scent of China tea and he’ll go anywhere. Me, I can’t stand the muck. Especially this blend; it’s Lapsang Souchong. Tastes like tar.”
Holt wondered why anyone should like drinking tar, but every man to his taste. All he had to do was take the box to Fremantle and hand it over to Roylance. That should be easy enough.
“How’d you happen to bump into this man Saunders?” Grade asked.
“Just chance. I was having a drink in a bar. He accidentally jogged my elbow and spilt my beer. Of course he apologised, bought me another, and we got talking. He’s an easy man to talk to.”
“So you told him you were down to your last cent, and he offered you a job and the passage money. Just like that?”
“More or less.”
Grade patted Holt on the shoulder. “Congratulations, chum. I don’t know what you’ve got, but it must be something . Nobody ever made up to me like that just for spilling my drink. Maybe it’s that Pommy charm.”
“Maybe it is.”
“And all you have to do in return is take that little old box to the man in Fremantle. My, my.”
There was something in Grade’s tone that Holt did not altogether care for. Grade sounded cynical. His expression was cynical too.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you, chum,” Grade said. “It’s Mr. Saunders I find just a wee bit hard to believe. All that milk of human kindness oozing out of every pore.”
“I don’t get you.”
“You ever read a book called ‘Nicholas Nickleby’? Written by a character name of Charles Dickens.”
“I know who wrote ‘Nicholas Nickleby’. I read it a long time ago.”
“Remember the Cheeryble Brothers?”
“Vaguely.”
“The Cheerybles gave our Nicholas a job just because they liked the look of him.”
“So?”
Grade smiled, and it was a very cynical smile. “Me, I never did believe people like the Cheerybles existed in real life. Not today. Though there are certainly some Nicholases drifting around.”
“What are you trying to say?” Holt asked.
“What I’m trying to say is this: if I were you, Nick, I’d open that box and take a good hard look at that China tea. Yes, sir, I’d open it right here and now.”
“You’re crazy. Why should I do that?”
“Well, let’s just say in the interests of research. The widening of knowledge. You ever seen any Lapsang Souchong tea?”
“No, but—”
“Nor me either. I’d like to though. Yes, I truly would like to see a handful of that stuff.”
“And how do I explain to Mr. Roylance why his box is bust open?”
“You don’t have to explain anything. You can nail it up again.”
Holt gave Grade a long silent stare. Grade stared back, still with the cynical smile on his face.
Then Holt said, “Have you got a lever?”
Grade produced a clasp-knife with a screwdriver attachment. “I was in the Boy Scouts. They taught me to be prepared .”
Holt put the plywood box on the table. He took Grade’s knife and inserted the screwdriver under the lid. The lid was held down by thin half-inch nails; a little leverage with the screwdriver prised it up, drawing the nails out of the wood with a slight creaking sound. Holt put the lid carefully on one side. There was some tinfoil covering the contents. He folded the tinfoil back and revealed nothing but tea.
He looked at Grade. “Satisfied?”
Grade was still smiling. “So that’s Lapsang Souchong.”
Holt bent down and sniffed the tea. Saunders had been dead right about the flavour; it even smelt of tar.
“How about a brew-up?” Grade said.
Holt began to fold back the tinfoil. He had had just about enough of Grade’s little jokes. He had been a fool to open the box. Now what was he going to use for a hammer to knock the lid back on?
“Wait a second,” Grade said. He stepped to the table and poked a finger in the tea. Then he picked up the box and emptied the contents out on to the table.
“Here,” Holt protested. “What the devil do you think you’re up to?”
“You’ve
Holt wondered why anyone should like drinking tar, but every man to his taste. All he had to do was take the box to Fremantle and hand it over to Roylance. That should be easy enough.
“How’d you happen to bump into this man Saunders?” Grade asked.
“Just chance. I was having a drink in a bar. He accidentally jogged my elbow and spilt my beer. Of course he apologised, bought me another, and we got talking. He’s an easy man to talk to.”
“So you told him you were down to your last cent, and he offered you a job and the passage money. Just like that?”
“More or less.”
Grade patted Holt on the shoulder. “Congratulations, chum. I don’t know what you’ve got, but it must be something . Nobody ever made up to me like that just for spilling my drink. Maybe it’s that Pommy charm.”
“Maybe it is.”
“And all you have to do in return is take that little old box to the man in Fremantle. My, my.”
There was something in Grade’s tone that Holt did not altogether care for. Grade sounded cynical. His expression was cynical too.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you, chum,” Grade said. “It’s Mr. Saunders I find just a wee bit hard to believe. All that milk of human kindness oozing out of every pore.”
“I don’t get you.”
“You ever read a book called ‘Nicholas Nickleby’? Written by a character name of Charles Dickens.”
“I know who wrote ‘Nicholas Nickleby’. I read it a long time ago.”
“Remember the Cheeryble Brothers?”
“Vaguely.”
“The Cheerybles gave our Nicholas a job just because they liked the look of him.”
“So?”
Grade smiled, and it was a very cynical smile. “Me, I never did believe people like the Cheerybles existed in real life. Not today. Though there are certainly some Nicholases drifting around.”
“What are you trying to say?” Holt asked.
“What I’m trying to say is this: if I were you, Nick, I’d open that box and take a good hard look at that China tea. Yes, sir, I’d open it right here and now.”
“You’re crazy. Why should I do that?”
“Well, let’s just say in the interests of research. The widening of knowledge. You ever seen any Lapsang Souchong tea?”
“No, but—”
“Nor me either. I’d like to though. Yes, I truly would like to see a handful of that stuff.”
“And how do I explain to Mr. Roylance why his box is bust open?”
“You don’t have to explain anything. You can nail it up again.”
Holt gave Grade a long silent stare. Grade stared back, still with the cynical smile on his face.
Then Holt said, “Have you got a lever?”
Grade produced a clasp-knife with a screwdriver attachment. “I was in the Boy Scouts. They taught me to be prepared .”
Holt put the plywood box on the table. He took Grade’s knife and inserted the screwdriver under the lid. The lid was held down by thin half-inch nails; a little leverage with the screwdriver prised it up, drawing the nails out of the wood with a slight creaking sound. Holt put the lid carefully on one side. There was some tinfoil covering the contents. He folded the tinfoil back and revealed nothing but tea.
He looked at Grade. “Satisfied?”
Grade was still smiling. “So that’s Lapsang Souchong.”
Holt bent down and sniffed the tea. Saunders had been dead right about the flavour; it even smelt of tar.
“How about a brew-up?” Grade said.
Holt began to fold back the tinfoil. He had had just about enough of Grade’s little jokes. He had been a fool to open the box. Now what was he going to use for a hammer to knock the lid back on?
“Wait a second,” Grade said. He stepped to the table and poked a finger in the tea. Then he picked up the box and emptied the contents out on to the table.
“Here,” Holt protested. “What the devil do you think you’re up to?”
“You’ve
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