Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

A Matter of Taste by Peter King

“Shady tactics, scams and scandals, substitutions, fakes and frauds, blatant copies — you’ve run into all of these, Nic.”

Nic Landers nodded and waited for Roger Sheraton to continue. The president of Sheraton, Pemberton and Delano had silvery temples, black hair, and an aristocratic face that stemmed from one of San Francisco’s oldest families.

He had bought the foundering wine dealership fifteen years ago, added his name to it, and turned the operation around swiftly. They catered only to more affluent clients and their exclusivity put them in great demand.

“These blots on the good name of the California wine industry are increasing alarmingly,” Roger continued. “It’s the same in other states and other wine-producing countries, so it must be a symptom of the times.”

“The get-rich-quick urge,” said Nic.

“Yes, that — and as the president of Sotheby’s wine department said recently, ‘Anyone can easily produce great wines if they are prepared to break the law.’ Well,” Roger said, “we have to do something about it. Now, we can’t afford a full-time investigator, so I’d like you to take a crack at the problem. You can fit that into your schedule, can’t you?”

Roger was irresistible when it came to charming someone into doing something that sounded out of the question, and this occasion was no different. Ten minutes later, he smiled his satisfaction smile.

“Right, that’s settled then — now initially I want to start you off on an easy one. I’m not aware of any criminal intent in this matter, it seems to be just a puzzle—”

“You’ve got me hooked already,” said Nic. Six feet, brown hair, and brown eyes that women found attractive, he had an athletic step — honed by regular sessions on the squash court.

“There’s a Cedric Cranston staying at the Huntington Hotel,” Roger said. “He wants ‘a wine expert,’ he says, to accompany him to an auction.”

“I didn’t know there were any auctions pending,” protested Nic.

“It’s private — don’t worry, it must be legitimate, Farringdon’s has been retained to run it.”

“They’re among the best,” Nic agreed. “What does this Cranston fellow want?”

“He won’t say. He just says he will explain it all to the expert we supply.”

“How did he get onto us?”

“Called the Napa Valley Wine Board.”

Nic shrugged. “All credentials check out so far.”

Roger drummed fingers on his desk. “This Cranston said this was a highly confidential matter — that’s what has put me on the alert. Couldn’t get another word out of him — oh, except he has no hesitation in paying whatever fee we stipulate.”

“A big spender, eh?”

“Yes... maybe that made me just a tad suspicious too. We get few clients today who don’t haggle over the fee.”

“Do we know anything about this Cranston?”

“Clean as a whistle, Eve assures me,” said Roger.

Eve Wheeler handled her hi-tech equipment like an expert lion tamer handled her animals. Checking on the credentials of clients was part of her everyday activities. After all, when a client wanted to have Sheraton, Pemberton and Delano buy a hundred thousand dollars worth of wine for them, the firm needed to know a lot more than could be revealed by leafing through bank statements and credit reports.

“Too clean?” asked Nic.

Roger knew what Nic meant. Those with something to hide often kept their record too squeaky clean. Roger shook his head. “I don’t think so. My guess would be he’s straight.” He reached for the phone. “Let’s set it up...”

The Huntington Hotel at Taylor and Mason on North Beach is small and luxurious. The service is friendly and attentive and the better rooms four hundred dollars a night and up so Nic supposed this fellow Cranston was no piker.

The desk called Cranston’s room and said he would be right down. Nic was glancing through a few listings of professional interest on the American Exchange in the Wall Street Journal in the lobby when a voice called his name.

The man approaching was possibly his age or maybe a handful of years younger. He was slightly built and had sparse, sandy hair and large-lensed glasses with clear plastic rims. He wore a lime green linen Polo shirt and light beige slacks with white canvas loafers. He had an ingenuous air, as if he didn’t come to the big city very often.

The two confirmed one another’s identity. Cedric Cranston had a shy smile and gave the impression of a friendly, easygoing nature. His voice was light and he had a Midwestern accent. He waved to an arrangement of leather armchairs around a knurled wood table. “Shall we sit? My room’s very comfortable, but it’s more spacious down here.”

They did so and sat at right angles to each other. “We have well over an hour — plenty of time to get to the auction,” Cranston said.

“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.”

“You’ve been there before? This Graystone Manor?”

“Oh yes.”

“So Graystone Manor is where the auction is being held?”

“That’s right. It’s a beautiful building. You’ll love it.”

