Alan Foster - The Metrognome and Other Stories

The opposite wall was –one huge bookcase. Most of the volumes were medical tomes and had titles stuffed with Latin nouns. There were several shelves of titles in German, a single one in French, yet another in what seemed like some sort of Scandanavian language.

Crowded in a small corner of the north wail, almost in embarrassment, was a group of plaqued diplomas from several eastern institutions and, to match the books, one in German and another in French.

The art, of which there wasn't much, consisted mostly of small pieces. Picasso she expected but not the original Dali, or the Winslow Homer, the charming Wyeth sketches, some English things she didn't recognize, and the framed anatomic drawings of da Vinci . . .not originals, of course. And over the fireplace, in a massive oak frame, a big Sierra Nevada glowing landscape by Bierstadt.

A distinctive collection, just like its owner, she mused.

"With pinch."

She whirled, missed a breath. "You startled me!"

"Fair play. You've already done the same to me tonight. "

She took the glass, walked over to the couch, sat, and sipped.

"Very slight pinch," she murmured appreciatively.

He walked over and sat down next to her.

"I wouldn't expect you to be the sort to go to many of Norma's parties."

"Was that the name of our charming hostess?" he queried. "No, I don't." There was a long rack holding twenty-odd pipes on the table. A lazy Susan full of different tobaccos rested at one end. He selected a new pipe, began stuffing it.

"If you believe it, I was invited by one of my patients. "

She giggled. The drink was perfect.

"I'm afraid it's true." He smiled. "She was concerned for my supposed monastic existence. Poor Mrs. Marden." He put pipe to lips and took out a box of matches.

"Let me," she said, the lighter from her purse already out.

"Huh-uh. Not with that." He gently pushed her hand away. The wrist tingled after he removed his hand.

"Gas flame, spoil the flavor. Not every smoker notices it, but I do."

She reached out, took the box of Italian wax matches. She struck one and leaned forward. As he puffed the tobacco alight, one hand slipped into her decolletage.

"I didn't think you were wearing a foundation garment."

"Oh, come on!" She blew out the match. His hand was moving gently now. "You sound like a construction engineer!"

"I apologize. You know, you're very fortunate."

She was beginning to breathe unevenly. "How . . . so?"

"Well," he began in a professorial tone, "the undercurve of a woman's breast is more sensitive than the top. Many aren't sufficiently well endowed to experience the difference. Not a problem you have to face."

"What," she husked, brushing his cheek, "does the book say about the bottom lip versus the top?"

"As to that-" He put the pipe on the table and leaned much, much closer. "-opinion is still somewhat divided."

New Year's Day came and went, as usual utterly the same as an old year's day.

It wasn't an affair, of course. More like a fair. A continuing,wonderful, slightly mad fair. Like the fair at Sorochinsk in Petroushka, but no puppets here. Walt never shouted at her, never had a mean word. He was unfailingly gentle, polite, considerate, with just the slightest hint of devilry to keep things spicy.

He had fewer personal idiosyncrasies than any man she'd ever met. The only thing that really seemed to bother him was any hint of nosiness on her part. A small problem, since he'd been quite candid about his background without being asked, and about his work.

She'd been a little surprised to learn about the two previous marriages. But since there were no children, nothing tying him to the past, her concern quickly vanished.

And next Tuesday was his birthday. She was determined to surprise him.

But with what? Clothes? He had plenty of clothes and was no fashion plate to begin with. She couldn't afford a painting of any quality. Besides, choosing art for someone was an impossible job. Electronic gadgetry, the modern adult male's equivalent of Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs, didn't excite him.

Then she thought of the tobacco.

Of course! She'd have some of his special blend prepared. Whenever he lit a pipe, he'd think of her.

Now, she considered, looking around the sun-dappled den, where would I hide if I were a tin of special tobacco? There must be large tins around somewhere. The lazy Susan didn't hold much, and it was always full . . . though she never saw him replenishing it. Of course she couldn't ask him. That would spoil the surprise.

It wasn't hidden, as it turned out. Just inconspicuous, in a place she'd had no reason to go. There was a small storage room, a second bedroom, really, in the –front of the beach house. It held still more books and assorted knickknacks, including an expensive and unused set of golf clubs.

The tobacco tins were in an old glass cabinet off in one dark, cool corner. The case was locked; but the key was on top of the cabinet. Standing on tiptoe, she could just reach it.

Hunt as she did, though, giving each tin a thorough inspection, there was nothing she could call a special blend. There were American brands, and Turkish, and Arabic, and Brazilian, and even a small, bent tin from some African country that had changed its name three times in the past ten years.

But no special blends.

She closed the cabinet and put the key back. In semi-frustration she gave the old highboy a soft kick. There was a click. The bottom foot or so of the cabinet looked like solid maple. It wasn't, because a front panel swung out an inch or so.

She knelt, opened it all the way.

There were eight large tins inside sitting on two shelves. Each was wrapped in what looked like brown rice paper or thin leather but was neither. In fine, bold script across the front of each someone had written:

SPECIAL BLEND, Prepared Especially For DR. WALTER SCOTT

Under this were the various blend names: Liz Granger, Virginia Violet, and so on.

She pulled one tin out, examined it patiently. That was all. No address, no telephone number, nothing. She went over each tin carefully, with identical results. Just SPECIAL BLEND, Prepared Especially for . . . and the blend name. Nothing to indicate who prepared it, where it came from.

The paper on the final tin was slightly torn. She handled it carefully and inspected the tear. Something was stamped into the metal of the tin, almost concealed by the wrapping. Gently she peeled a little aside.

Yes, an oval stamp had been used on the tin. They probably all carried it. It was hard to make out; the stamp was shallow.

Peter van Eyck, the Smoke Nook . . . and an address right on Santa Monica Boulevard.

She found a little scrap of paper, wrote down the name and address. Then she smoothed the torn paper (or was it leather?) down as best she could, replaced the tin on its shelf, and shut the panel. It snapped closed with another click of the old-fashioned latch.

Hollywood Boulevard is just like a movie set. All front and no insides or back. Marching south from the Hollywood hills, you encounter Sunset Boulevard next, then Santa Monica. For much of its length-life Santa Monica Boulevard is like the back of a movie set. A street where all the storefronts, you're certain, have their faces to the alleys and their backsides to the boulevard.

Almost, she was convinced she'd misread the address. But on the third cruise past she spotted it. It was just a door in an old two-story building.

She pulled around the corner, managed to slither in between a new panel truck and an old Cadillac.

The door was open, the stairs inside reasonably clean. At the top of the landing she looked left, went right. She knocked on number five once and walked in. The overpowering, pungent odor of tobacco hit her immediately. Bells on the door jangled for a second time as she closed it.