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.
Someone in the back of the room said, 'Just a minute!' Twice that later, the proprietor appeared.
Short, fat, a fringe of hair running all around his head from chin, to cheeks, into sideburns, over the ear and around the back, like a cut-on-the-dotted-line demarcation.
At least in his sixties, but most of the wrinkles were still fat wrinkles, not age wrinkles. His voice was smooth, faintly accented. He smiled.
'Well! If I had more clients like you, young lady, I might not consider retiring.'
'Thanks. Anyhow,' she said, 'you can't retire, at least not until tonight. I'm here to buy a birthday present for a very special friend.'
The owner put on a pleased expression. 'What does he like, you tell me. Imported cigars? Pipe tobacco? Snuff?' He winked knowingly, an obscene elf. 'Perhaps something a little more unusual? Mexican, say, or Taiwanese?'
'And the opium den in the attic.' She smiled back. 'No, I'm afraid not. My friend buys his tobacco from you regularly-'
'He has good taste.'
'-a special blend you make for him.'
'My dear, I make special blends for many people, and not only here in Los Angeles. It's a fine art, and young people today . . . ' He sighed. 'Some of my best customers, then names would startle you. Who is your friend?'
'Dr. Walter Scott.'
Smile, good-bye. Grin, vanished. Humor, to another universe.
'I see.' All of a sudden he was wary of her. 'Does the doctor know that you are doing this?'
'No. I want to surprise him.'
'I daresay.' He looked at his feet. 'I am afraid, dear lady, I cannot help you.'
None of this made any sense. 'Why not? Can't you just . . . blend it or whatever else it is you do? I don't need it till next week.'
'You must understand, dear lady, that this is a very special blend. I can prepare most of it. But one ingredient always stays the same, and this Dr. Scott always supplies himself. It's like saffron in paella, you know. Without the tiny pinch of saffron, you have nothing, soup. Without the doctor's little additive . . .' He shrugged.
'Haven't you tried to find out what it is for yourself?' she pressed.
'Of course. But the doctor; he only smiles. I don't blame him for protecting the secret of his blend. Such a marvelous sweetness it gives the smoke, I tell you!' The tobacconist shook his head, fringe bobbing. 'No, I cannot help you. Excuse me.' He headed for the back of the room.
'Well, I like that!' She walked out the door, paused halfway down the stairs. Odd. Oh, well. She'd buy him that antique hurricane lamp he'd admired in Ports o' Call.
It was raining as she drove out to the house. Wednesdays he worked late, and she was sure he could use some company. She shivered deliciously. So could she.
The Pacific Coast Highway was a major artery. Thanks to the rain and fog, the number of four-wheeled corpuscles was greatly reduced tonight. Typical southern California rain: clean, cold, tamer than back east.
She let herself in quietly.
Walt was sticking another log into the fireplace. He was sucking on the usual pipe, a gargoylish meerschaum this time. After the wet run from the driveway the fire was a sensuous, delightful inferno, howling like a chained orange cat.
She took off the heavy, wet coat, strolled over to stand near the warmth. The heat was wonderful. She kissed him, but this time the fire's enthusiasm wasn't matched.
'Something wrong, Walt?' She grinned. 'Mrs. Norris giving you trouble about her glands again?'
'No, no, not that,' he replied quietly. 'Here, I made you a ginger snap.'
The drink was cool and perfect as always.
'Well, tell me, then, what is it?' She went and curled up on the couch. The fire was a little too hot.
He leaned against the stone mantel, staring down into the flames. The only light in the room came from the fireplace. His face assumed biblical shadows. He sighed.
'Emma, you know what I think of women who stick their noses in where they shouldn't.'
'Walt?'
Damn, he must have noticed the new tear in the tobacco tin wrapping!
'I don't know what you mean, darling.' The handsome profile turned to full face.
'You've been in my tobacco, haven't you?'
Ginger snap, tickling as it went down.
'Oh, all right. I confess, darling. Yes, I was in your precious horde.'
There was more than a hint of mild curiosity in his voice. It seemed to come from another person entirely. She pressed back into the couch and shivered. It was the sudden change in temperature from outside, of course.
'Gee, Walt, I didn't think you'd be so . . . so upset.'
'Why?' he repeated. His eyes weren't glowing. Just reflection from the fire, was all.
She smiled hopefully. 'I was going to surprise you for your birthday. I wanted to get you some of your special blend and really surprise you. Don't think I'm going to tell you what I got you, now, either!'
He didn't smile. 'I see. I take it you didn't obtain my blend?'
'No, I didn't. I went to your tobacco place . . .'
