of a man was found in the alley back of Rusterman's restaurant. He had been hit in the back of the head with a piece of iron pipe which was there on the ground by the body. The station wagon he had come in was alongside the receiving platform of the restaurant, and in the station wagon were nine cartons containing ears of corn.' Cramer pointed. 'That's one of them, your name on it. You get one like it every Tuesday. Right?'
Wolfe nodded. 'I do. In season. Has the body been identified?'
'Yes. Driver's license and other items in his pockets, including cash, eighty-some dollars. Kenneth Faber, twenty-eight years old. Also men at the restaurant identified him. He had been delivering the corn there the past five weeks, and then he had been coming on here with yours. Right?'
'I don't know.'
'The hell you don't. If you're going to start that kind-'
I cut in. 'Hold it. Stay in the buggy. As you know, Mr. Wolfe is up in the plant rooms from four to six every day except Sunday. The corn usually comes before six, and either Fritz or I receive it. So Mr. Wolfe doesn't know, but I do. Kenneth Faber has been bringing it the past five weeks. If you want-'
I stopped because Wolfe was moving. Cramer had dropped the ear of corn onto Wolfe's desk, and Wolfe had picked it up and felt it, gripping it in the middle, and now he was shucking it. From where I sat, at my desk, the rows of kernels looked too big, too yellow, and too crowded. Wolfe frowned at it, muttered, 'I thought so,' put it down, stood up, reached for the carton, said, 'You will help, Archie,' took an ear, and started shucking it. As I got up Cramer said something but was ignored.
When we finished we had three piles, as assorted by Wolfe. Two ears were too young, six were too old, and eight were just right. He returned to his chair, looked at Cramer, and declared, 'This is preposterous.'
'So you're stalling,' Cramer growled.
'No. Shall I expound it?'
'Yeah. Go ahead.'
'Since you have questioned men at the restaurant, you know that the corn comes from a man named Duncan McLeod, who grows it on a farm some sixty miles north of here. He has been supplying it for four years, and he knows precisely what I require. It must be nearly mature, but not quite, and it must be picked not more than three hours before it reaches me. Do you eat sweet corn?'
'Yes. You're stalling.'
'No. Who cooks it?'
'My wife. I haven't got a Fritz.'
'Does she cook it in water?'
'Sure. Is yours cooked in beer?'
'No. Millions of American women, and some men, commit that outrage every summer day. They are turning a superb treat into mere provender. Shucked and boiled in water, sweet corn is edible and nutritious; roasted in the husk in the hottest possible oven for forty minutes, shucked at the table, and buttered and salted, nothing else, it is ambrosia. No chef's ingenuity and imagination have ever created a finer dish. American women should themselves be boiled in water. Ideally the corn-'
'How much longer are you going to stall?'
'I'm not stalling. Ideally the corn should go straight from the stalk to the oven, but of course that's impractical for city dwellers. If it's picked at the right stage of development it is still a treat for the palate after twenty-four hours, or even forty-eight; I have tried it. But look at this.' Wolfe pointed to the assorted piles. 'This is preposterous. Mr. McLeod knows better. The first year I had him send two dozen ears, and I returned those that were not acceptable. He knows what I require, and he knows how to choose it without opening the husk. He is supposed to be equally meticulous with the supply for the restaurant, but I doubt if he is; they take fifteen to twenty dozen. Are they serving what they got today?'
'Yes. They've admitted that they took it from the station wagon even before they reported the body.' Cramer's chin was down, and his eyes were narrowed under the eyebrow hedge. 'You're the boss at that restaurant.'
Wolfe shook his head. 'Not the
Wolfe nodded. 'I do. In season. Has the body been identified?'
'Yes. Driver's license and other items in his pockets, including cash, eighty-some dollars. Kenneth Faber, twenty-eight years old. Also men at the restaurant identified him. He had been delivering the corn there the past five weeks, and then he had been coming on here with yours. Right?'
'I don't know.'
'The hell you don't. If you're going to start that kind-'
I cut in. 'Hold it. Stay in the buggy. As you know, Mr. Wolfe is up in the plant rooms from four to six every day except Sunday. The corn usually comes before six, and either Fritz or I receive it. So Mr. Wolfe doesn't know, but I do. Kenneth Faber has been bringing it the past five weeks. If you want-'
I stopped because Wolfe was moving. Cramer had dropped the ear of corn onto Wolfe's desk, and Wolfe had picked it up and felt it, gripping it in the middle, and now he was shucking it. From where I sat, at my desk, the rows of kernels looked too big, too yellow, and too crowded. Wolfe frowned at it, muttered, 'I thought so,' put it down, stood up, reached for the carton, said, 'You will help, Archie,' took an ear, and started shucking it. As I got up Cramer said something but was ignored.
When we finished we had three piles, as assorted by Wolfe. Two ears were too young, six were too old, and eight were just right. He returned to his chair, looked at Cramer, and declared, 'This is preposterous.'
'So you're stalling,' Cramer growled.
'No. Shall I expound it?'
'Yeah. Go ahead.'
'Since you have questioned men at the restaurant, you know that the corn comes from a man named Duncan McLeod, who grows it on a farm some sixty miles north of here. He has been supplying it for four years, and he knows precisely what I require. It must be nearly mature, but not quite, and it must be picked not more than three hours before it reaches me. Do you eat sweet corn?'
'Yes. You're stalling.'
'No. Who cooks it?'
'My wife. I haven't got a Fritz.'
'Does she cook it in water?'
'Sure. Is yours cooked in beer?'
'No. Millions of American women, and some men, commit that outrage every summer day. They are turning a superb treat into mere provender. Shucked and boiled in water, sweet corn is edible and nutritious; roasted in the husk in the hottest possible oven for forty minutes, shucked at the table, and buttered and salted, nothing else, it is ambrosia. No chef's ingenuity and imagination have ever created a finer dish. American women should themselves be boiled in water. Ideally the corn-'
'How much longer are you going to stall?'
'I'm not stalling. Ideally the corn should go straight from the stalk to the oven, but of course that's impractical for city dwellers. If it's picked at the right stage of development it is still a treat for the palate after twenty-four hours, or even forty-eight; I have tried it. But look at this.' Wolfe pointed to the assorted piles. 'This is preposterous. Mr. McLeod knows better. The first year I had him send two dozen ears, and I returned those that were not acceptable. He knows what I require, and he knows how to choose it without opening the husk. He is supposed to be equally meticulous with the supply for the restaurant, but I doubt if he is; they take fifteen to twenty dozen. Are they serving what they got today?'
'Yes. They've admitted that they took it from the station wagon even before they reported the body.' Cramer's chin was down, and his eyes were narrowed under the eyebrow hedge. 'You're the boss at that restaurant.'
Wolfe shook his head. 'Not the
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