Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 10, No. 48, November 1947

Red Wine by Lawrence G. Blochman

About the author: Much too little has been written about the background of Lawrence G. Blochman. He spent the early 1920 s in the Far East — first on the “Japan Advertiser,” an American newspaper in Tokyo, then barnstorming through China as a sleight-of-hand performer. (It is surprising, by the way, how many magicians have turned into detective-story writers — and vice versa) Eventually Mr. Blochman wearied of pulling hats out of rabbits in the Chinese hinterland and went back into journalism, taking a position with the “South China Morning Post” in Hongkong. Still later he accepted a roving assignment for the “Far Eastern Review” of Shanghai, enlarging his knowledge of the Orient by working in the Philippines, North Borneo, Java, British Malaya, and Siam. He gave up this interesting job when he discovered that his employer was in reality a Japanese propagandist, and returned to his first love, newspaper work, this time on “The Englishman” of Calcutta, the oldest English-language periodical in India. And all through the years Mr. Blochman was learning more and more about the art of writing, as he proved by the ever-increasing quality of his work. Some of the most authentic tales of the East have come from his peripatetic typewriter. Then, during World War II, the soft-spoken, conscientious Mr. Blochman — by now an exceedingly clever diplomat in the ways of the Orient — unselfishly placed his knowledge and experience at the disposal of his country, serving as Chief of the Radio Program Bureau of the OWI, Overseas Branch. And when, in the early summer of 1947, circumstances compelled the Board of Directors of MW A (Mystery Writers of America, Inc.) to declare the office of Vice-President vacant, Mr. Blochman was unanimously elected to fill that important national post.

About the story: “Red Wine” is universally considered one of Lawrence G. Blochman’s finest stories. That grand old lady of the genre, Carolyn Wells, rated the story one of the twenty best detective shorts published in America during the year 1930. Although Miss Wells was careful to iterate and reiterate her belief that “Different men are of different opinions; Some like apples, some like inions,” beldam Carolyn never wavered in her appraisal of Mr. Blochman s classic tale. You will understand why when you have read the story.

A raucous toot from the whistle of the yellow funneled K. P. M. steamer echoed from the jungle covered headlands to arouse Heer Controleur Koert from his afternoon nap. Heer Koert did not swear; the day was too hot for any such exertion as swearing. He opened one eye and peered through the haze of his mosquito netting. Below his veranda lay a collection of glaring tin roofed sheds, whitewashed Chinese shops, and attap huts clinging to the green edge of the low river bank.

Some distance offshore, beyond the muddy swirl made by the river as it pushed brown fingers into the unruffled blue of the sea, the mail steamer was smoking impatiently, the only connection between Tanjong Samar and civilization. And since Heer Koert was the official representative of civilization in Tanjong Samar, he opened the other eye.

He watched the swarm of praus and sampans streaking for the ship, and estimated that he would have half an hour before being forced to make any further movement. In half an hour he would arise, dash tepid water on himself from a Java bath jar, drink a cup of coffee and button his white duck jacket high about his neck. Thus he would be fit to sit at his desk and properly receive the official communications and two weeks’ accumulations of the Bataviasch Nieuwsblad which his dusky skinned aspirant-controleur would bring ashore.

The controleur’s leisurely routine was somewhat rushed, however, when he saw that the first boat ashore did not debark his slow moving assistant but a brisk walking white man he had never seen before. The stranger made such a rapid climb to the controleur’s bungalow that Heer Koert had barely time to make himself dignified before there was a knock on the screen door of the veranda. He waddled ponderously to answer.

A man in a pongee suit and white topee stood there, wiping his perspiring face with a silk handkerchief. He was a well fed appearing man whose movements were good natured and deliberate. His frank smile caused deep dimples to dot either side of a face that gave an impression of virile intelligence — an impression somehow strengthened by the droop of his right eyelid over a vaguely pale eye. The alert vitality of the good eye was penetrating enough for two.

“Are you Mr. Koert?” asked the man in the pongee suit. “My name is Paul Vernier. The governor-general promised me your cooperation. Has he written you?”

“You are here before the mail,” said the controleur. “But you have my cooperation anyhow. Won’t you sit down blease?”

“I’ll come right to the point,” said Vernier, sinking into a high, fan backed Bilibid chair. “I’m looking for a killer.”

