It was a solemn, impressive performance, and I must say he did it well.
"Urn," he said, putting down the glass, running a pink tongue over his lip
s, "Urn--yes. A very interesting little wine gentle and gracious, almost femin
ine in the after-taste."
There was an excess of saliva in his mouth, and as he spoke he spat an occ
asional bright speck of it on to the table.
"Now we can start to eliminate," he said. "You will pardon me for doing
this carefully, but there is much at stake. Normally I would perhaps take a
bit of a chance, leaping forward quickly and landing right in the middle of
the vineyard of my choice. But this time--I must move cautiously this time,
must I not?" He looked up at Mike and he smiled, a thick-lipped, wet-lipped
smile. Mike did not smile back.
"First, then, which district in Bordeaux does this wine come from? That's
not too difficult to guess. It is far too light in the body to be from either
St Emilion or Graves. It is obviously a MŽdoc. There's no doubt about that.
"Now--from which commune in MŽdoc does it come? That also, by elimination,
should not be too difficult to decide. Margaux? No. It cannot be Margaux. It
has not the violent bouquet of a Margaux. Pauillac? It cannot be Pauillac, eit
her. It is too tender, too gentle and wistful for Pauillac. The wine of Pauill
ac has a character that is almost imperious in its taste. And also, to me, a P
auillac contains just a little pith, a curious dusty, pithy flavour that the g
rape acquires from the soil of the district. No, no. This--this is a very gent
le wine, demure and bashful in the first taste, emerging shyly but quite graci
ously in the second. A little arch, perhaps, in the second taste, and a little
naughty also, teasing the tongue with a trace, just a trace of tannin. Then,
in the after-taste, delightful--consoling and feminine, with a certain blithel
y generous quality that one associates only with the wines of the commune of S
t Julien. Unmistakably this is a St Julien."
He leaned back in his chair, held his hands up level with his chest, and
placed the fingertips carefully together. He was becoming ridiculously Pompou
s, but I thought that some of it was deliberate, simply to mock his host. I f
ound myself waiting rather tensely for him to go on. The girl Louise was ligh
ting a cigarette. Pratt heard the match strike and he turned on her, flaring
suddenly with real anger. "Please!" he said. "Please don't do that! It's a di
sgusting habit, to smoke at table!"
She looked up at him, still holding the burning match in one hand, the b
ig slow eyes settling on his face, resting there a moment, moving away again
, slow and contemptuous. She bent her head and blew out the match, but conti
nued to hold the unlighted cigarette in her fingers.
"I'm sorry, my dear," Pratt said, "but I simply cannot have smoking at tabl
e."
She didn't look at him again.
"Now, let me see--where were we?" he said. "Ah, yes. This wine is from
Bordeaux, from the commune of St Julien, in the district of MŽdoc. So far,
so good. But now we come to the more difficult part--the name of the vineya
rd itself. For in St Julien there are many vineyards, and as our host so ri
ghtly remarked earlier on, there is often not much difference between the w
ine of one and wine of another. But we shall see."
He paused again, closing his eyes. "I am trying to establish the 'growth',"
he said. "If I can do that, it will be half the battle. Now, let me see. This
wine is obviously not from a first-growth vineyard nor even a second. It is not
a great wine. The quality, the--the--what do you call it?--the radiance, the p
ower, is lacking. But a third growth--that it could be. And yet I doubt it. We
know it is a good year--our host has said so--and this is probably flattering i
t a little bit. I must be careful. I must be very careful here."
He picked up his glass and took another small sip.
"Yes," he said, sucking his lips, "I was right. It is a fourth growth. N
ow I am sure of it. A fourth growth from a very good year from a great year,
in fact. And that's what made it taste for a moment like a third--or even a
second-growth wine. Good! That's better! Now we are closing in! What are th
e fourth-growth vineyards in the commune of St Julien?"
Again he paused, took up his glass, and held the rim against that saggin
g, pendulous lower lip of his. Then I saw the tongue shoot out, pink and nar
row, the tip of it dipping into the wine, withdrawing swiftly again--a repul
sive sight. When he lowered the glass, his eyes remained closed, the face co
ncentrated, only the lips moving, sliding over each other like two pieces of
wet, spongy rubber.
"There it is again!" he cried. "Tannin in the middle taste, and the quic
k astringent squeeze upon the tongue. Yes, yes, of course! Now I have it! Th
e wine comes from one of those small vineyards around Beychevelle. I remembe
r now. The Beychevelle district, and the river and the little harbour that h
as silted up so the wine ships can no longer use it. Beychevelle... could it
actually be a Beychevelle itself? No, I don't think so. Not quite. But it i
s somewhere very close. Ch‰teau Talbot? Could it be Talbot? Yes, it could. W
ait one moment."