What he would really love, Nic thought, is to know what this is all about. He was trying to formulate another question or two that might bring some elucidation when the taxi swung off Highway 1. They had gone only a few hundred yards along a narrow but well-kept street before they were driving past a long stone wall. Cedric leaned forward to the driver, who was holding up the sheet of paper with the instructions on it. They exchanged a brief question and answer, then the driver slowed and they stopped at an impressive pair of wrought-iron gates set in massive stone pillars. Silently, they swung open.

They drove on a road that wound upward between expanses of dazzling green lawn with stands of leafy oaks.

They passed a clearing with a large brick building that looked old but had modern overhead shutters. Nic craned his neck to see it better.

“My uncle’s hobby,” Cedric said. “He made his money in the scrap business and even after he retired, he couldn’t give it up altogether.”

One shutter was open and Nic could see neat stacks of paper and beverage cans and bottles inside the warehouse. “He was very environmentally conscious too,” Cedric explained. “Really enthusiastic about developing better recycling methods.”

Nic was wondering if they had enough gas when they emerged onto a straight stretch of road that revealed a magnificent towered and turreted mansion of gray stone.

Cedric was regarding it without emotion. “You can see why they call it Graystone Manor,” he said as he paid the driver.

A man in a smart dark blue uniform with red cuffs and collar and brass buttons was at the wide stone steps that led up to two enormous oak doors. He must have memorized names, for as soon as Cedric gave his, the man lifted the wrought-iron arm and opened the one door to let them in. Another servant, similarly attired, stood in the center of a large hall with would-be baronial trappings — a suit of armor, shields and banners, arrays of edged weapons and tapestries on the walls. Two large doors led into what was obviously the ballroom, now converted into an auction hall. A magnificent chandelier threw off crystal flashes while bulbous orange lamps on the walls reflected from the polished wood panels.

A large podium was front and center, with a smaller one at the side of it. At least a hundred chairs were arrayed in rows and half of them were filled already. Most were men in business suits. Nic even recognized a few faces. A table at the back had two young women with phones and laptop computers set up. Nic reviewed the catalog. The Leoville-Barton Bordeaux 1959 was Lot 449, just below the halfway mark in the program. The auctioneer came on to the front podium and Nic recognized him as one of Farringdon’s most experienced auctioneers. Then a young woman seated herself at the smaller podium next to it ready to note the bids. By now, more than two thirds of the seats were filled.

It was a good turnout, but then San Francisco is a wine-drinking and a wine-buying town. California, New York, and Illinois are the only states in the Union that permit wine auctions, and California leads by a wide margin in volume of business transacted this way.

The auctioneer opened the bidding on a case of Domaine Roumier Clos 1978. It is a rich and long-lived wine from a renowned producer in a vintage not commonly seen, he commented. No particular enthusiasm manifested itself despite the recommendation, and bidding was low in the estimated range of nine hundred to twelve hundred dollars. It crept past the one thousand mark, but even laudatory comments by the auctioneer did not bring it higher and it went for eleven hundred dollars.

Cedric followed the action — if it could be called that — with glistening eyes and parted lips. He whispered an occasional question and Nic answered. They had chosen seats near one end of a row toward the back so no one was in the surrounding seats. Farther along the row sat an elderly man with an old-fashioned wing collar. His finger was following his well-thumbed copy of Broadbent’s New Great Vintage Wine Book, a valued reference and a reliable guide.

A 1958 Bouchard Pere et Fils Beaune went next. Bidding was brief and low and it sold for four hundred dollars. A favorite drinking wine of Nic’s came next — a case of Deinhard Bernkasteler Doktor Auslese 1976. It went past its reserve and a determined man in a summer suit sitting near the front bought it for five hundred and fifty.

So far, Nic noted, several of the wines were eminently drinkable and some went as collector items. He commented on this to Cedric, who nodded without surprise. Some excellent clarets followed, a 1929 Latour and a 1945 Margaux among them. The phones were busy and several bids came in from last-minute absentees. Other bids had come in by fax, and the auctioneer kept referring to them. Finally, it came to their turn and Nic heard Cedric take a deep breath.

“And now,” said the auctioneer, “we come to Lot 449, a Leoville-Barton Bordeaux 1959. This wine is one of the finest in the commune, and it has the reputation of being one of the best clarets offered. It is always in great demand and I know...” He went on with his buildup then — and Nic could hear Cedric holding his breath — lifted his gavel.

A write-in bid started off at eight hundred — clearly from an optimist. The price went speedily up to a thousand, twelve hundred, then fifty at a time until it reached fifteen hundred dollars.

