chest,” Greene observed. “As if it weren’t his coat at all.”
“Well, it’s not, but that’s a different—”
“I still want to know why we should be listening to you,” Crowe said.
“Because he’s the only one of us who’s had a good look at the body,” Diana told him. “What’s more, he’s the smartest man here.”
Greene and Valmont looked surprised by the lady’s endorsement. Her father simply looked exasperated.
“Now, Gustav,” Diana said, “why don’t you tell us what you saw?”
“Thank you, miss,” my brother mumbled, and it took a moment more for the blush her words slapped across his face to fade away. “Mr. Curtis was still in his evenin’ clothes, stretched out straight, facedown, arms at his sides. He was back a ways from that egg thing, which was smack-dab in the center of the cheese, right under the viewhole. So it might’ve been possible—if you wasn’t payin’ much mind to what you were doin’—to glance down and not notice the man at all. I reckon that’s how he could fester there all day till we came along: They had the cheese blocked off for the contest, and all Pinkerton or whoever saw was that the egg was in place.”
“Did you see anything indicating how Curtis might have died?” Greene asked.
“Oh, that was clear as day. He was mushed into the cheese pretty good. Mouth and nose totally covered. Ain’t no way the man could breathe. Somebody suffocated him.”
“Why ‘Somebody suffocated him?’ Why not simply ‘He suffocated’?”
“Cuz cheese ain’t quicksand, Mr. Greene. A feller ain’t gonna smother in it without havin’ him some help.”
“I must disagree,” Valmont said. “In one of my own cases in Frawnce, a diaboli-KELL master chef killed his wife by drugging her din-NAIR and arranging for her to collapse upon and asphyxilate in a carefully placed blancmange. He would have escaped ju-STESS if I had not noticed the telltale odor of bitter almonds in the coq au vin . Rather than face the guillotine, he later killed himself with a poisoned beignet slipped to him by his love-AIR in a basket of … but I digress.”
“You sure as hell do,” Old Red said under his breath.
“I propose a similar scenario for M. Curtis—minus a crime,” Valmont went on obliviously. “Our Puzzlema-STAIR came here last night to lay his egg. He was, as we all saw, quite detoxicated. So, when he climbed or fell down into the cheese recepti-KELL…” The Frenchman waved his hands before his face and fluttered his eyelids, wobbling from side to side. “He was overcome by che-DARE fumes, fainted, and— voilà —suffocated in cheese.”
There was a long silence while we chewed this theory over. It left a bad taste in my mouth, though I couldn’t say why. Fortunately, someone else could.
“Allow me to remind you, monsieur,” Diana said. “We aren’t talking about the Mammoth Camembert or the Mammoth Brie. Mr. Curtis died atop the Mammoth Cheddar . And you of all people should see why that makes a difference.”
“Ah! Touché !” Valmont offered the lady a little bow. “You are not just a detec-TEEV, you are a true connoisseur .”
“At the risk of sounding like neither,” I said, “what’s so special about cheddar?”
“It is zeamy ard,” Valmont explained … if that particular grouping of sounds could be said to explain anything.
“Semihard,” Diana explained with a good bit more success. “A nonsoft cheese.”
“Well, there you go!” Old Red crowed. “Curtis’s face is buried in the stuff! How could that happen on its own?”
For backing, he turned to the closest thing we had on hand to Sherlock Holmes: Boothby Greene. Yet the Englishman shook his head.
“I hate to point out the fly in the ointment, as it were, but the answer to your question is ‘Very easily.’ We would consider butter hard when it’s first taken from the icebox. Given time at room temperature, however, even so light a thing as a sprig of parsley might
“Well, it’s not, but that’s a different—”
“I still want to know why we should be listening to you,” Crowe said.
“Because he’s the only one of us who’s had a good look at the body,” Diana told him. “What’s more, he’s the smartest man here.”
Greene and Valmont looked surprised by the lady’s endorsement. Her father simply looked exasperated.
“Now, Gustav,” Diana said, “why don’t you tell us what you saw?”
“Thank you, miss,” my brother mumbled, and it took a moment more for the blush her words slapped across his face to fade away. “Mr. Curtis was still in his evenin’ clothes, stretched out straight, facedown, arms at his sides. He was back a ways from that egg thing, which was smack-dab in the center of the cheese, right under the viewhole. So it might’ve been possible—if you wasn’t payin’ much mind to what you were doin’—to glance down and not notice the man at all. I reckon that’s how he could fester there all day till we came along: They had the cheese blocked off for the contest, and all Pinkerton or whoever saw was that the egg was in place.”
“Did you see anything indicating how Curtis might have died?” Greene asked.
“Oh, that was clear as day. He was mushed into the cheese pretty good. Mouth and nose totally covered. Ain’t no way the man could breathe. Somebody suffocated him.”
“Why ‘Somebody suffocated him?’ Why not simply ‘He suffocated’?”
“Cuz cheese ain’t quicksand, Mr. Greene. A feller ain’t gonna smother in it without havin’ him some help.”
“I must disagree,” Valmont said. “In one of my own cases in Frawnce, a diaboli-KELL master chef killed his wife by drugging her din-NAIR and arranging for her to collapse upon and asphyxilate in a carefully placed blancmange. He would have escaped ju-STESS if I had not noticed the telltale odor of bitter almonds in the coq au vin . Rather than face the guillotine, he later killed himself with a poisoned beignet slipped to him by his love-AIR in a basket of … but I digress.”
“You sure as hell do,” Old Red said under his breath.
“I propose a similar scenario for M. Curtis—minus a crime,” Valmont went on obliviously. “Our Puzzlema-STAIR came here last night to lay his egg. He was, as we all saw, quite detoxicated. So, when he climbed or fell down into the cheese recepti-KELL…” The Frenchman waved his hands before his face and fluttered his eyelids, wobbling from side to side. “He was overcome by che-DARE fumes, fainted, and— voilà —suffocated in cheese.”
There was a long silence while we chewed this theory over. It left a bad taste in my mouth, though I couldn’t say why. Fortunately, someone else could.
“Allow me to remind you, monsieur,” Diana said. “We aren’t talking about the Mammoth Camembert or the Mammoth Brie. Mr. Curtis died atop the Mammoth Cheddar . And you of all people should see why that makes a difference.”
“Ah! Touché !” Valmont offered the lady a little bow. “You are not just a detec-TEEV, you are a true connoisseur .”
“At the risk of sounding like neither,” I said, “what’s so special about cheddar?”
“It is zeamy ard,” Valmont explained … if that particular grouping of sounds could be said to explain anything.
“Semihard,” Diana explained with a good bit more success. “A nonsoft cheese.”
“Well, there you go!” Old Red crowed. “Curtis’s face is buried in the stuff! How could that happen on its own?”
For backing, he turned to the closest thing we had on hand to Sherlock Holmes: Boothby Greene. Yet the Englishman shook his head.
“I hate to point out the fly in the ointment, as it were, but the answer to your question is ‘Very easily.’ We would consider butter hard when it’s first taken from the icebox. Given time at room temperature, however, even so light a thing as a sprig of parsley might
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