Mr Campion and Others

THE CASE OF THE WIDOW-2

He went out, and through the arbour’s doorway Campion saw him conferring with the oldest and most cobwebby of the troglodyte persons who lurked about the vaults.

Considerably flattered in spite of himself, he sat back and awaited developments. Presently one of the younger myrmidons, a mere youth of fifty or so, appeared with a tray and a small selection of balloon glasses. He was followed by an elder with two bottles, and at the rear of the procession came Mr Thistledown himself with something covered by a large silk handkerchief. Not until they were alone did he remove the veil. Then, whipping the handkerchief aside, he produced a partly full half-bottle with a new cork and no label. He held it up to the light and Mr Campion saw that the liquid within was of the true dark amber.

Still with the ritualistic air, Mr Thistledown polished a glass and poured a tablespoonful of the spirit, afterwards handing it to his client.

Feeling like a man with his honour at stake, Campion warmed the glass in his hand, sniffed at it intelligently, and finally allowed a little of the stuff to touch his tongue.

Mr Thistledown watched him earnestly. Campion tasted again and inhaled once more. Finally he set down his glass and grinned.

‘I may be wrong,’ he said, ‘but it tastes like the real McKay.’

Mr Thistledown frowned at the vulgarism. He seemed satisfied, however, and there was a curious mixture of pleasure and discomfort on his face.

‘I put it down as a Champagne Fine, 1835,’ he said. ‘It has not, perhaps, quite the superb caress of the true Napoleon—but a brave, yes, a brave brandy! The third best I have ever tasted in my life. And that, let me tell you, Mr Campion, is a very extraordinary thing.’

He paused, looking like some old white cockatoo standing at the end of the table.

‘I wonder if I might take you into my confidence?’ he ventured at last. ‘Ah—a great many people do take you into their confidence, I believe? Forgive me for putting it that way.’

Campion smiled. ‘I’m as secret as the grave,’ he said, ‘and if there’s anything I can do I shall be delighted.’

Mr Thistledown sighed with relief and became almost human.

‘This confounded bottle was sent to me some little time ago,’ he said. ‘With it was a letter from a man called Gervaise Papulous; I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of him, but he wrote a very fine monograph on brandies some years ago which was greatly appreciated by connoisseurs. I had an idea he lived a hermit’s life somewhere in Scotland, but that’s neither here nor there. The fact remains that when I had this note from an address in Half Moon Street I recognized the name immediately. It was a very civil letter, asking me if I’d mind, as an expert, giving my opinion of the age and quality of the sample.’

He paused and smiled faintly.

‘I was a little flattered, perhaps,’ he said. ‘After all, the man is a well-known authority himself. Anyway, I made the usual tests, tasted it and compared it with the oldest and finest stuff we have in stock. We have a few bottles of 1848 and one or two of the 1835. I made the most careful comparisons and at last I decided that the sample was a ’35 brandy, but not the same blend as our own. I wrote him; I said I did not care to commit myself, but I gave him my opinion for what it was worth and I appended my reasons for forming it.’

Mr Thistledown’s precise voice ceased and his colour heightened.

‘By return I received a letter thanking me for mine and asking me whether I would care to consider an arrangement whereby I could buy the identical spirit in any quantity I cared to name at a hundred and twenty shillings a dozen, excluding duty—or, in other words, ten shillings per bottle.’

Mr Campion sat up. ‘Ten shillings?’ he said.

‘Ten shillings,’ repeated Mr Thistledown. ‘The price of a wireless licence,’ he added with contempt. ‘Well, as you can imagine, Mr Campion, I thought there must be some mistake. Our own ’35 is listed at sixty shillings a bottle and you cannot get finer value anywhere in London. The stuff is rare. In a year or two it will be priceless. I considered this sample again and reaffirmed my own first opinion. Then I re-read the letter and noticed the peculiar phrase—“an arrangement whereby you will be able to purchase”. I thought about it all day and finally I put on my hat and went down to see the man.’

He glanced at his visitor almost timidly. Campion was reassuring.

‘If it was genuine it was not a chance to be missed,’ he murmured.

‘Exactly.’ Mr Thistledown smiled. ‘Well, I saw him, a younger man than I had imagined but well informed, and I received quite a pleasant impression. I asked him frankly where he got the brandy and he came out with an extraordinary suggestion. He asked me first if I was satisfied with the sample, and I said I was or I should hardly have come to see him. Then he said the whole matter was a secret at the moment, but that he was asking certain well-informed persons to a private conference and something he called a scientific experiment. Finally he offered me an invitation. It is to take place next Monday evening in a little hotel on the Norfolk coast where Mr Papulous says the ideal conditions for his experiment exist.’

Mr Campion’s interest was thoroughly aroused.

‘I should go,’ he said.

Mr Thistledown spread out his hands.

