Chapter Seven
"Please, Miss, come in," the gentleman managed to make the invitation to his tiny office, containing a single desk with a chair each side, sound like an exclusive privilege. Phryne smiled accordingly and settled herself in one of the chairs.
"How may I be of assistance?"
"I need champagne," Phryne said, simply. "Lots of it."
She had always found that telling the truth was the best way to dissemble.
The man smiled as he settled into the chair behind his desk. "Can I perhaps ask what we are calling "lots" in this context? Two, perhaps three cases?"
"Oh, a dozen at least," was the airy reply.
"Bottles?"
"Cases."
"I see. Mademoiselle is perhaps having a large party?" he simpered.
"Is there any other kind?" she simpered back. "I thought perhaps the '28".
At this, the vintner's smile widened slightly. Then he pulled a comical grimace. "I can obtain five cases of the 1928 vintage, but for more than that, I am sorry that we simply do not have the stock."
He eyed her speculatively. "On the other hand, I have still in my cellar some of the 1923 vintage. It is not for the idle customer but for the connoisseur, I can find perhaps seven, eight cases; and at a very reasonable price. It is less well known in this part of the world, and the nuanced flavours are of a perfection…" he performed a bis to the world in general. "The first, biscuit topnotes…"
Phryne interrupted. "Thank you, M'sieur, but as we both know, there was no vintage declared in 1923. I'm also a little concerned that twenty minutes of your patronising advice is going to cost me another shilling a bottle on a wine I am interested in."
She lifted her handbag to her lap as if to leave, and after a brief spell of goldfish impressions, the vintner held out a steadying hand.
"But no, Mam'selle! Let me see what I can find. We will be able to give you an excellent price, I am sure."
"Really?" asked Phryne sceptically, as she placed her handbag slowly back on the desk. "How excellent, exactly?"
The man made the sound unique to Frenchmen the world over; a murmur that seemed a direct product of the shrug of his shoulders, that came out sounding a little like "boeuf". "That all depends, Mam'selle, on the quality you seek."
"Oh, it doesn't have to be another 1921," she replied. "'29 was excellent, but I'm minded to keep what I have for a few more years."
"Then I can perhaps find some of the '26?" he essayed. "It would be 25 shillings per bottle, but for a large order… we can perhaps come to an arrangement…" he spread out his hands again.
Phryne put on a 'considering' expression. "It would have to be substantial 'arrangement' I think, to come close to the price the Mayor paid for our wine at his ball?"
The man's ingratiating expression disappeared. "Pah! That vinegar? The lees of the barrels of Dom Perignon are better than that dross."
"Well, really," Phryne replied in an amused tone. "One could tell it was not the French product, but at – what, half the price? It was surely good value."
"Half?" the man laughed bitterly. "Mam'selle, that local fizz was sold for less than a third of my price for the Dom Perignon. Call it value, if you must; I call it suicidal – for the maker as much as the fool who drinks it."
"A third?" asked Phryne, truly astonished. A good local chardonnay could cost almost as much.
"Eight shillings a bottle, on the life of my grandmère, may she rest in peace," insisted the vintner virtuously. "At that price, I hope he has some more to sell, because he cannot be making a profit, no, not even on a hundred cases. It would take a thousand."
Phryne had heard enough. "M'sieur, I will take a case of your '26 today, at 24 shillings a bottle, and … on va voir, hein?" She held out her hand.
He hesitated, then shook it. "Bien sur." Then he fixed her with a steely gaze. "On condition, Mam'selle, that you do not go near the Regent warehouse."
She smiled. "You have my word – though as I don't know where the warehouse is, I may inadvertently stumble upon it."
He roared with laughter. "We will do good business, Mam'selle. And you will stay away from Chessell Street, hmm?"
She agreed that she would. He kissed her hand. Then he kissed her hand again. Then he patted it, and showed every sign of inviting her to share an aperitif, dinner and the naming of their firstborn child.
She handed him a business card, requesting that the wine be sent to her address, and made good her escape as he read it… and paled…
Detective Chief Inspector Robinson, in the meantime, was making his own progress. Mrs Maitland had passed on the details of Muriel's fiancé, one Simon Quinn. Mr Quinn, while understandably distraught at Muriel's death, was eager to help find her killer.
"Enemies? I know you have to be thorough, Inspector, but that's nonsense. How does a senior secretary in a glassware business make enemies?"
Jack could think of several ways, mostly involving breaking glassware, but kept his peace. "A senior secretary? Was she close to the bosses, then?" he asked.
"Much too close, if you ask me," Quinn sighed. "She works – worked long hours, especially when there was a board meeting coming up – they have a knack of changing the papers at the last minute so that everything needs to be retyped. The worst one was when they got the order in for the stronger bottles last year, for sparkling wine."
"Oh?" Jack raised his eyebrows. "They weren't involved in this new Australian champagne venture, were they?"
"I'll say they were!" exclaimed Quinn. "And they had to set up a whole new production line for it. Huge investment. Muriel said they made the winemakers pay half, because the risk was enormous."
"Did they?" mused Jack. If this was the Regents' business model, something was failing to add up. "And Miss Maitland had to attend these meetings?"
"Oh, she would never be acknowledged in the room, Inspector – you know how it is," said Quinn with a wry smile, "but somebody had to take the minutes. Yes, she was in at the top of a lot of it."
"That's very helpful, sir, thank you. I might drop round to the offices of these Regent people. Just to see what's what."
"Oh, they don't have an office in Melbourne, Inspector," said Quinn. "Just a warehouse, I think. Not sure where it is. On the way to Port Melbourne, I think."
It was, in the event, the work of moments when Jack returned to City South, for Sergeant Collins to pull out the telephone directory.
"Chessell Street, sir."
"Get the car, Collins. I think it might be worth a look to see just what those Regents have got to offer." Hugh Collins nodded and lifted the flap of the front desk. As he did, Jack added an afterthought.
"And something tells me it will be more than just second-rate fizz."