Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

’Twas in the poem “José I”
We told you what José had done.
He’d killed his brother, young Prince Fred.
He’d killed his cousins; all were dead.
He’d caused the royal guests to bite
The dust at every funeral rite.
How were those evil murders done?
Not with a sword. Not with a gun.
Not with a bludgeon or a rope.
Not with a piece of slippery soap.
No, José killed them, every one,
With oyster stew ineptly done.
And when his subjects, struck with fear,
Unto his palace clustered near,
He offered them a barbecue
And started off with oyster stew.

“Oh no!” he cried. “What shall I do?
My subjects have all died of flu.”
(For José never ever knew
He’d killed them with his oyster stew.)
“Although I’m king of all I see,
Sans subjects, there’s no need for me.”

So King José packed up his things,
His fancy hats, his ruby rings,
His medals and his handsome suits,
His underwear, his shiny boots,
And right on top his cooking pot.
He said, “If now a king I’m not,
A chef I’ll be from this day hence.”
He set him off across the fence,
And down the path, and down the road,
To an inn called Frog and Toad
Where he became the chef du jour,
Attracting folks both rich and poor,
Who came for miles to meet José
And taste his special of the day.

It’s sad to say his clientele
Were taken with a deadly spell
Of flu or dropsy, no one knew.
(Of course they’d eaten oyster stew.)

So on and on King José went
From village inn to nomad’s tent,
To palaces of dukes and earls,
To harems full of dancing girls.
He traveled all around the world,
His royal ensign hung unfurled,
His cooking pot forever filled
With oyster stew... now hot... now chilled.
And all around him people died.
Beside their gravesites José cried.
But still he never ever knew
They’d died from eating oyster stew.

Until one day in Timbuktu
A fellow ordered oyster stew.
Instead of noshing it right up,
He stopped a second. Sniffed the cup.
“This stew is smelling slightly off.
The smell’s enough to make me cough.
You don’t suppose the stew’s gone bad?”
(It was the first clue José had.)
He took the cup. He sniffed the stew.
It made one think of witches’ brew.
And all at once King José knew...
THERE’D NEVER EVER BEEN A FLU!

He thought of how his brother died.
He’d put it down to suicide.
Remembered royals by the dozens
Dead beside their royal cousins.
Remembered subjects — loving, loyal—
Supping on his “oysters royal.”
Remembered townsfolk rich and poor
Who’d flocked to try the “feast du jour.”
Remembered nomads, dukes, and earls.
Remembered pretty dancing girls.
Without a doubt (King José knew),
THEY’D ALL BEEN KILLED BY OYSTER STEW!

All day, all night, he sat and worried,
Stirring oysters (slightly curried),
And when at last his wits he found,
He cast the stew out on the ground
And said (his cheeks a crimson hue),
“Thank God I don’t eat oyster stew!”

But possibly the cops were coming?
Behind him, José heard a humming.
Silhouetted ’gainst the dawn
A horde of sheriffs, pistols drawn,
Approached; they were from every land—
Some well-aged oysters were at hand.
King José quickly filled his pot,
Added water (not too hot),
Spread tables wide across the plain,
Drew up a sign: “José’s Mortmain,”
Tossed in peppers, capers, cloves,
And welcomed the judicial droves:
“He’s gone,” he said. “I’m Carlos. Hi.
You’ve come so far you must be dry.
I’ve wine and ale and special beer
To drink, and bread — just sit down here.
José — that villain’s flown the coop,
But let me serve you... mussel soup!”