“Dayaks, maybe?” said the rotund controleur. “You must go far up the river to find them. And they are not killing so much any more—”

“Dayaks don’t interest me,” said Vernier. “I’m looking for an American — an American murderer named Jerome Steeks. I’ve traced him to Tanjong Samar.”

Koert clapped his hands and shouted something in Malay, which was answered by a grunt in another room.

“I am offering you coffee,” he explained. “This is coffee time. Later is gin time. Where is your baggage?”

“I have all the baggage I need in my inside pocket — extradition papers for Jerome Steeks, approved by the governor-general in Batavia. I’ll pick up Steeks as soon as you tell me where he is, and I’ll take him aboard the steamer before she sails.”

“You can’t do that,” said the controleur simply.

“Why not? I’m positive Jerome Steeks is in Tanjong Samar.”

“There is nobody with that name in my district.”

“Naturally, he wouldn’t be using his own name. But it shouldn’t be so hard to locate my man in this bustling metropolis. Isn’t there an American here?”

“There are three Americans.” Vernier’s eyebrows raised slightly as Koert continued, “All three are on the Kota Bharu rubber estate up the river. The round trip to the blantation will take two hours, not counting time for looking for the Americans. The steamer leaves in one hour. Shall I send out for your baggages?”

Vernier’s gaze fixed Koert for a moment. Then his pursed lips spread into a smile.

“All right,” he said. “If it won’t be too much trouble.”

Koert clapped his hands again and muttered more Malay. A servant appeared with a tray.

“They will get it for you,” said the controleur. “And now we can drink our coffee.”

There was no coffee pot on the tray — only cups, sugar bowl, a pitcher of hot milk and a small jug. Vernier watched Koert pour a spoonful of black essence from the jug into each cup, then add the steaming milk. The resultant liquid looked and smelled a little like coffee.

“And now,” said Koert, passing a cup, “tell me about this man you want to arrest. Does he know you?”

“No.”

“Good. In that case he will not suspect. You can arrest him a few hours before the next ship calls. That will save unpleasant makeshifts. We have no good jail here. You will recognize this American? You have his photograph?”

“Jerome Steeks is a very clever man,” said Vernier. “He planned a perfect escape from a nearly perfect crime. There isn’t a single picture or set of fingerprints of him in existence. I know him only by description; medium height, slight build, pale complexion, dark hair and small black mustache.”

The controleur suddenly grasped his ample girth with both hands threw back his head, opened his mouth wide and emitted loud cackling sounds. After a moment Vernier decided Heer Koert was laughing.

“You must have come to the wrong dessa,” laughed the controleur. “All three men are medium height, but all are quite strong looking, clean shaven, brown as coffee by the sun, and none of them has dark hair.”

“I told you Steeks was clever.” Vernier smiled, a little wistfully. “But I’m positive he is here. He came here from Batavia six months ago.”

“All three men came from Batavia six months ago, by the same boat. The estate changed hands and the new owner wanted Americans to run it, because American planters know how to bud the trees and double the rubber yield... What sort of man is the murderer?”

Vernier gulped the bitterish coffee.

“Utterly ruthless,” he said, “yet a polished gentleman. Strange combination. He has lived a great deal in Europe, where he was known as a connoisseur of music, women, good cooking and fine wines. I heard of him first when I was in France.”

“Ah, France,” said Heer Koert, looking steadfastly at Vernier’s drooping eyelid. “Then it was in France that you—”

He made a vague gesture, as though afraid to touch on a delicate subject. Vernier saw the gesture and smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “A piece of shrapnel. It started me on my present career, I guess. One eye isn’t enough for the infantry, so they took me off the line and put me into intelligence. I made so many French contacts that after the Armistice I followed them up. Stayed on in Paris to study Bertillon methods with the French Sûreté. Just before I came home I remember reading of Jerome Steeks attending the annual banquet of Paris vintners, entering the usual wine tasting contest and identifying by taste as many unlabeled vintages as the oldest professional taster.”

Heer Koert made clucking sounds with his tongue.

“A gourmet,” he commented.

“He was rich. Nobody questioned the source of his money, which was undoubtedly — well, extra-legal. Three years ago he married a San Francisco heiress, took her to Europe, brought her back to California. Shortly after their return, Mrs. Steeks’ body was found lying on the end of a little used pier, a bullet in the brain. Tire marks on the pier led to a search for the Steeks’ car, which was found in the bay. Steeks was supposed to have been drowned in the plunge. A note told of a suicide pact. They had run through the heiress’ fortune, lost staggering sums at Monte Carlo and decided on death rather than poverty. Although Steeks’ body was never found, in view of the tides, the discovery of two empty shells in a revolver, and the fact that Mrs. Steeks’ fortune was indeed dissipated, the police accepted the double suicide theory.”

