There, next morning, in the tranquillity of a forgotten world, Trent played with a glass of fine dry sherry as he talked with his friend, who, as he told him, was growing with the passage of time more than ever like Vandyke’s portrait of Jacobus van der Geest. Soon Trent turned the conversation to the subject of corks.
‘Corks!’ said William Clerihew with a prefatory cough. (He was not altogether indifferent to the sound of his own voice.) ‘They are almost as interesting as wine itself. The life of the wine is the life of the cork. There is a fascination in the brave cork which has preserved the beauty of an ancient wine for half a century or more against the assaults of its countless enemies. If only we could discover one of the secrets of the cork, it would be worth a king’s ransom. Why does a cork, carefully chosen and to all appearances worthy of its high destiny, every now and then turn traitor, and infect the wine under its charge with the taste and smell of corruption? Does the evil come from within the bottle or without, or does it lie dormant in the cork itself? Science has no answer. Thousands and thousands of pounds are wasted on corked wine, and thousands and thousands of pounds have been expended on researches to discover the microbe—if it is a microbe—but it eludes the microscope, the filter and every device known to chemistry.’
Clerihew was launched on a favourite subject. Trent began to suggest that it was not quite from that point of view that he was interested in corks; and instantly his friend’s eloquence took another direction.
‘Ah! you are thinking of the history of the cork, of course. So far as I know, the ancient Greeks did not use corks for their wines. On the other hand, the Romans used them sometimes as stoppers for their amphoræ—you know your Horace—perhaps for those small glass amphoræ of rare wines of which Petronius speaks. In the Dark Ages the cork was forgotten, like nearly everything else. For centuries wine was drunk from the wood, and the bottle started life as a glass jug to convey the wine from the wood to the table. Legend has it that Dom Perignon, a monk of Hautvillers in Champagne, discovered at the end of the seventeenth century the use of the cork as a stopper for wine-bottles, and by its virtue enriched the world with sparkling Champagne. It is more flattering, I think, to the learning of the worthy Benedictine to suppose that he remembered his Horace, and simply re-introduced the Roman use of the bark of the cork-oak.’
Clerihew paused for breath, and Trent seized the fleeting opportunity.
‘It is, in point of fact, about a Champagne cork that I want to consult you.’ He described with as much exactitude as possible the cork that had been found among the contents of Randolph’s pockets.
‘Clearly, an excellent cork,’ the wine-merchant said. ‘The graceful shape—the texture grown firm with years of perpetual pressure. As for the brand—’ he paused, savouring his memories of a great vintage as lovingly as if they had been the wine itself.
‘Felix Poubelle 1884, a beautiful wine, a wine to be remembered, a wine of great character and delicacy which even now, in its old age, is superb. It contained, I believe, an unusually high proportion of white grapes. You know how largely the black grapes enter into the composition of most Champagnes … Of course it is very old now; but to my mind a great Champagne rises to its noblest heights when through the alchemy of time it has laid aside the thoughtless effervescence of youth, that suspicion of vulgarity …’
A vague gesture completed the sentence, and Trent hastened to put the practical question which was the object of his visit.
‘Are there, do you know, any restaurants in London where you can find a Felix Poubelle 1884 on the wine-list?’
Clerihew shook his head pensively.
‘I have a few bottles myself, but you are not likely to find it on the list of any restaurant. Old Champagnes are among the rarest of wines. They are too expensive; a huge amount of capital lies idle while they are aging, and then only the bottles with the best corks survive. No; old Champagnes are no wines for the ordinary restaurant keeper. He would hardly put Felix Poubelle 1884 on his list—most customers would think it was far too old.’ Again he shook his head; then added, ‘But there are three, perhaps four, old-fashioned restaurants where you might find a stray bottle or two in the cellars.’
Trent’s look of disappointment vanished. ‘My dear Will!’ he exclaimed. ‘My oracle and prophet! Let me into the secret of those few and, I fear, costly places of refreshment.’
Clerihew mentioned the names of four restaurants; all small, all exclusive, and all outrageously dear.
