The Devil's Cook by Ellery Queen Page A

of the three alternatives, was a stray of the voluntary type.
    â€œGood evening,” said the uniformed man across the high counter. “May I help you?”
    This was certainly a favorable beginning, courteous if not deferential, and Jay was, sure enough, reassured.
    â€œI want to report a missing person,” he said.
    â€œName?”
    â€œJay Miles. This is Farley Moran, a neighbor.”
    â€œWhere do you live?”
    â€œI live at The Cornish Arms—I’m a professor at Handclasp University. You must have misunderstood me, though. I’m not missing. It’s my wife.”
    The policeman permitted himself a slight smile. “And what is your wife’s name?”
    â€œTerry. Miles, of course.”
    â€œHow long has she been missing?”
    â€œAbout forty-eight hours. Since Friday afternoon.”
    The policeman had been making notes on a pad. Now he threw the pencil aside and tore the top page from the pad. “Wait here a minute.…”
    He left the door open behind him, and Jay and Farley could see him retreating down a hall. A few minutes later he reappeared and beckoned.
    â€œIn here. Captain Bartholdi will talk to you.”
    Jay was surprised; he had hardly expected, on the strength of a mere report, to draw the attention of a captain. He was no less surprised by the appearance of the man who had risen from behind the desk. Captain Bartholdi was slim, gray, handsome, urbane, and Gallic. He looked as if he would have been far more at home with an épée than a police positive.
    â€œSit down, gentlemen.” Captain Bartholdi indicated chairs. “Which one is Mr. Miles?”
    â€œJay Miles,” said Jay.
    â€œFarley Moran,” said Farley.
    Bartholdi nodded to Farley, but he directed his attention to Jay. That is, he looked at Jay, and spoke to him. But he seemed abstracted. His gray eyes had a distant expression, as if he were hearing a faint snatch of music or listening to a faraway voice.
    â€œI understand your wife has disappeared, Professor Miles?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œShe has been gone for two days?”
    â€œYes. Since Friday afternoon.”
    â€œHave you any reason to believe that the police should be interested?”
    â€œI don’t know. That’s what I want the police to find out.”
    â€œMay I ask you why you’ve waited two days before coming to us?”
    â€œThis isn’t the first time my wife has gone off unexpectedly. I kept thinking that she would be back.”
    Captain Bartholdi said, “I see,” as if he really did. “But now you’ve become anxious. Is that it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you have any knowledge at all of where your wife might have gone? Did she leave home with a specific destination? Did she have an appointment with someone, for example?”
    â€œShe said something about an appointment, but I don’t believe she said whom it was with. Mr. Moran can tell you about that.”
    Farley, thus cued, opened his mouth to speak. He was prevented by an arresting gesture from Bartholdi. The captain pushed his swivel chair back.
    â€œLater, Mr. Moran. Right now, would you mind coming with me?”
    â€œWhere?” Jay, rising, had a paradoxical sensation of sinking. “Why?”
    â€œJust follow me, please.”
    He came around the desk and went out of the room. Following, followed in turn by Farley, Jay was aware of the grace of Bartholdi’s movements. (His feet, like his hands, were small and slender.) They went down the hall to the elevator. Captain Bartholdi punched a button with a delicate thumb, and the car descended. They came out in a basement corridor. It was chilly here; lights burned with a tinted pallor, as if the naked electric bulbs had been blued by the chill. Jay knew with dreadful certainty where they were bound, and what, when they got there, he would have to see. Bartholdi had paused in the corridor and was