“And of course it was false?”

“Of course. It was a case of cold blooded murder for profit. A year later a prominent shyster lawyer got into a jam, was arrested, and in his safe cops found a letter from Steeks, written from Batavia. The lawyer had apparently been salting away the wife’s missing fortune and was to notify Steeks when he could come back safely. Well, the Secretary of State asked for extradition right away, and I slid out to Batavia to pick up the trail. Clues can get pretty cold in a year, and evidence can be camouflaged. But I’ve got Mr. Steeks here now. With no steamer for two weeks, he can’t very well get away.”

Controleur Koert shook his head in a puzzled manner.

“I am not so sure,” he said. “There is no gourmet and no bolished gentleman at Kota Bharu estate. There is just Americans.”

“One of them is a murderer. When can we go and pick him out, Mr. Koert?”

The controleur scratched himself behind the ear.

“First I must attend to the steamer,” he said. “Then I will talk with you about best methods.”

“In the meantime I’ll walk about the town a bit,” said Vernier, arising. “It’s cooler now. Maybe I can learn something.”

“Mr. Vernier, blease don’t open that screen door yet,” cried Koert, rushing after the detective in a panic. “Wait.”

He rolled a newspaper into a small torch, lighted it and waved the flame against the screen to cremate whatever mosquitoes had gathered on the outside waiting a chance to enter.

“Now,” he said. “Go. And shut the door quickly. In an hour and a half come back. We will have gin pahits and discuss methods.”

The controleur persuaded Paul Vernier to wait until next morning before starting his man hunt. The sun glinted with hard brilliance on the coffee colored river when the two men — Koert in whites, Vernier in khaki — walked down to the shore. They threaded their way among carved, high stemmed praus, drawn up on the beach, with red and blue demons grinning from their leaning masts. The two white men crawled under the palm thatched canopy shading the middle of a long narrow sampan. Paddles dug into the brown water, churning the current. The craft swung upstream.

After a few minutes on the river Vernier drew Koert’s attention to another sampan following them, stroke for stroke.

“Yes,” said Koert. “That is your baggages. I had them send by another sampan because we are already crowded in this one.”

“But I don’t need baggage,” said Vernier. “I won’t have to stay at the plantation. I’ll pick my man and come back to stay with you — if you don’t mind.”

“I would be more than bleased. But I am afraid you will have to stay longer. I know the three Americans. None of them fits your description. You will have to study them closer. The governor-general said I should help you, so I sent word ahead that we would come for makan at noon today and that you might want to stay on to see how rubber is made.”

The round faced detective’s dimples appeared.

“I wouldn’t like to do that — accept a man’s hospitality and then clamp the bracelets on him. If I find I have to stay there to complete my identification, I’ll tell them so right out. Not likely that my man will escape from this place. That way it will make it an open battle of wits, and I’ll feel better about staying.”

“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed the controleur. “You can’t do that. I have already said you were a stockholder and for that reason wished to stay on the blantation. You cannot contradict the controleur. Besides, it will be easier for you to work quietly like I plan.”

“Well, all right. We’ll try it for awhile,” said Vernier soberly.

A rickety little pier, two tin roofed sheds and a clearing of the jungle to make way for the symmetrical rows of hevea trees marked the place where the Kota Bharu rubber plantation reached the river. From the river it was a five-minute walk to the large bungalow, raised on piles, which served as quarters for the white plantation managers.

The three managers puzzled Vernier as they were introduced — Prale, Wilmerding and Doran. The controleur had been right. There was nothing of a cultured bon vivant among these rough and ready Americans, and all were light. Prale was a bland looking, sandy haired fellow with a smart Aleck twist to the corners of his mouth and a turned up nose. Wilmerding was blond, almost tow headed, with a vigorous handshake. Doran, keen eyed and restless, had light reddish hair. Which one of the trio was the black haired Jerome Steeks? None of them, Vernier would have said, had he not definite information that the murderer was here. One of them must be Steeks.

“Hope you don’t object to rystaffel,” said Doran as they filed into a darkened room for lunch. “That’s all our cook ever gives us for noon.”

