In the Still of the Night

secretary to see how much of my missing manuscript had carbons in the office. I always mean to make a carbon copy, but don’t always remember to do so.“
    “You still haven’t found it?“
    “I’ve looked everywhere. The deputy has asked everyone if they’ve seen it.“
    “I’m so sorry. I wish I could make it materialize for you.“
    “If anybody could, it’s that lunatic in the basement. What a peculiar young man he is. I can’t figure out whether he’s brilliant or an idiot.“
    “Mad Henry?“ Lily asked. “A little of both, I think. And he’s very rich, so he can indulge himself in all sorts of inventions. Most of which are totally impractical.”
    Cecil went off, still fretting about his secretary, his manuscript, his stash of carbon copies and life in general. He should never have come here. Meeting his literary idol had been destructive. As much as he liked and admired West’s works, especially the early ones, he didn’t like the man himself. The grim and sometimes downright vulgar and appalling things he wrote were beautifully done. But coming from him in person, they were merely arrogant. He’d have to be very careful that his final draft of the biography of him didn’t reflect his personal distaste.
    He stopped on the top step of the second floor, thought for a moment and returned to Mr. Prinney’s office. “Chief Walker, might I have another word with you? Have your people thoroughly searched everybody’s room?“
    “I thought they had,“ Walker said bitterly. “But I’ve just found out they didn’t even do a decent job on Mrs. Ethridge’s room. It’s going to take a lot of work on my part to teach them what police work really is at the scene of a crime. Why do you ask?“
    “I’m still trying to find my manuscript. I feel quite awkward about asking the other guests and residents if I could search. It’s impossibly declassé, really. But I thought maybe your people...“
    “I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll stand over them when I get a chance. By the way, Miss Brewster told me you’re expecting a telephone call. I’ve made all my inquiries now and am just waiting for responses, which shouldn’t take up as much time.”
    Cecil went off slightly mollified. He’d take a little nap before dressing for dinner. Maybe he’d dream of where else he might have put the manuscript, though he was ninety-nine percent certain he’d put it on his night table.

    Before going upstairs to rest for a short time and dress for dinner, Lily felt compelled to check on a number of things. First was seeing how the dinner preparations were going.
    At the early stages of the taking-in-guests plan, Mrs. Prinney had told Lily she intended to do a real Dutch dinner for tonight since a number of local people would be there. This included haringsalade and erwtensoep for starters, runderlapjes and rode kool with noodles for the main course and both ketelkoek met stroopsaus and arnhem meisjes as desserts.
    Lily had laughed and said, “Sounds wonderful,“ then she asked for translations.
    “I forget you’re not Dutch,“ Mrs. Prinney said. “Haringsalade is what it sounds like, a herring salad. Sliced beets and apples, onions, potatoes, and vinegar with pieces of boned salted herring on top. Erwtensoep is pea soup. Runderlapjes is stew beef browned in bacon drippings, then stewed in pan juices with vinegar and cloves.“
    “And rode kool?“ Lily said, thinking this was the only item she had a chance of pronouncing correctly.
    “Cooked cabbage with apples. It’s too early for good apples, but I dried quite a few in the fall and will stew them.“
    “And the desserts?“
    “ Ketelkoek met stroopsaus? Try to guess.“
    “It sounds like kettle cook. A pudding?”
    Mrs. Prinney nodded. “And met stroopsaus means with raisins. Arnhemse meisjes are puff pastries sprinkled with sugar. It means Arnhem girls. I’ve never known why, but I suspect it’s naughty.”
    Naturally, Mrs. Prinney had everything under control and just as naturally, Lily’s dog Agatha had taken up watch for crumbs in the kitchen. The puff pastries were still at the dough stage on a covered plate sitting over a pan of ice, waiting to be rolled out one last time, cut, and baked in a very hot oven at the last minute. The herring salad was done. (“It has to exchange flavors,“ Mrs. Prinney said), and the soup had just started bubbling slightly. The stew was simmering gently and filling the kitchen with the scent of