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The bar, when I tracked it down, was in the smoking room. The smoker was set up as an old-style Library, the kind where almost nobody actually opened a book but everybody appreciated the ambience of ancient leather and polished wood and peaceful contemplation. The latter was a state of mind assisted by having just eaten a large and elaborately-prepared meal, and most of the overstuffed chairs were occupied by figures emitting coils of cigar smoke or equally dense clouds of snores. I found my way to a pair of unoccupied chairs separated by a convenient table, and slumped into one of them. Strathallan materialised at my elbow. "Did you enjoy your dinner, sir," he enquired with exaggerated politeness, "And the wine?" "The wine was exceptionally good," I replied, "Very rare, I believe. Do we have any more of it?" "It was the last bottle," he sniffed. "Cluttering up the cellar, no doubt," I interjected, "Glad to see the back of it. No matter. Perhaps you would bring me another drink." Strathallan bowed his head briefly and backed away, just as Balloch entered the smoking room. The head waiter was a master of timing, it seemed, and more enthusiastic about helping me than I had expected. Briefly, I wondered why. Balloch stood in the doorway for a moment, eyes narrowed, looking around like a raptor ready to pounce. It was a look at odds with his piggy appearance. He looked harder, smarter; like somebody it would be worth taking seriously. He noticed the empty seat opposite mine and recognised me as tonight's victim, then started threading his way around the sleeping members. I affected an interest in the leather-bound volumes on the shelves next to my elbow, keeping half an eye on his approach. "Excuse me?" I swung my head up and focussed blearily on Balloch. "Mind if I sit here?" he said, seating himself on the polished leather without waiting for a response. "Be my guest, old boy," I replied affably, waving a hand. He fidgeted in his chair for a moment, then leaned forward over the coffee table and extended a hand. "Dalgrin Balloch," he said. I blinked and took his hand. "Findo Gask. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure." Strathallan chose that moment to reappear with a small snifter of what turned out be an ancient Armagnac which he placed with some reverence on the polished walnut of the table. I nodded my thanks, picked up the glass cradled in the palm of my hand, swirled it around the globe to warm it slightly then offered it to my nose. It smelled wonderful. I raised the glass in a silent toast to Balloch, who was watching me like a hawk, sipped daintily, then nodded my approval to Strathallan much more emphatically. "Bring me one of the same, waiter," Balloch instructed brusquely, "Right away." He either didn't know or didn't care who Strathallan was. No wonder the old retainer had taken something of a dislike to him. Strathallan murmured something along the lines of: "at once, sir" and faded into the background. Balloch reached for an inside pocket. I managed to suppress the instinctive reaction of those in my profession when somebody suddenly reaches inside their coat. He drew out a silver case and flipped open the lid, waving it in my direction. "Care for a cigar?" The inside of the case was lined with some fragrant and no doubt horrendously rare and expensive wood. Swaddled within were no more than half a dozen fat cylinders, one of which protruded maybe half its length. A second alongside it stuck out just a little. "That's very kind of you," I said, leaning forward, "I don't mind if I do." I took the cigar with was protruding only a little, pushing the other back into the case with my knuckle as I did so. I'm always a suspicious character. It's one of the things that have kept me alive all these centuries. I watched Balloch carefully. He took the other cigar without hesitation, flipped closed the case and returned it to his pocket, his hand returning with an elegant silver lighter and a curious little gadget which - after a moment's hesitation - I recognised as a cigar cutter. Just at that moment, Strathallan returned with a second balloon for Balloch and a small tray which he placed in front of me. I grinned on the inside of my face. Arranged neatly on the tray, on a bed of crisp white linen, was another cigar cutter and a silver box of matches. While Balloch fussed with his own cigar, I did the job properly: I removed the paper band, neatly trimmed the end with the cutter, then lit one of the long matches, let it burn for a few seconds so that the sulphur did not taste the smoke, then carefully applied the flame to the cut end of the cigar. I blew smoke at the ceiling and sat back to give Mister Balloch my full attention.
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Part 14