“From what I had of it in Java,” said Vernier, “I rather like it.”

“I don’t,” said Wilmerding. “Rystaffel’s enough to give dyspepsia to a herd of buffaloes.”

Whatever the reaction of buffaloes to the national dish of the Dutch colonial in the Indies, Wilmerding was apparently not afraid of dyspepsia for himself. He heaped his plate high with rice and proceeded to decorate it with all the accessories which two servants brought to the table: curried eggs, fried bananas, onions, chutneys, shredded coconut, tiny red dried fish, peppers and various unidentified spiced meats and vegetables. Vernier watched Wilmerding mix the conglomeration in approved Dutch East Indies style. Wilmerding caught Vernier’s eye, guessed his judgement on the score of inconsistency, and said — “Well, we have to eat something.”

“Rystaffel’s not bad with a glass of beer,” said Vernier.

“We never have any real cold beer out here,” Wilmerding complained. “No ice. And warm beer is nasty.”

Vernier studied Wilmerding a moment. He was attacking his rystaffel with as much gusto as his two companions, but for a flash, Vernier thought he had detected a styled movement on the lifting of a fork. Perhaps not, inasmuch as Wilmerding wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a draft of beer.

“I ran across some pretty good wine down in Batavia and Sourabaya. Why don’t you fellows get some of it sent up?” Vernier suggested.

“Never learned to drink wine,” said Wilmerding. “We got plebian tastes. Just beer — and a little gin or Scotch at night. Prale over there talks a lot about the wine he drank, but if you ask me, he’d a lot rather have an ice cream soda. A lot of us would, I guess.”

He ran his fingers through his blond hair, thoughtfully sipped some beer, then went after his rice with renewed vigor.

It wasn’t until an amazing amount of rice had been consumed that Vernier saw his first indication as to which of the three might be the cultured murderer. The detective pricked up his ears when Wilmerding suggested that Doran give him some music.

“Music?” echoed Vernier.

“Yeh. Doran plays,” said Prale. “He plays a mean phonograph.”

Yes, the phonograph was his, Doran admitted. What would Mr. Vernier like to hear? Probably nothing, because it was damned hard to keep up a decent repertoire out there in Borneo, where the new records had to be shipped in and half the time arrived broken.

“May I look?” said Vernier.

He slid back the disks, one after the other, expecting to find recordings of operas, symphonies and other more serious compositions — probably French composers dominating. He found only jazz numbers, out-of-date sentimental ballads. No trained, cosmopolitan taste here.

“Play anything,” he said.

The phonograph squealed, sang and strummed away. Wilmerding sat smoking a pipe with Heer Koert. Prale walked to the edge of the veranda and looked through the screen toward the river. Doran was sorting over his precious records. Vernier walked slowly about the room, taking in details with his one alert eye. He stopped in front of a bookcase and began reading the titles.

“Hello,” he said. “Who owns the French books?”

“They were here when we came,” said Wilmerding. “There was a French planter on the estate before us. He left the books.”

“Anybody here read them?” Vernier inquired, taking down a volume.

“Prale practically invented the French language,” said Doran. “Just ask him.”

Vernier was holding the French book close to his face, slowly turning pages.

“I studied French,” he said, as if to himself. Then, watching the room over the top of his book, he said, as though reading, “Il y a un meurtrier dans cette maison.”

He paused, watching for a reaction to his announcement in French that there was a murderer in the house. He was disappointed. Prale looked stupidly sheepish as the others overwhelmed him with banter.

“What’s it all about, Prale?” demanded Wilmerding.

“Translate for us,” ordered Doran.

“Why, it’s all about houses,” said Prale. “Maison — that’s French for house.”

When the laughter had subsided, Heer Controleur Koert arose.

“You will excuse me, I have to return to the dessa for important official business,” he said, with as much equanimity as if every one present did not know that the important business was his daily siesta. “And you, Mr. Vernier? Are you going to pay a visit of some days to this estate?”

“If I’m not in the way,” said Vernier.

“Plenty of room,” said Wilmerding.

“Even if there wasn’t, we’d make room by putting Doran out to sleep with the mosquitoes,” said Prale.

“Which would spare me from listening to Prale’s wisecracks,” countered Doran.

“I would like very much to have a chance to see how you fellows get a dozen golf balls and a set of balloon tires out of a tree,” said Vernier. “But I warn you—” he paused and looked at Koert — “I warn you that you’ll have me prowling all over the place, asking questions like a woman at a ball game. I’m curious — about all sorts of things.”