‘Hm! I thought as much,’ Trent said. ‘None of them is exactly the sort of place I pick when I have a trifling foolish banquet towards. They don’t give bread with one fish-ball, as the song says. Well, William, you see my idea. Randolph, as I told you, seems to have had this cork in his pocket on the day he was murdered. I am interested, as the police are, in the question of who killed him. It seems to me just possible that some light may be thrown on that, if we can find out where that cork came from, and why he was carrying it about with him. He probably got it at lunch that day, because his man says he never knew him to have a cork in his possession before; and he did go out to lunch somewhere, though where is not known. Now if there was anybody with him at lunch, I should like to meet him, and hear what he may have to say about it, and what they discussed over the walnuts and the wine. Also, merely as a matter of curiosity, I should value any suggestion he might have to make as to why any person, being of sound mind, should walk off after his meal with a champagne cork.’
Clerihew considered a few moments. ‘Yes; I suppose it might be worth following up. And as for the explanation you say you would value—I can give you one myself, for what it is worth. It is not worth much, I should say.’
‘William! You are a wonder.’ Trent raised his glass of sherry. ‘Here’s to the long life and prosperity of the Amalgamated Federation of Cork-Snatchers, coupled with the name of Mr Clerihew, who will now address the meeting on the present position and immediate aims of that ancient institution.’
A reminiscent smile hovered on Clerihew’s lips. ‘I put a champagne cork in my pocket one evening,’ he said, ‘and carried it away, for a special reason. The truth of it is that I had lost my temper. Perhaps Mr Randolph had that cork in his pocket because he too had lost his temper.’ He smiled again as he offered this enlightening suggestion.
Trent struck the arm of his chair lightly. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before? When you lose your temper, you put a cork in your pocket—a quaint and widespread custom, traceable ultimately to the nature-worship and marriage ritual of the Solomon Islanders, as mentioned in The Golden Bough. The cork may be used to bite on, so as to prevent the teeth from grinding; or it may be forced down your enemy’s throat; or it may be burnt, so that you can black his face like a seaside nigger’s. Yes; a cork is clearly the very thing for an angry man. Its possibilities are endless.’
‘All right,’ Clerihew said equably. ‘I know what I’m talking about, and it is an explanation, though very likely it isn’t the right one. You asked me to tell you, didn’t you? Now can you tell me, first, whether Mr Randolph knew anything about wine? He had a cellar, I suppose, at that place of his in Yorkshire.’
‘Yes,’ Trent said, ‘he had; and he looked after it carefully, too. He told me so himself, when I was staying there; and certainly what I had was good. He drank very little wine himself; but he told me—as he would, of course—that he believed in doing a thing well, if you did it at all. He got his wine from Hughes & Saunders.’
‘Very good people,’ Clerihew observed with amiable condescension. ‘It is possible he may have heard from them what I am going to tell you now—though mind you, it isn’t everybody, even in the trade, that knows it.’ And the wine-merchant proceeded to impart that esoteric knowledge for which he had so carefully prepared the way.
Armed with this information, Trent set forth on the quest of Felix Poubelle 1884. His first visit was to that mysterious little place known as L’Ecrevisse Souffrante, hidden
shyly in the basement of a large building near the markets. There he was received with empressement by the French head-waiter and his henchmen, who bustled about him; but their solicitude was ill-rewarded, for he refused to remove his coat until he had inspected the wine-list. Waiters fluttered about with the bill of fare; but as it was early for a London luncheon, some minutes passed before the sommelier could be brought up from even lower depths than the dining-room, presumably from his beloved cellars.
While waiting, Trent spoke more in sorrow than in anger to the head-waiter and his satellites.
‘I should not have thought that a restaurant of such repute would have fallen into this senseless habit of expecting its guests to choose their food before they decide on their wine. Do people buy a frame and then pick out a picture to match it? This cart-before-the-horse idea is heart-breaking. I have come here especially in search of a certain wine—a Champagne in fact. If you have it, I shall order a meal planned to bring out its finest qualities. If not, I shall just say good-by.’
