'You are forgetting the raisins,' I said. 'Now listen to this. We take a raisin. Then we soak it till it swells. Then we make a tiny slit in one side of it with a razor-blade. Then we hollow it out a little. Then we open up one of my red capsules and pour all the powder into the raisin. Then we get a needle and cotton and very carefully we sew up the slit. Now...'
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Claud's mouth slowly beginning to open.
'Now,' I said. 'We have a nice clean-looking raisin with two and a half grains of seconal inside it, and let me tell you something now. That's enough dope to knock the average man unconscious, never mind about birds!'
I paused for ten seconds to allow the full impact of this to strike home.
'What's more, with this method we could operate on a really grand scale. We could prepare twenty raisins if we felt like it, and all we'd have to do is scatter them around the feeding-grounds at sunset and then walk away. Half an hour later we'd come back, and the pills would be beginning to work, and the pheasants would be up in the trees by then, roosting, and they'd be starting to feel groggy, and they'd be wobbling and trying to keep their balance, and soon every pheasant that had eaten one single raisin would keel over unconscious and fall to the ground. My dear boy, they'd be dropping out of the trees like apples, and all we'd have to do is walk around picking them up!'
Claud was staring at me, rapt.
'Oh Christ,' he said softly.
'And they'd never catch us either. We'd simply stroll through the woods dropping a few raisins here and there as we went, and even if they were watching us they wouldn't notice anything.'
'Gordon,' he said, laying a hand on my knee and gazing at me with eyes large and bright as two stars. 'If this thing works, it will revolutionize poaching.'
'I'm glad to hear it.'
'How many pills have you got left?' he asked.
'Forty-nine. There were fifty in the bottle and I've only used one.'
'Forty-nine's not enough. We want at least two hundred.'
'Are you mad!' I cried.
He walked slowly away and stood by the door with his back to me, gazing at the sky.
'Two hundred's the bare minimum,' he said quietly. 'There's really not much point in doing it unless we have two hundred.'
What is it now, I wondered. What the hell's he trying to do?
'This is the last chance we'll have before the season opens,' he said.
'I couldn't possibly get any more.'
'You wouldn't want us to come back empty-handed, would you?'
'But why so many?'
Claud turned his head and looked at me with large innocent eyes. 'Why not?' he said gently. 'Do you have any objection?'
My God, I thought suddenly. The crazy bastard is out to wreck Mr Victor Hazel's opening-day shooting-party.
'You get us two hundred of those pills,' he said, 'and then it'll be worth doing.'
'I can't.'
'You could try, couldn't you?'
Mr Hazel's party took place on the first of October every year and it was a very famous event. Debilitated gentlemen in tweed suits, some with titles and some who were merely rich, motored in from miles around with their gun-bearers and dogs and wives, and all day long the noise of shooting rolled across the valley. There were always enough pheasants to go round, for each summer the woods were methodically restoc
ked with dozens and dozens of young birds at incredible expense. I had heard it said that the cost of rearing and keeping each pheasant up to the time when it was ready to be shot was well over five pounds (which is approximately the price of two hundred loaves of bread). But to Mr Hazel it was worth every penny of it. He became, if only for a few hours, a big cheese in a little world and even the Lord Lieutenant of the County slapped him on the back and tried to remember his first name when he said good-bye.
'How would it be if we just reduced the dose?' Claud asked. 'Why couldn't we divide the contents of one capsule among four raisins?'
'I suppose you could if you wanted to.'