Cedric was getting nervous. “When are you going to jump in?” he hissed. Nic waved him down — using his other hand, not the one with the program. At seventeen hundred, the pace slowed and it was then that Nic flicked the program to offer seventeen fifty. Cedric, watching him anxiously, nodded relieved approval. A couple of phone bidders backed out, a merchant Nic knew from Seattle shook his head, which left only a bald-headed man near the front as a competitive bidder.

He went to eighteen hundred dollars and Nic promptly raised it to eighteen fifty, then it was his turn to hold his breath. The auctioneer gave the bald man the allotted time, doubled it without response. Then the gavel came down.

“Cedric,” Nic said, “you’ve just bought a bottle of wine.”

They were back in the Huntington Hotel by one thirty. In Cedric’s room, Nic carefully placed the wooden case containing their trophy onto a table, opened the lid, and removed the bottle. They both looked at it. Nic had seen dozens of valuable bottles of wine but never failed to get a thrill.

Cedric sat for some moments, regarding it as reverently as if it were the Holy Chalice used at the Last Supper. At last, he got up and went to a side table, returning with two wine glasses and a corkscrew. He cut the foil around the neck of the bottle. His cutting was a little ragged; it was clearly not something he did often. Nic watched in horrified amazement.

Cedric inserted the corkscrew and began turning.

“What are you doing?” Nic asked, but Cedric ignored the question.

He extracted the cork, being as careful as his evident lack of practice would allow, and laid it on the table. He sniffed the bottle, nodded, and poured two glasses of wine. It was rich, ruby red, pulsing with promise.

He handed a glass to Nic. “Cheers,” he said, taking a large swallow.

“Do you realize what you’ve just done?” Nic prided himself on his self-control, but this was beyond the limit of duty for a wine merchant, and his voice was not only shaky but almost a squeak.

“Cheers,” Cedric said again, taking another big swallow.

Nic sighed. He sniffed the wine then sniffed again. He twirled the glass to see how the wine would cling to the sides. He took a tiny sip, frowned, swirled, and took another. When he put it down, Cedric promptly poured more wine into both glasses. Nic watched as Cedric emptied his glass in one big draught and poured again.

“Might as well finish it,” he said happily.

“Would you mind telling me something—” Nic began hoarsely.

“Certainly,” Cedric said, “but first, let’s take care of this.” He put the glass down and took a checkbook and a pen from his pocket. “Three thousand minus eighteen fifty is eleven fifty. Half of that—” He scribbled, tore out the check, and put it on the table. “—is five seventy five. The bonus I promised. Thank you.”

Cedric Cranston drank again and just to keep him company, Nic took another sip.

“What do you think of it?” Cedric asked with a grin.

Nic sipped again. “Well...”

“Go ahead. Tell me.”

Nic considered.

“You could buy just as good a wine as this at Safeway for ten dollars,” Nic said. His voice was hollow.

“Maybe somebody did,” Cedric said.

“What do you mean by that?” Nic asked, going quickly from puzzled to irritated.

Cedric sat looking at the bottle he had bought, seemingly wrapped in thought.

“Is this a hobby of yours?” Nic asked.

“Buying wines like this? No way. I usually drink Gallo.” He finished the wine. “I have to tell you something. That was my uncle who owned Graystone Manor — and the wine collection.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes — and I am his sole heir.”

“His heir?” Nic said faintly. “But in that case, you’ll be getting his whole wine cellar, won’t you?”

Cedric nodded. “That’s right.”

“Then the cellar is really yours, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

“So you didn’t have to pay eighteen hundred and fifty dollars for this one bottle!”

Nic was beginning to feel like Dr. Watson, desperately trying to follow the explanations of the Great Detective as to how he made his deduction, which was about to be revealed as so simple that the good doctor would not be able to understand how he had not found it obvious.

“Let’s see what’s in the minibar,” said Cedric, getting to his feet. “They might have some better stuff in there.”

“Extraordinary!” Roger chuckled. “I really handed you a live one this time, didn’t I, Nic!”

They sat in Roger’s office, where Nic had just recounted the story of his visit to the auction at Graystone Manor.

“So,” Roger went on, “presuming you found a drinkable vintage in the minibar — why did Cranston pay eighteen fifty for one bottle of what was his own property?”

“We emptied the minibar of Champagne,” Nic said, “in the course of getting the whole story out of him — it was Mumm’s, you will be glad to hear. It was like this...

“Uncle Harold was a self-made man, very proud of his achievement in making millions in the scrap and recycling business.

“He liked to play the country squire, but he was always uneasy about his position as a nouveau-riche among the old moneyed families—”

“—and San Francisco has plenty of those,” said Roger.

