The Golden Flask

'Wigs?' The barber was a pudgy sort with a nose that, to van Clynne, betrayed a great interest in drink. Whether the conclusion was warranted or not, it suggested a course of action — provided he could overcome the man's initial suspicions.

'Wigs,' agreed the squire.

'You don't look like a man who wears one. Though you could use a smaller hat.'

'That is the reason for the room beneath my crown,' declared the Dutchman. 'I have come in search of the finest wig-maker in the city. You

are

Mr. George, I presume.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Wig-maker to Sir William?'

The man patted his left palm with a barber's fleam retrieved from the center table. Ordinarily used for letting blood, the sharp instrument was an intimidating weapon under any circumstance.

'What business is that of yours?'

'No business,' said van Clynne. 'Merely that he recommended you to me, that is all. For a wig.'

'As I said, you do not seem the type to wear a wig. The habit has largely gone out of style, except among the highest class of British officers. And even then — '

'Well that is where you are wrong, sir,' said van Clynne. 'Quite wrong. Indeed, I believe a club wig would look quite handsome on me.'

'A club wig? On a Dutchman?' The barber laughed. He loosened his white apron and removed it, revealing a fashionably striped set of breeches and waistcoat. 'No one has worn those in many years.'

Van Clynne feigned confusion. 'Sir William told me he had just ordered a dozen.'

'He's pulling your leg. He's quite a prankster, Sir William. People don't realize he has a sense of humor. I tell you, no one knows a man like his barber. Let a little blood, and a bond forms.'

'Indeed. Are you thirsty?'

'Thirsty?'

'I came in for a wig, but now I find myself in a mood for a good bleed,' lied van Clynne. 'But in order to do so, I need a little, preparation, shall we say?'

'A bit of Dutch courage, eh?' said the barber, reaching back to a drawer on the counter near his side window. 'Rum'll knock you up in a second. Medicinal, of course.'

'Actually, I was in mind of a strong beer or two. Perhaps you will accompany me. I will stand for it, naturally.'

The barber looked at him doubtfully. 'It is getting late in the day. I was thinking of going upstairs for supper before too long. The wife is waiting.'

'She would begrudge you a beer with a customer?'

'If the truth be told — '

'What is happening in our city?' complained van Clynne, rising from the chair. 'These rebels have put foolish notions into everyone's heads. Women no longer know their proper place. I tell you, sir, during Governor Stuyvesant's day, none of this would have happened.'

'Now, now, relax, man. She is a good woman. Too given to church sermons, that is all. Trying to keep me on the righteous path.'

'Well,' said van Clynne haughtily, 'from the way Sir William was bragging about you, I thought you would accept my invitation to a drink quite readily. But I shall have to tell him he was wrong.'

'Just a minute now,' said the barber, taking his arm. 'Do you really require a letting?'

'I have been feeling most melancholy of late,' said van Clynne. 'Given to heavy moods. I also require a wig. I would naturally want the most expensive, in keeping with my station.'

'That being?'

“ Purveyor of purveyment. Contracting contracts. And the like,' said Van Clynne.

'No horses' hair for you then, I daresay.'

'Beneath contempt.'

'Well, I cannot avoid my duty to my fellow man,' said the barber, who also would not avoid the possibility of a handsome profit and free drinks. 'After all, I have taken an oath.'

The oath happened to be in relation to his wife's cooking — perhaps they could have a bite to eat as well.

'Which tavern did you have in mind?' he asked.

'You understand, sir, that the style was originally called an entire, as it contained hints of every brewing method known to man.” Van Clynne continued. “Top fermenting — yes, that is the proper place for a porter to begin, at the height of the liquid, where the flavor noodles can take their proper perspective on the proceedings. You understand the theory of flavor noodles, do you not?'

The barber shook his head. He had been endeavoring to follow van Clynne's learned discussion on beer through several light ales, four lagers, and a very serious porter. The Dutchman had chosen this inn not merely because it lay in the opposite direction of the fort, but because it made a specialty of brewing several various styles of beer. It thus fulfilled his purposes remarkably well.

The poor barber had begun to show signs of inebriation with his third tankard, and now betrayed distinct symptoms of total drunkenness, finding not only that everything presented to him was pleasing, but endeavoring to be most pleasing in return. His new friend, in turn, was not only agreeable but generous: Van Clynne was willing not only to pay for the drinks, but had even agreed to twice the normal sum for the planned bloodletting. Plus, he had ordered dinner — a very fatted fowl, complete with fixings, still being prepared.

The Dutchman, judging that he had cooked his gander long enough, now pulled the fryer from the pan. 'And so, sir, onto the topic of wigs.'

'Wigs?'

'You have fitted Sir William, have you not?'

'Oh yes. Sir William. Has me cut his nose hairs. They grow like a jungle.'

'I suppose he has ordered a tye wig?'

'Tye wigs, no.'

'Are they not popular in Boston?'

'Boston? I would not think so.'

'Didn't Sir William enquire as to the popularity of wigs where he was going?'

'Isn't go'n Boston,' said the barber, shaking his head. 'He's going to Phil, Philadelphia. And you know what they wear there?'

Van Clynne did not bother to listen to the reply, instead slapping two fresh notes on the counter. As he waved to the proprietor, the wig-maker abruptly fell over on the floor in a drunken stupor.

To say that the Dutchman was in a cheerful mood when he opened the door and stepped into the now darkened street would be to understate the obvious. To say his spirits reversed would miss the mark again — for the Dutchman suddenly found a large arm coiling around his neck.

It belonged to his former jailer, Christof Egans.

Chapter Thirty-five

Wherein, Egans’ genealogical roots are briefly dug up, and concerns sprout regarding Jake’s state.

Just the man I was looking for,” declared van Clynne, barely managing to keep his balance as he was pulled from the doorway and pushed against the wall.

'You will shut your mouth for me, Dutchman,' answered Egans. 'I have spent considerable energy tracking you down, and waited here nearly a full hour.'