Mediterranean Nights

by Dennis Wheatley

  On the other hand, it is not recorded that he shared my good fortune in having a mother-in-law then staying on the sea front at the Carlton whose zest for life was only equalled by her generosity, and whose true wisdom once caused her to declare: ‘I cannot take my money away when I die, and it is so much better for all of us that I should see you children enjoy it while I am here than leave it to you when you may not be able to enjoy it any longer.’

  She was certainly well off but not rich in the sense that she could afford to disregard money; yet she was the sort of woman who would press a 1,000-franc note into the hand of one of her sons-in-law after a good dinner and whisper: ‘See to the bill for me, dear, and keep whatever is over for a taxi home.’

  It is my firm belief that she has transferred her gold into a bank from which no customer ever needs an overdraft; and that when she goes to the place beyond the Shadows there will always be young people to make merry with her.

  ‘A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE…’

  I

  IF I HAD not been a wine merchant I should never have been dragged into the affair—and as it turned out to be such a desperate business it was lucky for Toby Sinclair that I happened to supply his drink.

  Have you ever been to Biarritz in the beginning of September?—that is the time, you know. They call it the Spanish Season, although nothing like so many wealthy Spaniards go there since poor Alfonso lost his job. Anyhow, last year I thought I’d have a fortnight’s fun at Biarritz before going on to Bordeaux for the Vintage.

  Johnnie Thornton was to have gone with me, but at the last minute he let me down because his partner underwent a nasty operation, so the evening after my arrival I was doing the round of the hotels, on the off-chance of running into someone that I knew.

  I’d done the Carlton and the Angleterre, then I strolled into the lounge of the du Palais, although I hardly expected to find any of my friends there. It is the real top-notcher, where the millionaires and film stars stay—a guinea a minute for a bedroom and fifty a week extra for a bath—you know the sort of thing! Anyway, I was just making my way over to a vacant table when I heard someone exclaim: ‘Why, hullo, Brandon!—you’re just the one man in the world I want to see.’

  I suppose I looked a bit astonished—it was Toby Sinclair. You must have heard of him—his father left him a million a few years ago, and he has since become famous as a motor-racing ace.

  He buys a lot of wine, and often comes to my office in Pall Mall, but apart from business I hardly know him—and when we’ve run across each other in London he has never given me more than a casual nod, so I was a little taken aback by his sudden warmth.

  ‘Come and sit down—that is, if you can spare a minute,’ he said, drawing me over to his table, ‘and let me introduce you to the Baron de Selac.’

  ‘Sejac,’ corrected the broad-shouldered Frenchman quickly as we shook hands.

  ‘Sorry.’ Tony’s rather boyish smile lit up his freckled face for a second as he beckoned to a waiter. ‘Have a drink, Brandon—what’s it to be?’

  I ordered a Gin Fizz, and he went on at once:

  ‘Look here—you must be wondering why I seized on you just now, but we’re talking wine. The Baron is one of the big boys in Bordeaux—you’ll probably know his firm.’

  I grinned politely. It is a common delusion with laymen that their wine merchant must have done business at one time or another with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who lives within fifty miles of Bordeaux, or any city of the Rhine. Actually, of course, there are thousands of them, and we only deal with about a dozen or so in either case: the big people who cater specially for the English market, and whose wines have given us satisfaction for generations. Naturally I asked the name of the Frenchman’s firm, although I didn’t expect for a moment that I should know anything about them.

  ‘Sejac, Père et Fils,’ he answered promptly with a little bow. ‘Our trade with England is not great, but it may be that our name is known to you, Monsieur?’

  I’d never heard of them in my life, but I hedged a bit, not wishing to offend the man. ‘You are Negociants, are you not?’ I inquired, knowing that most of these fellows style themselves merchants, although in the majority of cases they only own a vineyard or two, and sell their crop to the big shippers for export.

  He waved a large, bejewelled hand in deprecation. ‘A term that covers a multitude of transactions, Monsieur—in my case it is hardly justified. I am Proprietor with a number of Domains, but I sell mostly to Calvet, Creuze, Barton Guestier—these people you will know. However, at Sejac in the St. Emilion we make a very pretty wine—and of that I sell a little to my private friends in Paris, and to my English friends also.’

