Mr Campion and Others

THE CASE OF THE WIDOW-3

‘First of all let me recapitulate,’ he said. ‘You all know my name and you have all been kind enough to say that you have read my little book. I mention this because I want you to realize that by asking you down here to witness a most extraordinary demonstration I am taking my reputation in my hands. Having made that point, let me remind you that you have, each of you, with the single exception of Mr Fellowes, been kind enough to give me your considered views on a sample of brandy which I sent you. In every case, I need hardly mention, opinion was the same—a Champagne Fine of 1835.’

A murmur of satisfaction not untinged with relief ran round the table and Mr Papulous smiled.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘frankly that would have been my own opinion had I not known—mark you, I say “known”—that the brandy I sent you was a raw cognac of nearly a hundred years later—to be exact, of 1932.’

There was a moment of bewilderment, followed by an explosion from Mr Jerome.

‘I hope you’re not trying to make fools of us, sir,’ he said severely. ‘I’m not going to sit here, and—’

‘One moment, one moment.’ Papulous spoke soothingly. ‘You really must forgive me. I know you all too well by repute to dare to make such a statement without following it immediately by the explanation to which you are entitled. As you’re all aware, the doctoring of brandy is an old game. Such dreadful additions as vanilla and burnt sugar have all been used in their time and will, no doubt, be used again, but such crude deceptions are instantly detected by the cultured palate. This is something different.’

Mr Jerome began to seethe.

‘Are you trying to interest us in a fake, sir?’ he demanded. ‘Because, if so, let me tell you I, for one, am not interested.’

There was a chorus of hasty assent in which Mr Campion virtuously joined.

Gervaise Papulous smiled faintly.

‘But of course not,’ he said. ‘We are all experts. The true expert knows that no fake can be successful, even should we so far forget ourselves as to countenance its existence. I am bringing you a discovery—not a trick, not a clever fraud, but a genuine discovery which may revolutionize the whole market. As you know, time is the principal factor in the maturing of spirits. Until now time has been the one factor which could not be artificially replaced. An old brandy, therefore, is quite a different thing from a new one.’

Mr Campion blinked. A light was beginning to dawn upon him.

Mr Papulous continued. There seemed to be no stopping him. At the risk of boring his audience he displayed a great knowledge of technical detail and went through the life history of an old liqueur brandy from the time it was an unripe grapeskin on a vine outside Cognac.

When he had finished he paused dramatically, adding softly:

‘What I hope to introduce to you tonight, gentlemen, is the latest discovery of science, a method of speeding up this long and wearisome process so that the whole business of maturing the spirit takes place in a few minutes instead of a hundred years. You have all examined the first-fruits of this method already and have been interested enough to come down here. Shall we go on?’

The effect of his announcement was naturally considerable. Everybody began to talk at once save Mr Campion, who sat silent and thoughtful. It occurred to him that his temporary colleagues were not only interested in making a great deal of money but very much alarmed at the prospect of losing a considerable quantity also.

‘If it’s true it’ll upset the whole damned trade,’ murmured his next-door neighbour, a little thin man with wispy straw-coloured hair.

Papulous rose. ‘In the next room the inventor, M. Philippe Jessant, is waiting to demonstrate,’ he said. ‘He began work on the idea during the period of prohibition in America and his researches were assisted there by one of the richest men in the world, but when the country was restored to sanity his patron lost interest in the work and he was left to perfect it unassisted. You will find him a simple, uneducated, unbusiness-like man, like many inventors. He came to me for help because he had read my little book and I am doing what I can for him by introducing him to you. Conditions are now ideal. The house is perfectly still. Will you come with me?’

The sceptical but excited little company filed into the large ‘commercial’ room on the other side of the passage. The place had been stripped of furniture save for a half-circle of chairs and a large deal table. On the table was a curious contraption, vaguely resembling two or three of those complicated coffee percolators which seemed to be designed solely for the wedding-present trade.

An excitable little man in a long brown overall was standing behind the table. If not an impressive figure, he was certainly an odd one, with his longish hair and gold-rimmed pince-nez.

‘Quiet, please. I must beg of you quiet,’ he commanded, holding up his hand as they appeared. ‘We must have no vibration, no vibration at all, if I am to succeed.’

He had a harsh voice and a curious foreign accent, which Campion could not instantly trace, but his manner was authoritative and the experts tiptoed gently to their seats.

‘Now,’ said Mr Jessant, his small eyes flashing, ‘I leave all explanations to my friend here. For me, I am only interested in the demonstration. You understand?’

He glared at them and Papulous hastened to explain.

‘Mr Jessant does not mean the human voice, of course,’ he murmured. ‘It is vibration, sudden movement, of which he is afraid.’

‘Quiet,’ cut in the inventor impatiently. ‘When a spirit matures in the ordinary way what does it have?—quiet, darkness, peace. These conditions are essential. Now we will begin, if you please.’