“It certainly does,” Nic agreed. “In order to establish himself among that hierarchy, Uncle Harold first began by buying Graystone Manor and throwing big dinner parties. He accumulated a very reputable cellar, but here a strong rivalry emerged. Many of his neighbors were wine connoisseurs and had cellars that would rate with any in the country—”

“Bless their vinous hearts,” Roger said piously. “I trust they were among our clients.”

“I intend to follow up on that,” Nic said and Roger nodded approvingly. “Anyway, fierce argument arose on one occasion over the merit of a particular wine and Uncle Harold decided to play a trick at his next dinner party.

“He bought a bottle of Leoville-Barton Bordeaux ’59 and a bottle of supermarket Bordeaux and switched the labels—”

“Pardon another interruption, Nic, but how did Cranston know this?”

“He paid a surprise visit and walked in on his uncle making the switch.”

“In flagrante delicto!” Roger cried.

“Exactly. His uncle, of course, swore Cedric to secrecy—”

“But what happened with—?”

Nic cut in on the question. “What happened was that his uncle died the day before the dinner. The family lawyer told Cedric he would inherit the property and everything in it. Cedric had no desire to live in the manor, all he wanted to do was sell it. The will called for auctioning off the entire wine collection as it was so valuable but, of course, Cedric was worried that someone might discover the phony Leoville. If they did, it would throw suspicion on the entire cellar.”

“It certainly would,” agreed Roger.

“So being a conscientious sort of fellow, Cedric decided to get rid of the evidence. It seems he was really fond of his uncle and didn’t like the thought that people might unmask him as a wine faker. They might not believe he would stop at one bottle and think he did it often. So Cedric decided to get rid of the evidence, but under the terms of the will, the lawyer had already notified Farringdon’s, who had sealed up the whole cellar.”

“Normal practice,” nodded Roger.

“So when Cedric learned that it was to be an item by item sale, he hatched this plan. Having us buy it for him kept his name out of it.”

Roger slapped the desk in amusement. “Great story, Nic!”

“It’s not all,” said Nic and his tone caught Roger’s attention.

“Go on,” Roger urged.

“I went back there yesterday. I concocted a story for the man from Farringdon’s who was arranging disposal of the unsold items — I, er, allowed him to think we might be interested in some of them.”

Roger smiled slightly. “Well, we might.”

“It gave me access to the place, although there were few people around. Anyway, I got the opportunity to slip into the warehouse building I mentioned — the one that we passed on the way in.”

Roger was fully focused now. “Go on.”

“It was a small but efficient scrap and recycling operation. Equipment on a minuscule scale but all fairly new. Paper, cans, bottles, other miscellaneous stuff.”

“No workers? They’d been let go?”

“Hadn’t been any. Uncle Harold did it all himself. I was able to go through the place very thoroughly and I found what I was looking for—”

“I’m getting the inkling of where you’re going with this,” Roger murmured, “but keep going, Nic.”

“I found enough to convince me that the faked bottle of Leoville-Barton Bordeaux ’59 wasn’t a one-off, get-the-better-of-his-wine-drinking-friends stunt at all. He could select the paper he wanted, he had a very expensive color printer so he could make labels, he had his pick of bottles, and I even found, hidden away, a barrel load of corks. Of course, he could still have been interested in making pilot runs of recycling methods and processing ordinary scrap — but that made a convenient cover for his secret hobby—”

“Uncle was running a small business in phony wines.”

Roger completed Nic’s exposition. “And you think Nephew Cedric didn’t know about it?”

“It’s possible he knew, but more likely, he had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t want to share with anyone. He seems to have had a genuine liking for his uncle and wouldn’t want to see him exposed.”

“And after all,” said Roger, “what’s another few dozen bottles of faked wine among all the thousands out there already, most of them engineered by experts, making our lives difficult?”

Nic nodded, but his smile was wry. “Or could it have been a few hundred bottles? And which wines?”

Roger regarded him thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, that brings us to what I had in mind in the first place — the shady tactics, the scams and scandals—”

“The substitutions, the fakes and frauds,” completed Nic. “Yes, I remember.”

“Sounds like you’re just the man for the job,” Roger said heartily. “Just one thing though—” His tone grew solemn. “—the villains may not all be as benevolent as Uncle Harold. There’s big money out there, Nic, and the people making it are not only serious but deadly serious — and I mean deadly.”

“I’d like to take a crack at it,” said Nic.

“Good man! Maybe in you we have Sancerre’s answer to Sam Spade — wasn’t he another of San Francisco’s favorite sons?”