He sipped the wine again, and out of the side of my eye I noticed Mike S
chofield and how he was leaning farther and farther forward over the table,
his mouth slightly open, his small eyes fixed upon Richard Pratt.
"No. I was wrong. It is not a Talbot. A Talbot comes forward to you just a
little quicker than this one; the fruit is nearer the surface. If it is a '34,
which I believe it is, then it couldn't be Talbot. Well, well. Let me think. It
is not a Beychevelle and it is not a Talbot, and yet--yet it is so close to bo
th of them, so close, that the vineyard must be almost in between. Now, which c
ould that be?
He hesitated, and we waited, watching his face. Everyone, even Mike's w
ife, was watching him now. I heard the maid put down the dish of vegetables
on the sideboard behind me, gently, so as not to disturb the silence.
"Ah!" he cried. "I have it! Yes, I think I have it!"
For the last time, he sipped the wine. Then, still holding the glass up n
ear his mouth, he turned to Mike and he smiled, a slow, silky smile, and he s
aid, "You know what this is? This is the little Ch‰teau Branaire-Ducru."
Mike sat tight, not moving.
"And the year, 1934."
We all looked at Mike, waiting for him to turn the bottle around in its ba
sket and show the label.
"Is that your final answer?" Mike said.
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, is it or isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"What was the name again?"
"Ch‰teau Branaire-Ducru. Pretty little vineyard. Lovely old ch‰teau. Kno
w it quite well. Can't think why I didn't recognize it at once."
"Come on, Daddy," the girl said. "Turn it round and let's have a peek. I
want my two houses."
"Just a minute," Mike said. "Wait just a minute." He was sitting very qu
iet, bewilderedlooking, and his face was becoming puffy and pale, as though
all the force was draining slowly out of him.
"Michael!" his wife called sharply from the other end of the table. "What'
s the matter?"
"Keep out of this, Margaret, will you please."
Richard Pratt was looking at Mike, smiling with his mouth, his eyes smal
l and bright. Mike was not looking at anyone.
"Daddy!" the daughter cried, agonized. "But, Daddy, you don't mean to sa
y he guessed it right!"
"Now, stop worrying, my dear," Mike said. "There's nothing to worry abo
ut."
I think it was more to get away from his family than anything else that Mik
e then turned to Richard Pratt and said, "I'll tell you what, Richard. I think
you and I better slip off into the next room and have a little chat."
"I don't want a little chat," Pratt said. "All I want is to see the label
on that bottle." He knew he was a winner now; he had the bearing, the quiet
arrogance of a winner, and I could see that he was prepared to become thoroug
hly nasty if there was any trouble. "What are you waiting for?" he said to Mi
ke. "Go on and turn it round."
Then this happened: the maid, the tiny, erect figure of the maid in her w
hite-and-black uniform, was standing beside Richard Pratt, holding something out in her hand. "I believe these are yours, sir," she said.
Pratt glanced around, saw the pair of thin horn-rimmed spectacles that s
he held out to him, and for a moment he hesitated. "Are they? Perhaps they a
re, I don't know."
"Yes, sir, they're yours." The maid was an elderly woman--nearer seventy
than sixty--a faithful family retainer of many years' standing. She put the
spectacles down on the table beside him.
Without thanking her, Pratt took them up and slipped them into his top p
ocket, behind the white handkerchief.
But the maid didn't go away. She remained standing beside and slightly
behind Richard Pratt, and there was something so unusual in her manner and
in the way she stood there, small, motionless and erect, that I for one fou
nd myself watching her with a sudden apprehension. Her old grey face had a
frosty, determined look, the lips were compressed, the little chin was out,
and the hands were clasped together tight before her. The curious cap on h
er head and the flash of white down the front of her uniform made her seem
like some tiny, ruffled, white-breasted bird.
"You left them in Mr Schofield's study," she said. Her voice was unnatura
lly, deliberately polite. "On top of the green filing cabinet in his study, s
ir, when you happened to go in there by yourself before dinner."
It took a few moments for the full meaning of her words to penetrate, an
d in the silence that followed I became aware of Mike and how he was slowly
drawing himself up in his chair, and the colour coming to his face, and the
eyes opening wide, and the curl of the mouth, and the dangerous little patch
of whiteness beginning to spread around the area of the nostrils.
"Now, Michael!" his wife said. "Keep calm now, Michael dear! Keep cal
m!