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

Long ago and far awayThere lived a king called King José:A man most looked upon with awe;A man with just one teensy flaw.’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 biteThe 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 barbecueAnd started off with oyster stew.

“Oh no!” he cried. “What shall I do?My subjects have all died of flu.”(For José never ever knewHe’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 ToadWhere he became the chef du jour,Attracting folks both rich and poor,Who came for miles to meet JoséAnd taste his special of the day.It’s sad to say his clientele

Were taken with a deadly spellOf flu or dropsy, no one knew.(Of course they’d eaten oyster stew.)So on and on King José wentFrom 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 filledWith oyster stew... now hot... now chilled.And all around him people died.Beside their gravesites José cried.But still he never ever knewThey’d died from eating oyster stew.Until one day in TimbuktuA 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 dozensDead beside their royal cousins.Remembered subjects — loving, loyal—Supping on his “oysters royal.”Remembered townsfolk rich and poorWho’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 groundAnd 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 dawnA 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 beerTo drink, and bread — just sit down here.José — that villain’s flown the coop,But let me serve you... mussel soup!”