'Pardon! I was
inventing a new mayonnaise, which I shall need for a certain menu
next week.'
'Do you invent these things without materials, then?' questioned
Racksole.
'Certainly. I do dem in my mind. I tink dem. Why should I want
materials? I know all flavours. I tink, and tink, and tink, and it is
done. I write down.
I give the recipe to my best chef - dere you are. I need not even
taste, I know how it will taste. It is like composing music. De great
composers do not compose at de piano.'
'I see,' said Racksole.
'It is because I work like dat dat you pay me three thousand a year,'
Rocco added gravely.
'Heard about Jules?' said Racksole abruptly.
'Jules?'
'Yes. He's been arrested in Ostend,' the millionaire continued, lying
cleverly at a venture. 'They say that he and several others are
implicated in a murder case - the murder of Reginald Dimmock.'
'Truly?' drawled Rocco, scarcely hiding a yawn. His indifference
was so superb, so gorgeous, that Racksole instantly divined that it
was assumed for the occasion.
'It seems that, after all, the police are good for something. But this
is the first time I ever knew them to be worth their salt. There is to
be a thorough and systematic search of the hotel to-morrow,'
Racksole went on. 'I have mentioned it to you to warn you that so
far as you are concerned the search is of course merely a matter of
form.
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