‘I had thought of it,’ he admitted. ‘As I came out of the flat at Half Moon Street I passed a man I knew on the stairs. I won’t mention his name and I won’t say his firm is exactly a rival of ours, but—well, you know how it is. Two or three old firms get the reputation for supplying certain rare vintages. Their names are equally good and naturally there is a certain competition between them. If this fellow has happened on a whole cellar full of this brandy I should like to have as good a chance of buying it as the next man, especially at the price. But in my opinion and in my experience that is too much to hope for, and that is why I have ventured to mention the matter to you.’

A light dawned upon his client.

‘You want me to attend the conference and make certain everything’s above-board?’

‘I hardly dared to suggest it,’ he said, ‘but since you are such an excellent judge, and since your reputation as an investigator—if I may be forgiven the term—is so great, I admit the thought did go through my mind.’

Campion picked up his glass and sniffed its fragrance.

‘My dear man, I’d jump at it,’ he said. ‘Do I pass myself off as a member of the firm?’

Mr Thistledown looked owlish.

‘In the circumstances I think we might connive at that little inexactitude,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I think we’ll have to,’ said Mr Campion.

When he saw the ‘little hotel on the Norfolk coast’ at half-past six on the following Monday afternoon the thought came to him that it was extremely fortunate for the proprietor that it should be so suitable for Mr Papulous’s experiment, for it was certainly not designed to be of much interest to any ordinary winter visitor. It was a large country public-house, not old enough to be picturesque, standing by itself at the end of a lane some little distance from a cold and sleepy village. In the summer, no doubt, it provided a headquarters for a great many picnic parties, but in winter it was deserted.

Inside it was warm and comfortable enough, however, and Campion found a curious little company seated round the fire in the lounge. His host rose to greet him and he was aware at once of a considerable personality.

He saw a tall man with a shy ingratiating manner, whose clothes were elegant and whose face was remarkable. His deep-set eyes were dark and intelligent and his wide mouth could smile disarmingly, but the feature which was most distinctive was the way in which his iron-grey hair drew into a clean-cut peak in the centre of his high forehead, giving him an odd, Mephistophelean appearance.

‘Mr Fellowes?’ he said, using the alias Campion and Mr Thistledown had agreed upon. ‘I heard from your firm this morning. Of course I’m very sorry not to have Mr Thistledown here. He says in his note that I am to regard you as his second self. You handle the French side, I understand?’

‘Yes. It was only by chance that I was in England yesterday when Mr Thistledown asked me to come.’

‘I see.’ Mr Papulous seemed contented with the explanation. Campion looked a mild, inoffensive young man, even a little foolish.

He was introduced to the rest of the company round the fire and was interested to see that Mr Thistledown had been right in his guess. Half a dozen of the best-known smaller and older wine firms were represented, in most cases by their senior partners.

Conversation, however, was not as general as might have been expected among men of such similar interests. On the contrary, there was a distinct atmosphere of restraint, and it occurred to Mr Campion that they were all close rivals and each man had not expected to see the others.

Mr Papulous alone seemed happily unconscious of any discomfort. He stood behind his chair at the head of the group and glanced round him with satisfaction.

‘It’s really very kind of you all to have come,’ he said in his deep musical voice. ‘Very kind indeed. I felt we must have experts, the finest experts in the world, to test this thing, because it’s revolutionary—absolutely revolutionary.’

A large old gentleman with a hint of superciliousness in his manner glanced up.

‘When are we going to come to the horses, Mr Papulous?’

His host turned to him with a depreciatory smile.

‘Not until after dinner, I’m afraid, Mr Jerome. I’m sorry to seem so secretive, but the whole nature of the discovery is so extraordinary that I want you to see the demonstration with your own eyes.’

Mr Jerome, whose name Campion recognized as belonging to the moving spirit of Bolitho Brothers, of St Mary Axe, seemed only partly mollified. He laughed.

‘Is it the salubrious air of this particular hotel that you need for your experiment, may I ask?’ he inquired.

‘Oh no, my dear sir. It’s the stillness.’ Mr Papulous appeared to be completely oblivious of any suggestion of a sneer. ‘It’s the utter quiet. At night, round about ten o’clock, there is a lack of vibration here, so complete that you can almost feel it, if I may use such a contradiction in terms. Now, Mr Fellowes, dinner’s at seven-thirty. Perhaps you’d care to see your room?’

Campion was puzzled. As he changed for the meal—a gesture which seemed to be expected of him—he surveyed the situation with growing curiosity. Papulous was no ordinary customer. He managed to convey an air of conspiracy and mystery while appearing himself as open and simple as the day. Whatever he was up to, he was certainly a good salesman.

The dinner was simple and well cooked and was served by Papulous’s own man. There was no alcohol and the dishes were not highly seasoned, out of deference, their host explained, to the test that was to be put to their palates later on.

When it was over and the mahogany had been cleared of dessert, a glass of water was set before each guest and from the head of the table Mr Papulous addressed his guests. He made a very distinguished figure, leaning forward across the polished wood, the candle-light flickering on his deeply lined face and high heart-shaped forehead.