Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
“The auction?” Nic questioned.
He looked concerned. “Yes, surely Mr. Sheraton explained the purpose of my request to your company? I want someone—”
“I understand that,” Nic said, “but I didn’t realize that the auction was today. I thought we were merely going to talk about what you have in mind, devise a bidding strategy, and agree on—”
“Ah!” he said, looking alarmed. “Perhaps I didn’t explain myself clearly to Mr. Sheraton. No, the auction is today at eleven A.M.” He examined Nic’s face anxiously. “It’s really very simple. I can tell you in a few minutes what I want. We will take a taxi and be at the auction rooms in half an hour. Plenty of time, you see.” A thought struck him. “Do you have a lot of preparing to do? I’m sorry, I know nothing about auctions and I didn’t realize—”
“No, no, it’s all right. I can handle it this way.”
Nic felt protective toward him — he had a helplessness about him and so obviously had an acute sensitivity about being the neophyte on the verge of getting tossed into the threatening arena of the auction.
“Are you sure?” He pushed his glasses farther up on his nose. “The auction is today though, and it’s very important to me to—”
“It’s okay, really. Do you have a catalog?”
“Yes, right here.” Cedric Cranston pulled one from his pocket and handed it to Nic.
“First,” Nic said, “can you tell me what you have in mind? What are you looking for? Some particular lot, one of the better buys...?”
“I want to buy one wine.”
“One lot?”
“No, I—”
“One case?”
“No, one bottle.”
“One bottle,” Nic repeated weakly. “Well, okay, any bottle in particular?”
“Oh yes, very definitely. I want a bottle of Leoville-Barton Bordeaux, 1959.”
Nic felt a slight quickening of the pulse. The day might be an interesting one after all. On its way to the Atlantic Ocean, the Gironde River runs through France, past vineyards that produce excellent red wines. Rich in history, this region has been inspiring minds and enlivening bodies with its products for more than a thousand years.
At the northern end of this string of vineyards are those clustered around the village of St. Julien, where one of the outstanding chateaux is that of Leoville-Barton. The wines are world renowned, and their silkiness of body, combined with an unusually attractive bouquet, has put them in great demand. As Nic’s mind rapidly recalled this information, an obvious question arose.
“Mind telling me why that particular wine?”
Cedric Cranston smiled apologetically. “I don’t suppose it’s the kind of reason that would make much sense to anybody else.” His expression suggested that he considered that explanation sufficient to answer Nic’s question.
Nic felt only a frustration that the response told him nothing. He was about to press the point, but instead he asked, “You’ve looked at the catalog, have you?”
“Yes, certainly.” He nodded vigorously.
“The Leoville is one of the items to be auctioned, I take it?”
“Of course.” He sounded aggrieved. “I wouldn’t bring you here for nothing. No, no,” he went on, “one bottle of the wine is in the catalog and I want to buy it.”
“I haven’t had a chance to check what the listing on a Leoville of that vintage is currently,” Nic said, “but I would guess it will be close to two thousand dollars.”
Nic waited for him to throw up his hands in horror. Instead, Cranston said placidly, “That would be good if I could get it for that price.”
“Do you have a limit on the bidding?”
“No limit,” he said so promptly that it was clear he had thought about this at length.
“If you don’t have a limit, why do you need me?” Nic asked. The client was paying the fee and it was really no concern of Nic’s, but he was consumed with curiosity. Cedric Cranston didn’t appear to take offense in any way. Behind the big lenses, his eyes seemed to grow bigger and rounder.
“I don’t know the ropes. All that tapping the side of the nose, holding a hand against the cheek, pulling an earlobe — I don’t know all those signals to the auctioneer or what they mean.”
“Not likely to be any of that here,” Nic said. “You’ve seen too many movies about auctioning paintings worth twenty million or more.”
“What about those paddles they wave?”
“The bidders here won’t use paddles; they’ll use the catalog. A discreet wave of it will mean moving up to the next price level. You may see only a flicker of the program if someone wants to maintain a low profile.”
“I don’t know those levels either.” He was determined to find reasons to have Nic bid for him, that was obvious. Nic still wondered why.
“Maybe it will be a hundred dollars a jump, sometimes it’s fifty,” Nic told him, “for a price around this mark.”
Cranston nodded eagerly.
“Do you have any reason to believe that someone will be bidding against you?” Nic asked. “Someone who will push the price up?”
“No,” he said, then he added, “Well, not necessarily.” He didn’t attempt to elaborate and didn’t appear to be about to do so.
Oh Roger, Nic thought, what have you dropped me into here?
“I really want that wine,” Cranston said suddenly. He had raised his voice and, realizing it, glanced around nervously in case he had been overheard. No one was anywhere near them. The desk was on the other side of the lobby, and the young man and the young woman behind it were well out of earshot.
“Listen,” he said, in a lower tone, “the difference between what you can get it for and, say, three thousand dollars — I’m willing to give you half of it as a bonus.”
Nic was not mercenary, he often told himself, but that was a tempting offer. On the other hand, Cedric Cranston had no way of knowing it, but dangling a bonus of that amount didn’t make any difference to the effort Nic would make to buy it for him. He was the client and Nic would do his utmost to satisfy him. During his career to date, brief as it was, there had been numerous temptations to make money from wines illegally. He had resisted all of them. He didn’t consider it as being particularly honorable; his parents had instilled an honesty and integrity into his upbringing and he saw that as the way to live. Money was nice to have, but his tastes were not extreme, and a life of luxury obtained through bribery and corruption did not appeal to him.
Still, this whole affair was so extraordinary that he wondered what forces were being exerted that he knew nothing about. There was a certain fascination in solving the puzzle and he was set on doing just that.
Anyway, what did he have to lose? Nothing. He was here to do a job and do it to the best of his ability. This was certainly an assignment that was intriguing in the extreme. He didn’t understand it and he wanted to. He still had plenty to learn in the wine business and undeniable factors seemed to be at work here that he had never encountered before.
They took a taxi from the hotel after another ten minutes of discussion that brought no further elucidation.
Nic had the opportunity to glance through the catalog as the taxi wove its way through the city traffic. Some prestigious and valuable wines were on auction and the proportion of single bottles was higher than usual. Most auctions sell by the case, which brings more total revenue.
Cedric Cranston had handed the taxi driver a piece of paper with an address on it when they left the Huntington Hotel, so Nic didn’t know exactly where they were going, but there was enough sun that he knew they were heading south into San Mateo. They pulled clear of the traffic and were able to make better time.
“We’ll be turning off and going toward Half Moon Bay,” Cedric said eventually. “Graystone Manor is just off Highway 1 and has a great view of the Pacific Ocean.”