He worked his curiosity overtime during the next few days. He prowled and asked questions at all hours. He would follow Prale down the estate in the misty dawn at tapping time, listening as he offered profane suggestions, half English, half broken Malay, to the Javanese who were shaving the diagonal scars on the trunks of the heava trees so that the milky latex would ooze out into grooves, through a spigot into tiny porcelain cups. After the sun had become hot enough to stop the flow of sap he would make the rounds with Wilmerding, watching Javanese women in gay sarongs collecting latex in buffalo drawn tank carts. Then he would stand, where Doran, at the chemical shack, received the latex, pouring it into vats to be coagulated into rubber.

But in three days he got nowhere. He still believed that one of the planters was Jerome Steeks. And he still did not know whether it was Prale, Doran, or Wilmerding. One thing he did know for certain: Steeks’ hair had changed color in the last eighteen months. The dark murderer of San Franscisco had become a blond. Hydrogen peroxide or some other bleaching agent must have been in use here. In use constantly, too, because for three days Vernier had looked closely to find one head of hair that was darker at the roots. Vain search. The new growth was apparently being bleached as fast as it came out. This might be a clue.

The following day, when the three planters had gone out into the steamy morning, Vernier remained at the bungalow, pleading a headache. He lay on his springless tropical bed until he no longer heard the servants stirring about. Then he arose, went directly to Prale’s room and started systematically to examine every corner of it. He ran hurriedly through a chest of drawers, and a steamer trunk green with the quick mold of the tropics. He had little expectation that a man as clever as Jerome Steeks would leave telltale papers around, but he hoped to find that bleaching agent. As a matter of fact, he found nothing but clothes, a photograph of an old woman in a moldy leather case, a catalog from a Chicago mail order house—

He repeated the procedure in Wilmerding’s room. As he was opening a trunk he thought he heard steps outside the door. He arose quickly, listened, looked out. He saw no one. He returned to his task; again fruitless. Doran’s room was equally devoid of evidence.

But Doran was in the chemical shack most of the day! Just the place to hide a bleach and a little henna dye. A bottle more or less among the other chemicals would not be noticed. So Vernier went out to do a little noticing. He asked questions of Doran, who was busy with the latex. He picked up bottles and tapped metal drums. Doran gave a satisfactory explanation for everything. Another blind clue.

Prale? Wilmerding? Doran? He shut himself up alone that afternoon to reflect, to work out some plan of attack. He was so wrapped in thought that he was late for dinner. An animated conversation was in progress before he reached the table, but it stopped suddenly as he appeared in the doorway. As he sat down, conversation was resumed on trivial matters, obviously forced in an effort by the planters to cover up a change of subject. Vernier knew they had been talking about him.

After dinner there was a poker game. The four men sat about a table on the veranda. Perspiration glistened on faces and naked arms, golden in the lamplight.

Vernier was unusually quiet. He was studying his three opponents.

Jerome Steeks had been somewhat of a gambler. He might betray himself at the game. One of the three planters did, in fact, display considerable more card sense than the others — Prale. Luck was against him, however, and the chips piled up in front of Vernier. The trio were not good sports about losing, either. At least, Vernier attributed a certain tensity in the hot atmosphere to his consistent winnings. Conversation seemed strained, tonight, and what little talk there was rarely directed at him.

Finally, when he had raked in a jack pot with four sixes over Prale’s ace full, Doran tossed his cards to the center of the table and cleared his throat.

“Say, Vernier,” he began, looking the detective full in the face. “Just exactly what are you doing in Borneo?”

“I thought Koert explained,” said Vernier. “I’m—”

“We mean the real reason,” said Wilmerding. “Of course, the stockholder story is out, because there aren’t any stockholders in Kota Bharu rubber. The whole estate belongs to one man. I know that for certain.”

Vernier laughed. It was a genuine laugh, for although he felt the situation rapidly growing more uneasy, he could appreciate the joke he had played on himself by accepting the controleur’s suggestion to act the role of stockholder.

“Do you boys think I’m out here to sell you gold bricks or something?” he said genially.

There was an embarrassed silence for several seconds. Then Prale said with a drawl—

“What kind of gold bricks were you looking for in my room this morning?”

“In your room?”

