing a job at any of these,” Yvonne rushed on, “we thought maybe we could find somebody to back us in establishing a restaurant of our own somewhere.” She gave André a meaningful look.

Knowing the answer beforehand, André asked, “What were the results of your interviews, Gustav?”

“Uniformly negative,” grumbled Gustav with an injured expression. He looked at Yvonne, a quick, furtive, sliding glance that merely flicked her for an instant before his small eyes turned back to André. “I need a specialty, of course,” he said. “They all told me that.”

To get rid of you, probably
, André thought. Aloud he said, “That is understandable, Gustav. A chef with a good specialty will draw customers more speedily to a restaurant than topless waitresses, even.” André tilted his eyebrows again.

“True,” Gustav said, “as you should know better than anyone, Uncle, since your own reputation was so firmly founded on your famous specialty. Even in Copenhagen, where I received my training, the name of your
Potage François Premier
was better known among the apprentice cooks than that of Queen Elizabeth the Second.”

“Thank you,” André murmured, pleased despite himself at this heavy-handed compliment. “It was just a soup, after all.”

“Just a soup!” Yvonne exclaimed. “You insult your genius, Uncle André!
Potage François Premier
was pure nectar! And only you in all the world knew how to make it. My father told me about it many times, boasting of your skill. And finally, when I was fifteen, he brought me to Paris and took me to
Chez Marie Antoinette
for dinner and let me taste your divine soup for myself! Do you remember?”

“I remember. You were a charming child.”

“Eating that soup of yours was almost like falling in love, Uncle, did you know that? The same sudden disregard for everything else in the world except your beloved; the same headlong plunge into a willing slavery to your emotions.” She looked meltingly at her husband. “Oh, Gustav,” she said. Her lips parted slightly in remembered ecstasy. “There was never
anything
like Uncle André's
Potage François Premier!
”

Gustav said, “I believe you, Yvonne. Although I have never had the pleasure of tasting Uncle André's soup, every chef who ever boiled an egg knows it was superb.”

André considered this statement rather fulsome, but took it in good part. He began to feel faint stirrings of sympathy for poor unemployed Gustav. He said, on a sudden impulse, “I will tell you something about
Potage François Premier
. I have never told this to anyone before, not even your father, Yvonne, although he was my dear brother. I did not create that great soup of mine. I inherited the recipe and claimed the discovery for my own.”

They stared at him, shocked. “You
inherited
the recipe? From whom, is one allowed to ask?” inquired Gustav, a new shine in his unblinking eyes.

“From my father, who, in turn, inherited the recipe from
his
father. The recipe has passed in total secrecy from father to oldest son in our family for almost five hundred years now … ever since the first André DuBois created the soup for Lorenzo de' Medici in Florence. He called it
Zuppa Il Magnifico
in the Duke's honor.”

André found himself enjoying this confession of a long-guarded secret. He warmed to his subject. “So you see,” he said, smiling with his eyebrows, “the original
Potage François Premier
was not French at all. It was an Italian soup, created by an Italian chef, for an Italian duke!”

Yvonne twisted a strand of her long hair about her finger. “An Italian chef named André DuBois?” She laughed.

“Andrea dei Boschi was his name, Yvonne. He Frenchified it when he emigrated to France.”

“Emigrated to France? Why?” Gustav asked. “Was he out of work, like me?” His grimace appeared again.

“Not likely … the greatest chef of his era. But Leonardo da Vinci tasted his
Zuppa Il Magnifico
at a Medici banquet and was so entranced at the exquisite balance of its taste factors that when he went to work for the Sforza family in Milan, he told the Duke Moro about it, and Moro offered Andrea dei Boschi a princely salary to come to Milan and be the ducal chef. Andrea yielded. And later, when Leonardo went to France to live, at the invitation of its new king, Francis the First, history repeated itself. Leonardo sang the praises of
Zuppa Il Magnifico
to King Francis, and Andrea dei Boschi was inveigled into coming to France as the king's chef. That is when
Zuppa Il Magnifico
became
Potage François Premier
, you see. And since Andrea was a compulsive gambler who invariably lost, his recipe for the soup was the only thing of value he had to leave to his son.”