  So that was the idea! He was frank about it anyhow, and I saw young Sinclair being landed with two or three barracks of the fellow’s wine. Naturally I wasn’t any too pleased. Mind you, it wasn’t so much that I should lose Sinclair’s order, although if he bought from the Baron he wouldn’t buy from me as far as Claret was concerned, but I’ve seen it happen so often.

  My customers go abroad—meet somebody like this plausible Frenchman, and try a bottle or two of their wine. Of course it tastes perfection when it is drunk on a vine-covered terrace with the bright sunshine playing on the vineyards spread out at your feet. The price sounds incredibly cheap—cheap enough to make the English wine merchant seem a bloated profiteer, and it is cheap too—if you could stay and drink it there, but you can’t—that’s just the trouble. It has got to be shipped home, and there’s the duty to pay, and the freight, and insurance—so it’s not quite such a marvellous bargain when you get it on the other side. But the sea journey is the real difficulty; unless it is a really first-class wine, or prepared by a shipper who knows his business, it turns sharp and acid, and then the trouble begins.

  The customer comes into my office with a sheepish sort of smile, and says: ‘Look here, Brandon—when I was in Madeira’ (or Lisbon—or Spain) ‘last year I bought a lot of wine—silly thing to do, I suppose, but it tasted marvellous there. Perhaps the fellow did me down and sent a different kind, anyhow it hasn’t turned out too well, so I was wondering if you could take it off my hands. Of course I don’t expect to get my money back, but I shall be wanting a little proper stuff from you.’ Then I have to pretend to be sympathetic and deal with his bargain. I’m not saying, mark you, that it’s impossible for an Englishman outside the trade to buy good wines cheap abroad, but it needs real knowledge and experience, and in nine cases out of ten it ends up by our putting it in one of the London sale-rooms to be sold without reserve.

  Sinclair cut in on my train of thought. ‘We were talking about the ’28 and ’29 Clarets, Brandon. The Baron assures me that the ’28 was far the better year, and unless my memory is playing me tricks I’ll swear that you were all for the ’29’s when you suggested I should put some down for future use.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I told him, ‘and I stick to my opinion. For your purpose the ’29’s would prove much more satisfactory.’

  De Sejac screwed up his little black eyes as he watched me, and ran one hand down his thick, silky beard. He must have been a man of fifty at least, and a Frenchman of the old school. Suddenly he jerked himself forward and tapped the table with one fat forefinger. ‘But the ’28’s are better wines, Monsieur—glorious things—full of fruit, and life and vigour. The ’29’s are delicate, beautiful perhaps, and it is amazing that two such years should come together—but you must agree that it is the ’28 which is outstanding—it will be the wine of the century!’

  I nodded. Naturally I had heard it all before, and he was right in a way. The ’28’s are bigger, and in years to come the real claret lovers will rave about them—but that is just the trouble, the very fact that they are so fine makes them of doubtful commercial value for the moment. It will be twenty or thirty years before they are at their best, and who, in these uncertain times, can afford to put wine away for a quarter of a century? It’s hard luck on the Bordeaux people because they got trem
endously excited about the ’28’s and in the ordinary way would have sold them at fine prices. Then ’29 came along, another splendid vintage but lighter—more elegant, and wines which will be perfection in ten years’ time, so the English merchants have been buying ’29’s which are a business proposition, and the Frenchman has got the ’28’s still on his hands. I put the case as mildly as I could.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ De Sejac hastened to agree. ‘That is the difference. For an old man it would be a stupidity to put down ’28’s. Like those so wonderful ’70’s, it will be many years before they mature—he would not live to see them in their beauty; but Monsieur Sinclair is young—when he reaches my age what a joy to have such wines in his cellar! Let him have a little ’29 also to fill the years between, but in these days it is so rare to meet a young man who has the true love of fine wine—and the fortunate finance to indulge his tastes. For him to overlook the ’28’s—it would be calamity!’

  ‘I must think it over,’ said Sinclair, noncommittally, ‘I suppose the Baron is right, but I shall probably have broken my neck on the race track before either of them is fit to drink. Let’s have another while the going is good. Hi, garçon! Here a minute!’