The subordinate waiters—Italians for the most part—were most sympathetic, because they had only the vaguest idea what Trent was talking about; but even they showed signs of relief when the wine-waiter, hastily adjusting his chain of office, appeared.
He had caught the word Champagne, and his resentment at being disturbed by a guest who lunched too early was mollified; for Champagne sounded like a good tip. He was grey-haired, with the white whiskers proper to his office; and he appeared to belong to that nameless tribe which talks all languages equally fluently and incorrectly, but has none of its own.
Trent put the wine-list aside after a brief inspection. ‘These wines are no use to me,’ he said. ‘Have you no Champagnes such as your special customers might ask for—wines that are not on the list? Felix Poubelle 1884, for instance?’
‘Excuse, Señor, ze vine of Champagna ees not goot ven eet ees alt. Dopo tventi anni eet perds eets gleam and becommt as you say in Engleesh plat.’
‘I did not come here,’ Trent said with severity, ‘for a lecture on Champagne. I want a bottle of Felix Poubelle 1884, and if you have not got it I will go elsewhere.’
The wine-waiter was ‘ver’ sorry’; all the waiters were in the same condition. Trent departed from the Suffering Crayfish.
He was no more fortunate at the Huître aux Perles. The oyster might have pearls, but it had no Felix Poubelle 1884.
Thence he took a taxi to a restaurant known as Porter’s. It was famous for its English cooking and its English waiters, but the official who presided over the wine was French. He almost wept on Trent’s shoulder in the joy of finding a client who ordered his wine before his food.
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘Monsieur will perhaps take Bourgogne.’
His face fell when Trent asserted his intention of drinking Champagne. He, as least, had no respect for customers who ordered that beverage. Trent noticed the change in the man’s manner, and was the more authoritative in his examination of the wine-list.
Again there was no sign of Felix Poubelle 1884.
With reproachful sadness he shook his head. ‘I expected better of you than this. I must have a really old Champagne. Indeed there is only one wine I fancy at the moment—Felix Poubelle 1884.’
A look of amazement passed over the waiter’s face.
‘Felix Poubelle 1884! By an extraordinary hazard, Monsieur, we have three bottles; but it has not been on the list for years.’
Before Trent could say another word, the sommelier had bustled off. Trent, feeling that he had reached his goal, sat down and ordered himself a meal fit to celebrate the occasion. In a minute or two the precious bottle was presented for inspection. Trent’s reputation went up when, after assuring himself that the bottle was really cold, he said he would have it at cellar temperature.
‘I suppose,’ he remarked to the waiter, ‘you don’t often sell any Champagne as old as this.’
Again the waiter’s eyebrows threatened to mingle with his hair. ‘It is very curious, Monsieur, but I sold a bottle of this same wine only last week, although it was years since it had been asked for. Monsieur knows, it is easy to see, how remarkable this wine is, but there are few others who would think so—few, in effect, capable of judging it. For almost everyone it is too old; they require what you call the kick, n’est-ce-pas?’ He snapped his fingers illustratively; then added with tolerant pity, ‘They know no better.’
‘Certainly there are not many of us acquainted with this wine at least,’ Trent said, refraining from the admission that he had never tasted it in his life. ‘It is even possible that your client of last week was an acquaintance of mine. What was he like?’
The wine-waiter’s lips, eyebrows and shoulders co-operated ably to suggest a certain distaste. ‘He was old—much more old than Monsieur, d’un air bourru, the eyes hard; if I dare say so, not very sympathetic. But he knew something about wine. He said to me that if he must drink Champagne he would have an old wine, and I mentioned this as the best.’
Trent looked at him reflectively. ‘Yes; that must have been my man. You describe him to the life. And I think there was—was there not?—some slight unpleasantness on that occasion.’
The waiter busied himself in silence with the opening of the bottle. He handed Trent the cork—own brother, as he could see, to the one which Inspector Bligh had shown him. Then he said, ‘Eh bien, it is clear that Monsieur has heard all about that.’