“Have all the oldest sons of our family been famous chefs ever since then, Uncle?” Yvonne asked, smiling.

“None,” André answered. “None. Until me.”

“Why not?” Gustav asked. “With a specialty like
Potage François Premier
, any dolt could become a famous chef.”

André said evenly, “Very few members of our family have been dolts, Gustav. But I suppose most of my ancestors lacked the patience to capitalize on the recipe. It takes five days to make the soup.”

Gustav was impressed at last. “Five days!” he echoed. “No wonder it made you famous!” He paused and his eyes flicked again to Yvonne briefly. “May I ask you something, Uncle, without impertinence?”

“Ask,” said André, knowing already what was coming.

“What was your salary at
Chez Marie Antoinette?
”

“Three hundred thousand francs.”

Gustav shook his bearlike head as though in pain. “And all because of a single soup recipe!”

“Not so,” André said with dignity. “The cuisine at
Chez Marie
was not composed solely of a single soup, may I point out.” He nodded at the awards on the walls around him. “As these citations testify, I was not known as a distinguished chef for my soup alone.”

“Of course not,” Yvonne said hastily.

Trying to keep the eagerness from his voice, Gustav asked, “What will become of your recipe now? You have neither a son nor a daughter. Only a niece. Does Yvonne inherit this recipe now?”

André shook his head. “I am sorry, Yvonne, but no. In my will, I have left the recipe to the
Société Gastronomique Internationale
as a historical treasure to be published and enjoyed by every amateur cook who wants it after my death. And I have sworn that no one shall have it until I die.” He shrugged, a completely Gallic shrug, although by his own admission his blood was at least fractionally Italian. In implied apology he went on, “I did not know, of course, that my niece would marry a chef when I made these arrangements.”

“You know it now,” Gustav said gravely. “Can you not reconsider?”

“My word is given,” André said simply.

“With the recipe for
Potage François Premier
,” Gustav pleaded urgently, “any restaurant of
haute cuisine
in France would happily employ me as master chef, from
La Tour d'Argent
to
La Bonne Auberge
.”

“I am sorry,” André repeated. “It is impossible.”

They left it then, but André slept uneasily that night on his sofa. Once, when he awoke during the night, he heard the murmur of voices from his bedroom.

At breakfast, he treated his guests to
Omelet Raspail
, served with thick unsweetened coffee and wafer-thin leaves of toasted bread.
Omelet Raspail
had been almost as famous at
Chez Marie Antoinette
as
Potage François Premier
. Gustav ate his portion with a kind of reluctant awe, smacking his thick lips in appreciation.

André said, “Gustav, my dear boy, I have been thinking. You say you badly need a specialty to win employment. I can suggest a dozen for you.” He rose from the breakfast table, went to the kitchen and lifted his metal file box of recipes from the shelf over the sink. “How would you like to offer prospective employers
Mousse de Mélongeène Rousseau
as your specialty?”

“It is commonplace,” Gustav said ungraciously. “Ten thousand chefs can make it.”

“Only four can make it right,” murmured André, but selected another card from his file. “What about
Paté de Barbotine Enceinte?
That would be unique with you and draw discriminating diners like flies. Chef Henri Courbet, who invented it, has been dead for forty years, and only two other chefs besides myself have ever been able to duplicate it. I have the recipe here in the file.”

Gustav shook his head decidedly, “No good, Uncle. With this rage for slimming, paté is passé.”

André sighed. “
Eh bien
, I can teach you how to prepare saddle of veal with a shallot sauce so daring and imaginative that it is irresistibly challenging to the eater. It could make your name famous in six months.”