  ‘Do you make white wine on your estates?’ I asked the Baron, by way of making conversation.

  ‘Assuredly, Monsieur.’ His rather fleshy lips drew back in a quick grin. ‘We cultivate the white grape where we can. As you will know conditions have changed completely since the war, and white wines are in great demand.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘it’s quite extraordinary. I was only in business for a year or so before the war, but in those days we used to sell six dozen of red wine to every dozen of white; now it is the other way about.’

  ‘What happens to all the Claret then?’ Sinclair inquired. ‘America has gone dry, Russia is out of the market, Germany is in too bad a way to be much of a customer—yet red wine isn’t any cheaper. Have you let large portions of your vineyards go out of cultivation?’

  ‘It has been necessary to some extent,’ De Sejac nodded.

  ‘Pity you can’t make white wine out of black grapes,’ Sinclair suggested with a laugh.

  The Baron shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Alas, Monsieur, if only we could do that we should be fortunate indeed—but to make white wine out of black grape—that is impossible.’

  II

  I was just about to question De Sejac further about his estates when Toby Sinclair gave a little gasp.

  ‘Look! Isn’t she just perfect?’

  We had no need to ask him whom he meant; a girl of twenty-two or three was passing through the lounge. Fair curling hair waved back to a shimmering knot caught up on the nape of her slender neck, and for one second I glimpsed her eyes—large, and of that deep pansy blue, so rare in any case but seen occasionally in the blue-eyed brunette—hardly ever in a blonde.

  ‘Ahaaa,’ a long-drawn sigh escaped the Frenchman, ‘beautiful indeed! And what glorious little feet—English I think—you know her perhaps, Monsieur?’ He looked at Sinclair.

  Toby nodded. ‘Just—I saw her at the Golf yesterday afternoon and then I bumped into her at the Bains de Mer this morning—she was quite on her own and we had a spot of laughter together. I wonder who she is—anyhow, I’m going to know her better before I’m much older. She’s off to the Casino, I expect.’

  ‘And you will follow, is it not?’ De Sejac’s black eyes sparkled suddenly.

  ‘Why not?’ Toby stood up quickly. ‘If she’s alone here she’s fair game, isn’t she?—any woman is who comes to Biarritz in the Spanish season without a boy friend.’

  De Sejac had also risen. ‘Exactly, Monsieur Sinclair, and for that very reason I would like to give you a little warning—I saw her this afternoon when she watch the Pelota. On this occasion also she was alone. I found myself much interested, because women of such real beauty are very rare. It would not be good sport for me to make the suggestion that I accompany you to the Casino now. Instead I make you the challenge—she shall sup with me before she sup with you! ’

  ‘But you haven’t even spoken to her yet,’ Toby protested.

  The Frenchman shrugged. ‘My acquaintance in Biarritz is extensive—believe me, I shall procure an introduction before very long, Au revoir, Monsieur Sinclair!’

  ‘All right,’ Toby’s boyish grin flashed out again, ‘I’ll beat you to it—see you again sometime, Brandon—so long!’ In another minute he was hurrying through the swing doors of the lounge.

  I turned to De Sejac. ‘To resume our discussion on wine,’ I said. ‘Of course we English merchants don’t know much about the making of wine but—’

  ‘Pardon, Monsieur,’ he cut me short, ‘I have no time now to talk of wine—I join a party at the Pavilion Royal tonight—the hour has come—you will excuse?’

  His brevity was bordering on impertinence, and his whole manner had undergone a sudden change—he did not seek to hide the fact that, Sinclair having departed, he was no longer interested in the question, and had no sort of time to waste on me at all. However, it was no loss to me as I had taken a dislike to the fellow from the first, so I nodded in reply to his formal little bow, and slowly stroking his black beard he moved off between the tables.

  I remained at the du Palais for a bit, quietly finishing my drink while I thought over Sinclair and De Sejac. It was obvious that they didn’t know each other well, otherwise Toby would never have made that mistake in the Baron’s name when he first introduced us—evidently they were just chance hotel acquaintances, but something the Frenchman had let slip made me wonder what his game was, and I thought it would be amusing to find out.