“Yes,” said Wilmerding. “We understand you did a little prospecting today — to cure your headache.”

“I don’t like this business — your coming here lying to us, Vernier,” put in Doran. “How do we know what crooked game you’re up to? You’re probably a spy of some kind.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He’s not ridiculous.” It was Wilmerding speaking. “We’re living on the frayed edge of civilization here. We’ve got to look out for ourselves. We’ve got a perfect right to be suspicious of strangers. There’s nothing ridiculous in a man protecting himself against potential enemies.”

“How did you just happen to come to Tanjong Samar, which most people never heard of?” demanded Prale. “Why did you pick Kota Bharu estate out of the hundreds of rubber plantations in the East Indies?”

Vernier leaned forward easily on his elbows.

“I’ll tell you why I came to Tanjong Samar,” he said. “I came here to arrest a murderer.”

There was a little movement by each of the three planters. Surprise, perhaps. Resentment—

“I’ll be quite frank with you boys,” Vernier continued. “I told the controleur he’d better pass me off as a stockholder until I found out which one of you three was the man I wanted. I had definite information that the murderer was on the Kota Bharu rubber estate.”

Vernier’s smile again flashed, and his one eye shone so with frankness that the planters leaned back in their chairs. The tension was eased for a moment.

“I’ll bet Doran is the guy you’re after,” said Prale.

“If you stick around long enough, you can pick me up for killing Prale. I feel it coming on,” said Doran.

“What’s the murderer’s name?” asked Wilmerding.

“Jerome Steeks.”

Vernier’s keen glance shifted from one face to another, but he detected not so much as the flicker of an eyelash.

“Never heard of him.”

“Sounds like a vegetable to me.”

“Which one of us is he?”

Vernier leisurely lighted a cigaret over the lamp chimney before he replied.

“None of you,” he said. “I hadn’t been here long before I decided that the tip I had was wrong. Jerome Steeks had dark hair. You men are all naturally light — nothing phony about your wigs. So I’m going to go back to Java on the next K.P.M. steamer. Then home. I kick myself, though, for having had you all under false suspicion, even if it wasn’t my fault. To put myself right, to show there’s no ill will on my part, I want to throw a party for you boys. We’ll make it on steamer day, and you can declare a holiday, because I know the captain of the Van Laar is a real epicure. He has a fine cellar aboard — specializes in Chambertin — and has a great cook. I’ll have him lend me the cook and a few rare old bottles for the occasion. You’re invited to take a rest from rystaffel and have a real feed. How about it?”

There was no immediate response to the invitation. The planters seemed a little bit wary. Wilmerding spoke first.

“Sure, we’ll eat your chow,” he said.

“Fine,” said Vernier. “I’ll promise you a banquet you won’t forget. How would boar with Madeira and mushroom sauce do for the roast? I’ll furnish the wine sauce if there’s boar to be had around here. I’ll shoot one myself if some one will lend me a gun.”

“I’ll shoot you a pig,” said Doran. “I don’t like strangers using my gun.”

Next morning Vernier went down the river to Tanjong Samar and called on the controleur.

“Mr. Koert,” he said, “when does the East Borneo steamer leave Batavia?”

The controleur studied red lines on a wall map and consulted books.

“Is there any way for me to get through a communication to the ship before she leaves Java?” said Vernier, while Koert turned pages.

The controleur stroked his two chins a moment before replying.

“There is a wireless at Balik Papan,” he said. “For twenty-five guilders I can get an Orang Laut to paddle up the coast to Balik Papan to the wireless station. Why?”

“I want the U.S. consul in Batavia to get some things on that boat for me. The consul knows a good cellar in Batavia. I want him to get me some Chambertin of the same vintage he produced when I was there. And I’ll want other wines, and a cook. He can get me a cook from the Hotel des Indes and put him on the boat, too, with ingredients for a menu I’m going to indicate. And ice. We must have ice—”

He sat down and began drafting his message.

“Very good,” said the controleur. “If you will give me the twenty-five guilders, and the brice of the message, I will see it goes at once. And in the meantime I am glad you are here. If you had not come, I should have gone after you this afternoon. You must stay with me until your steamer comes.”

“Why so?”

“Because your life is no longer safe on the plantation.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I know. I hear from natives. Servants talk. Talk travels. In the end, it always reaches me. You told the planters at Kota Bharu of your mission—”

“I protected you. The governor-general will never know anything derogatory.”