“No,” Gustav said positively. “These are specialties that have seen their day, Uncle. Any chef worthy of the name can at least make a stab at preparing them, including myself.” He hesitated and then came out with it baldly. “Teach me to make
Potage François Premier
and I shall conquer the world!” He did not seem to realize how silly such rodomontade sounded. “Let me but see your recipe card for
Potage François Premier
, and Yvonne and I will be in your debt forever!”

André snapped shut his box of recipe cards. “I am sorry,” he said a third time, “that is impossible. There is no card in this file for my soup. The only record of that recipe, aside from the will in my avocat's hands, is here,” and he tapped his forehead. Then he replaced the recipe file on the kitchen shelf and departed rather abruptly on a shopping trip to the village, intent on laying in supplies for the entertainment of his guests.

When he returned, he stepped into his kitchen for a glass of water. The summer sun was extremely hot, and he had walked four miles in its embrace. It was then that he saw his recipe file was missing.

Curiously, besides anger, he felt an inclination to weep. Perhaps because he was growing old and emotional? Or because it saddened him to find his niece involved with a lazy, parasitical, graceless clown like Gustav, who had the nerve to call himself a chef? No matter. Anger soon overcame dolor, and he went out quietly into the summer sunshine again and began a cautious reconnaissance of his property.

As expected, he soon located his two guests. They were sprawled at ease under a linden tree at the far end of his flower garden. He stood unnoticed behind a head-high stack of cut logs and regarded them.

Gustav had André's recipe box open upon his lap and was leafing through it carefully, giving each card a concentrated glare from his muddy-water eyes. André heard him say to Yvonne, who was leaning against the bole of the tree, facing her husband, “It's got to be in this file someplace, Yvonne. It's got to be! All his other recipes are here—hundreds of them.”

Yvonne laughed with flat lack of merriment. “Didn't you believe him, darling, when he handed us all that
blague
about the
Société Gastronomique Internationale?
”

Gustav snorted. “The old goat was lying in his teeth, obviously. Can
you
see a world-famous chef giving up a recipe worth three hundred thousand francs a year to a stupid gourmet society? For nothing? No, he intends to sell his damned recipe to the highest bidder, believe me. Or leave it, perhaps, to his mistress, if he has one in this godforsaken place.”

Yvonne laughed again. “You flatter Uncle André. If he's too old to cook soup any longer, he's also too old for love!”

That was enough for André. The anger in him was now burningly alive. He considered telephoning the police in Arezzo that he was being robbed, but he realized that the police could do nothing in these peculiar circumstances. How could you arrest a man for trying to steal a recipe that did not exist except in André's head?

In the end, André went quietly back into his house and set about preparing luncheon for his guests, after first visiting the tumbledown shack he used as toolhouse and feed shed for his fowl. He rooted about on its shelves until he found a small cardboard box, which he carried with him into the kitchen.

Yvonne and Gustav returned to the house an hour later. André greeted them cheerfully. All through the excellent luncheon—a delicate
ragoût d'agneau
served with a dry white wine of the region—he chattered away with animation. He did not succeed, however, in drawing his guests into more than laconic answers to his sallies. They seemed distraught.

Drinking the last of his wine, André said to Gustav, “Where did you go this morning while I was in the village?”

“For a walk,” Gustav answered shortly.

“I can see you got very warm,” said André, eyeing the perspiration stains on Gustav's dark-blue shirt and trying to ignore the offensive odor of the man.

“This Italian sun is as hot as the hinges of hell,” Gustav complained.

André nodded. “Hot enough to kill you if you exercise too violently. So I hope you took a long and exhausting walk.”

Gustav's lips tightened. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, Gustav,” Yvonne said quickly. “He was joking. Weren't you, Uncle André?”

“No,” André said.

“I didn't think so.” Gustav set down his wine glass, rose from his chair, and started ponderously around the table toward André.

“Wait,” André said. “You want to know my recipe for
Potage François Premier
, don't you?”

Gustav said nothing, but he stopped moving toward André.

“You and Yvonne stole my recipe box this morning to search for the recipe. True?”

“Your recipe box is on the kitchen shelf,” Yvonne said.