  I was still thinking about him when I left the du Palais twenty minutes later, and there he was—standing in the entrance of the hotel. A big private car had just drawn up with a chauffeur in livery. De Sejac climbed in, and off they went, but not before I had taken the number—I thought it just possible that it might come in useful later on.

  After that I started to stroll home. I was staying at the Hôtel des Princes, which may sound very grand but it is actually a modest little place up the hill and round the corner from the Place. It was a lovely night and I was in no hurry to go to bed, so I took a circuitous route along the sea shore. I paused a little to watch the great Atlantic rollers in their ceaseless procession, as they broke and shivered into cascades of foam about the Virgin’s Rock. It was cool and refreshing down there after the long hot day, and the stifling atmosphere of the hotel. The moonlight on the water was magnificent, and behind there were the myriad lights of the town, while the music of the band came faintly from the terraced height of the Hôtel des Anglais, subdued but perceptible through the thunderous roaring of the surf.

  Then I turned up the hill, and passed the Casino—but I am not a gambler so I didn’t go in. I did wonder though if Toby Sinclair was making any headway with that glorious girl. She seemed almost too good to be true, and I’ll confess that I was envious of that young devil with his million and his racing cars. Say what you will, those sort of things do help even with the very nicest women, and though I say it as shouldn’t—given equal chances I would have beaten Toby every time. As for the Baron—I did not see that he would get a look in, although you never know—women do prefer older men sometimes, they have so much more experience.

  When I got back to my hotel I took the trouble to write a letter to my old friend Dubaudin. He owns what’s left of the historic château outside St. Emilion, overlooking the old Castillon battlefield where the French fought the English years ago for the possession of Bordeaux.

  III

  On the following day I saw nothing of Toby Sinclair, the Baron, or the girl, for the simple reason that I had planned a trip to Pampluna, and it’s an all-day show.

  We passed St. Jean de Luz in the morning and crossed the Spanish frontier at Irun. I always think there is a certain magic in that name, and the Frontier Guards, in their pirate hats and shiny cloaks standing in the sunshine, lent the place a sort of u
nreality—as if it were a scene from a musical comedy at home. Then we went up through the foothills of the Pyrenees—through those old, old Spanish towns and villages that must have remained unaltered for centuries; then down again through the twisting ways into San Sebastian, with its wide squares, broad streets, and lovely bay.

  By that time the heat was positively sweltering, and we were glad enough to stop for lunch at a little restaurant where the tables were set out on the pavement, and shaded from the glare by the cool arches of the colonnade that surrounds the square.

  I was a little disappointed with San Sebastian when we strolled round after lunch. It’s a fine town, and nice enough perhaps out of the season—but the beach and promenades were seething with the same sort of riff-raff that invades Brighton over August Bank Holiday week-end, and as they were poor-class Spaniards, you simply couldn’t move without getting a fair share of the garlic that they had eaten with their midday meal.

  After an hour we set off again—this time right up into the lovely wooded hills, and we climbed thousands of feet above the sea, until, late in the afternoon, we came to the great monastery that was the birthplace of the Jesuits—where St. Ignatius Loyala worked and died.

  The gilding of the shrines is quite marvellous if a little dazzling, but the woodwork and the pictures are a joy to see, for anyone who loves such things.

  Then we took the road once more, round the curves and bends of the mountain passes, with view after view opening up before us in the clear afternoon sunlight—and so gradually down through the pine forests on the other side, back through Irun and St. Jean to Biarritz and dinner at the hotel.

  It was a long day but I was glad that I had done it, though I didn’t feel like going out afterwards, so I sat talking until bedtime on the terrace with another fellow who’d been on the trip.

  The day after I saw Sinclair twice—once after my morning bathe at the far bay round the point where the beach stretches away in an unbroken line towards St. Jean and Hendaye. He was alone then, still in his bathing wrap and climbing into his six-litre Bentley, just about to roar away up the hill to lunch. Then I saw him again in the afternoon at the Polo, and this time he had the lovely lady with him. I watched them with interest, wondering how he was getting on with her—but it didn’t look to me as if she had fallen for him yet.