“But your man will certainly kill you before steamer day.”

“Oh, no,” said Vernier, smiling. “We’re all good friends now. I’m giving this dinner to show there’s no hard feelings. Besides, I must go back to the estate. Everything depends upon my being there.”

“Well, suit yourself; but remember I warned you.”

“I consider myself warned. And in the meantime hurry that SOS for food, wine, and ice. You’re invited of course.”

Cordial relations were apparently reestablished when Vernier returned to the rubber estate. The three planters gave no outward evidence that they had not accepted Vernier’s profession of good faith, yet the detective sensed an undercurrent of suspicion. He had an idea one of the trio was fomenting ill feelings, or at least keeping it alive, for his own private ends. And for that reason Vernier slept lightly and kept his loaded automatic under his “Dutch Wife” — the cylindrical bolster found beneath every mosquito netting in the East Indies, used as an aid to ventilation of the body and to reduce perspiration during sleep.

During the entire week that preceded the arrival of the K.P.M. steamer, Vernier acted as enthusiastic press agent for his farewell dinner. He outlined his menu and told of the wines he would serve with each course — particularly the Chamber-tin, king of red Burgundies, robust, fragrant, heady, Napoleon’s favorite wine —

“Any Chambertin is fine,” Vernier would tell the planters, “but 1911 Chambertin is beyond comparison. It is the superlative in wine. You’ll see.”

Three days before the arrival of the steamer the matter of boar again came up. All three planters decided to go shooting. “Come with us,” said Prale to Vernier.

“I haven’t a gun,” said Vernier.

“I have two rifles,” said Wilmerding. “You can take one.”

At the last minute, however, Wilmerding found that the packing of smoked crepe for shipment on the next boat was not going rapidly enough. He decided to stay on the estate to push the coolies a bit.

Prale and Doran accompanied Vernier into the jungle beyond the limits of the plantation. Vernier noticed casually that he was the only one wearing a white topee. The other two wore khaki sun helmets.

“We won’t have to go far,” said Prale. “Sometimes they come right down in the trees. Just keep plugging straight ahead.”

That was the plan. Vernier was to keep on straight ahead, while Prale and Doran were to oblique to the right and left. Several Malays were out in front.

As a matter of fact, as soon as the two men were out of sight in the chest high thicket, Vernier stopped walking. He wanted those two men ahead of him, not behind. Jerome Steeks was a ruthless person —

The detective took off his white topee and perched it atop a lantana bush. Then he walked several paces away and squatted down in the damp growth, his rifle between his knees. They could not possibly see him there, but they could see his sun helmet — a flash of white in the dense greenery.

For twenty minutes he waited, whisking away flies and insects. Then he heard a shot, followed by two more. A fourth shot, and his sun helmet leaped spinning into the air, struck a tree, bounded to the ground at his feet. Jerome Steeks could shoot, too. Which was he? Vernier picked up the helmet. Did the shot come from the left — Prale? or the right — Doran? He turned the helmet in the direction it had been facing atop the bush. He looked at the holes. Then he looked again. The shot had come from neither left nor right. It had come from behind. One of the pair had succeeded in circling around behind him, despite his precautions. But which one?

Putting on his helmet he started back toward the estate. He hoped to cross the trail of the man who had fired from behind. But he was disappointed. He reached the bungalow without meeting any one. It was half an hour later that Prale and Doran came back, with their Malays carrying the dead pig.

There was no more stray shooting before steamer day, and when the yellow funneled steamer again hove-to off the river mouth, Vernier was still in the dark as to who fired the shot.

The ship arrived one gray, sweltering afternoon, and the controleur got the skipper to lay over until nearly midnight, instead of making the usual hurried call. He could be in Balik Papan by dawn, anyhow.

The cook imported from Batavia came ashore in a Sampan loaded with crates, boxes and a huge cake of ice wrapped in burlap. He repaired immediately to the bungalow of Heer Koert where he shooed his Chinese predecessor into a corner and began to exercise his art. In view of the controleur’s superior kitchen, and the time that would have been lost by transporting the supplies up the river, the three planters had agreed to come down to the dessa.

In deference to Dutch colonial custom, the dinner was preceded by a few rounds of gin pahits on the veranda. Vernier proudly produced a menu written in French, which he passed around, watching the expression on the faces of the three Americans as they read:

The eyes of the Dutch controleur and the steamship captain, who also was a guest, grew large and bright as they scanned the menu. Those of the three Americans did not show a flicker of comprehension.

