‘On top of the green filing cabinet in my study,’ Mike said. ‘That’s the place we chose. A good draught-free spot in a room with an even temperature. Excuse me now, will you, while I fetch it.’
The thought of another wine to play with had restored his humour, and he hurried out of the door, to return a minute later more slowly, walking softly, holding in both hands a wine basket in which a dark bottle lay. The label was out of sight, facing downwards. ‘Now!’ he cried as he came towards the table. ‘What about this one, Richard? You’ll never name this one!’
Richard Pratt turned slowly and looked up at Mike, then his eyes travelled down to the bottle n
estling in its small wicker basket, and he raised his eyebrows, a slight, supercilious arching of the brows, and with it a pushing outward of the wet lower lip, suddenly imperious and ugly.
‘You’ll never get it,’ Mike said. ‘Not in a hundred years.’
‘A claret?’ Richard Pratt asked, condescending.
‘Of course.’
‘I assume, then, that it’s from one of the smaller vineyards?’
‘Maybe it is, Richard. And then again, maybe it isn’t.’
‘But it’s a good year? One of the great years?’
‘Yes, I guarantee that.’
‘Then it shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Richard Pratt said, drawling his words, looking exceedingly bored. Except that, to me, there was something strange about his drawling and his boredom: between the eyes a shadow of something evil, and in his bearing an intentness that gave me a faint sense of uneasiness as I watched him.
‘This one is really rather difficult,’ Mike said. ‘I won’t force you to bet on this one.’
‘Indeed. And why not?’ Again the slow arching of the brows, the cool, intent look.
‘Because it’s difficult.’
‘That’s not very complimentary to me, you know.’
‘My dear man,’ Mike said, ‘I’ll bet you with pleasure, if that’s what you wish.’
‘It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.’
‘You mean you want to bet?’
‘I’m perfectly willing to bet,’ Richard Pratt said.
‘All right, then, we’ll have the usual. A case of the wine itself.’
‘You don’t think I’ll be able to name it, do you.’
‘As a matter of fact, and with all due respect, I don’t,’ Mike said. He was making some effort to remain polite, but Pratt was not bothering overmuch to conceal his contempt for the whole proceeding. And yet, curiously, his next question seemed to betray a certain interest.
‘You like to increase the bet?’
‘No, Richard. A case is plenty.’
‘Would you like to bet fifty cases?’
‘That would be silly.’
Mike stood very still behind his chair at the head of the table, carefully holding the bottle in its ridiculous wicker basket. There was a trace of whiteness around his nostrils now, and his mouth was shut very tight.
Pratt was lolling back in his chair, looking up at him, the eyebrows raised, the eyes half closed, a little smile touching the corners of his lips. And again I saw, or thought I saw, something distinctly disturbing about the man’s face, that shadow of intentness between the eyes, and in the eyes themselves, right in their centres where it was black, a small slow spark of shrewdness, hiding.
‘So you don’t want to increase the bet?’