It was a simple business. A clear-glass decanter of brandy was produced and duly smelt and sampled by each guest. Papulous himself handed round the glasses and poured the liquid. By unanimous consent it was voted a raw spirit. The years 1932 and 1934 were both mentioned.

Then the same decanter was emptied into the contraption on the table and its progress watched through a system of glass tubes and a filter into a large retort-shaped vessel at the foot of the apparatus.

M. Jessant looked up.

‘Now,’ he said softly. ‘You will come, one at a time, please, and examine my invention. Walk softly.’

The inspection was made and the man in the brown overall covered the retort with a hood composed of something that looked like black rubber. For a while he busied himself with thermometers and a little electric battery.

‘It is going on now,’ he explained, suppressed excitement in his voice. ‘Every second roughly corresponds to a year—a long, dark, dismal year. Now—we shall see.’

The hood was removed, fresh glasses brought, and the retort itself carefully detached from the rest of the apparatus.

Mr Jerome was the first to examine the liquid it contained and his expression was ludicrous in its astonishment.

‘It’s incredible!’ he said at last. ‘Incredible! I can’t believe it. . . . There are certain tests I should like to make, of course, but I could swear this is an 1835 brandy.’

The others were of the same opinion and even Mr Campion was impressed. The inventor was persuaded to do his experiment again. To do him justice he complied willingly.

‘It is the only disadvantage,’ he said. ‘So little can be treated at the one time. I tell my friend I should like to make my invention foolproof and sell the machines and the instructions to the public, but he tells me no.’

‘No indeed!’ ejaculated Mr Campion’s neighbour. ‘Good heavens! it would knock the bottom out of half my trade. . . .’

When at last the gathering broke up in excitement it was after midnight. Mr Papulous addressed his guests.

‘It is late,’ he said. ‘Let us go to bed now and consider the whole matter in the morning when M. Jessant can explain the theory of his process. Meanwhile, I am sure you will agree with me that we all have something to think about.’

A somewhat subdued company trooped off upstairs. There was little conversation. A man does not discuss a revolutionary discovery with his nearest rival.

Campion came down in the morning to find Mr Jerome already up. He was pacing the lounge and turned on the young man almost angrily.

‘I like to get up at six,’ he said without preamble, ‘but there were no servants in the place. A woman, her husband and a maid came along at seven. It seems Papulous made them sleep out. Afraid of vibration, I suppose. Well, it’s an extraordinary discovery, isn’t it? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I should never have believed it. I suppose one’s got to be prepared for progress, but I can’t say I like it. Never did.’

He lowered his voice and came closer.

‘We shall have to get together and suppress it, you know,’ he said. ‘Only thing to do. We can’t have a thing like this blurted out to the public and we can’t have any single firm owning the secret. Anyway, that’s my opinion.’

Campion murmured that he did not care to express his own without first consulting Mr Thistledown.

‘Quite, quite. There’ll be a good many conferences in the City this afternoon,’ said Mr Jerome gloomily. ‘And that’s another thing. D’you know there isn’t a telephone in this confounded pub?’

Campion’s eyes narrowed.

‘Is that so?’ he said softly. ‘That’s very interesting.’

Mr Jerome shot him a suspicious glance.

‘In my opinion. . .’ he began heavily, but got no further. The door was thrust open and the small wispy-haired man, who had been Campion’s neighbour at dinner, came bursting into the room.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘a frightful thing! The little inventor chap has been attacked in the night. His machine is smashed and the plans and formula are stolen. Poor old Papulous is nearly off his head.’

Both Campion and Jerome started for the doorway and a moment later joined the startled group on the landing. Gervaise Papulous, an impressive figure in a long black dressing-gown, was standing with his back to the inventor’s door.

‘This is terrible, terrible!’ he was saying. ‘I beseech you all, go downstairs and wait until I see what is best to be done. My poor friend has only just regained consciousness.’

Jerome pushed his way through the group.

‘But this is outrageous,’ he began.

Papulous towered over him, his eyes dark and angry.

‘It is just as you say, outrageous,’ he said, and Mr Jerome quailed before the suppressed fury in his voice.

‘Look here,’ he began, ‘you surely don’t think . . . you’re not insinuating. . .’

‘I am only thinking of my poor friend,’ said Mr Papulous.

Campion went quietly downstairs.

‘What on earth does this mean?’ demanded the small wispy-haired gentleman, who had remained in the lounge.

Campion grinned. ‘I rather fancy we shall all find that out pretty clearly in about an hour,’ he said.

He was right. Mr Gervaise Papulous put the whole matter to them in the bluntest possible way as they sat dejectedly looking at the remains of what had proved a very unsatisfactory breakfast.

M. Jessant, his head in bandages and his face pale with exhaustion, had told a heart-breaking story. He had awakened to find a pad of chloroform across his mouth and nose. It was dark and he could not see his assailant, who also struck him repeatedly. His efforts to give the alarm were futile and in the end the anaesthetic had overpowered him.