The planters smacked their lips over the goose liver in port wine jelly, however, and breathed noisily in unison — Ah-h-h — when the lobster appeared, steaming in its savory fumes of white wine, brandy, essence of tomatoes.

Paul Vernier, as he presided over the table, glittering with the crystal ware and cutlery from Batavia, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. At times he could be as boisterous as the three Americans. Yet when he mentioned his wines, he spoke reverently in low tones.

“This Montrachet,” he said, as he poured the fragrant golden wine that accompanied the lobster, “beats any other white wine in the world. Can’t compete with Chambertin, of course, but in 1904 it was as good as white Burgundy ever had been or will be.”

The planters approved profanely. There was plenty of white wine, so they drank plenty. And Montrachet is a heady wine... They probably did not fully appreciate the truffles. Each truffle had been imbedded in a potato and baked in live coals. One had only to peel off the charred potato to find the truffle in all its succulence...

Then came the boar, bathed in its mauve wine sauce, studded with mushrooms, exhaling a glorious aroma.

“And now,” announced Vernier, “the king of wines. There never was a better wine than Chambertin, and there never was a better Chambertin than 1911. Look!”

Carefully cradled in a special basket with a handle at one end, the bottle was passed around. Vernier called attention to the cobwebs on the bottle. Then he poured a little in his own glass, holding it up to be admired.

“Look at that color!” he said. “Rubies. Clear, leaping flame. The fire of a thousand sunsets. And the bouquet! Just have a whiff of it. Sheer poetry! That’s wine for you — Chambertin!”

He held out the glass to the nostrils of each of the guests, watching them as they breathed the spirituous fragrance.

“And now, pass me your large wine glasses, please. Thanks.”

Scarcely moving the bottle, he poured each glass three-fourths full. His one keen eye darted quick glances about the table. Then he suddenly plunged a spoon into a dish of cracked ice and began to tinkle the crystal chunks into each glass of red wine.

Wilmerding instantly half rose from his chair directly opposite, his mouth open as though he had witnessed something horrible.

“My God, man! Don’t put ice in that Chambertin!” he said in low, shocked tones.

Vernier dropped the spoon, made a swipe for his pocket and lunged across the table before Wilmerding could sit down again. There was a metallic click, a grunt — and a pair of handcuffs glistened around Wilmerding’s wrists.

Straightening up, Vernier said quietly —

“Jerome Steeks!”

The room was immediately in an uproar. The diners were on their feet, shouting, gesticulating. The controleur was yelling Dutch at the steamship captain who was nodding his head furiously. Prale was pounding the table and hurling pyrotechnic language at Vernier. Doran had an arm around Wilmerding and was assuring him that everything was all right. Wilmerding continued to stare at Vernier, his mouth open.

“Jerome Steeks!” repeated Vernier.

“Liar!” yelled Doran.

“You can’t get away with that stuff!” Prale was advancing toward Vernier with a chair swung above his head.

“Wait!” Vernier made a pacific gesture with both hands. Prale paused. “I’ll tell you how I know this man is Jerome Steeks.” Prale put down the chair. “Only an epicure, a gourmet such as Jerome Steeks, would have been shocked by my putting ice in Chambertin. Only a man who knows thoroughly how to eat and drink appreciates wines enough to understand that the bouquet of Chambertin would be destroyed, frozen up, by cold. Steeks knows that red wine should always be drunk at the temperature of the room. This, gentlemen, is Jerome Steeks, epicure — wanted in San Francisco for murder.”

“How about it, Willy? What’s the inside?” demanded Prale.

Steeks, lately Wilmerding, did not turn his head. He was looking forlornly at a growing purple stain on the table cloth. In his excitement of snapping on the handcuffs, Vernier had upset three glasses of wine.

“Say, Vernier,” said the manacled man at last. “Will you do me one last and quite reasonable favor?”

“Sure,” said Vernier, “if you’ll do me one. Tell me how you kept your hair blond without the help of bleaching agents.”

Wilmerding-Steeks smiled faintly.

“It was always blond,” he said. “When I started living by my wits I figured I’d probably have to hide out some day. So I dyed it black and kept it that way, knowing I could let it grow out blond when I wanted to. And now, will you do me that favor?”

“What is it?” asked Vernier.

“Pour me a glass of your Chambertin,” came the reply, “without ice.”