‘My only reason for coming here,’ Trent said coolly, ‘was that I knew the gentleman in question had had a bottle of this wine.’
The waiter nodded as he completed the filling of Trent’s glass. ‘Yes; it is true, there was a little incident. You see, your friend had taken a private room, and the service was in charge of an English waiter—the personnel is English here, as Monsieur probably knows—a little man who is quite ignorant on the subject of wine. I do not as a rule attend the private rooms myself. When the old gentleman spoke of Champagne, this waiter had the presumption to recommend a sparkling wine—Monsieur knows what I mean—not a Champagne, but a wine of fantasy.’
‘I do indeed know what you mean—some cheap white wine with carbonic acid gas pumped into it to make it fizz.’
‘Parfaitement, Monsieur. In this country there are people who drink such wine. It is less dear, of course. But your friend was much annoyed—and he was right—at the suggestion that he should drink Silver Foam, as it is called. Et voilà toute l’histoire!’
Trent was already occupied with the spoonful of caviar which had just been set before him. ‘Not quite all the story, perhaps,’ he suggested quietly. ‘Was there not a question of a cork?’
The waiter looked away. ‘I do not understand, Monsieur.’
‘I am not sure of that. Listen; I am going to imagine for you what happened. This acquaintance of mine was annoyed, not only because the wine with the lyrical name was recommended to him—but because he knew why it was recommended. And you know also, naturally.’
The waiter’s mobile face expressed a blank bewilderment.
‘It is a bad custom,’ Trent went on, ‘but it is not, after all, the fault of the restaurants or their personnel. It was the Champagne firms who began it. Competition between them was so keen that one of them started the practice of paying a commission on each cork which a waiter could produce to the company’s agent. Then they all had to do the same. Then—since we live in an age of business organization—a cork-exchange was formed for collecting the corks and disbursing the commissions. But a time came when all that defeated itself.’
Here the waiter permitted himself a restrained smile as his wandering eye met Trent’s; but he remained silent.
‘The firm which concocts the stuff called Silver Foam pays a higher bonus than is paid upon any true Champagne cork. That is why your English waiter dwelt upon the merits of that superb liquid. And if the client happened to know about this nefarious traffic, that is why he was enraged. That is why he sent, perhaps, for the sommelier, and obtained from him
the excellent advice to try Felix Poubelle 1884. And that, finally, is why he put the cork in his pocket as soon as the culpable waiter had opened the bottle.’
The waiter cast aside his embarrassment and faced Trent with a candid brow. ‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘Monsieur is well informed. It is not to be denied that this deplorable system exists, and that it may lead to bêtises sometimes. The gentleman pocketed the cork for that reason, no doubt. I am very sorry.’
‘I am not so sorry,’ Trent said, ‘since it has led me to your establishment, where I hope to obtain certain information. I must explain that the gentleman of whom we have been speaking is dead, murdered. He was named Mr James Randolph, and as you may have read in the papers, he was killed on the night of Wednesday last—the day when he had luncheon here.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ the waiter exclaimed with starting eyes. He slapped his forehead. ‘I saw his photograph in the papers, but I did not recall the face. I can see now that it was the same. Mon Dieu!’
‘The police officer who is in charge of the case,’ Trent went on quickly, ‘is one of my friends, and I am giving him my assistance in the inquiry. I am trying to learn what I can about this luncheon, because it may have some importance—one cannot say. Now you can, if you will, tell me certain things—you can see that, in the circumstances, no harm will be done if you do so. In the first place, if Mr Randolph had a private room, presumably he did not lunch alone.’
The waiter hesitated and looked uncomfortable. ‘Monsieur, you understand that in our profession it is necessary to be very discreet. But in the circumstances, as Monsieur says, I will speak frankly. One must assist the law, after all; and if there should be an official inquiry—’
‘You can count upon that,’ Trent assured him, ‘if I should not be satisfied with what I can learn now.’
‘Well then, Mr Randolph had, in fact, a lady with him.’
‘A lady! That’s interesting. Can you describe the lady for me?’
Trent's Own Case Page 16
