It was a beautiful autumn day. As the chlorophyll drained from the trees, the leaves showed their various yellow, orange and rusty red colors. There was a hint of crispness in the air. Pessimists would interpret it as a warning of what would come in January and February. I suspected Major Peabody would be hunting somewhere. Nevertheless, I telephoned him and was half surprised to find him at home. I invited him to a drive through the countryside. I was sure he’d enjoy it.
During this particular drive, however, the Major seemed vaguely pre-occupied. He stared out of the automobile window and initiated little conversation. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I wondered why. I respected his wish for privacy, but the reason for his introspection attracted my curiosity. The ‘why’ of it became obvious when, in the late afternoon, we returned to the Major’s apartment.
Peabody didn’t bother hanging up our outer clothing. He dropped our coats on a convenient chair and I immediately attended to my usual assignment - the task of preparing a libation. I noticed the only Scotch under the sink in Peabody’s kitchen was an almost completely depleted bottle of The Macallan. The absence of a back-up supply of aged, single malt Scotch whisky was an unmistakable signal that Major Nathaniel Peabody was again devoid of funds.
I guessed it was the Major’s miserable financial condition that explained his unaccustomed silence as well as the reason why he wasn’t hunting. The accuracy of my guess was further confirmed minutes later. When I brought his drink, Peabody was reaching for a cigar. I noticed there was only one H. Upmann left in the humidor. No Scotch and no cigars? Undoubtedly, Major Peabody was flat broke.
The Major is a proud man and would never admit he was in a desperate financial circumstance. I sincerely wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how to do it. If he were to ask for an early delivery of his monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance, I would have to disappoint him, just as I have had to disappoint him so many times in the past. The terms of the Trust are clear. He has to wait until the first of the month. That meant Peabody had to wait four more days before getting his check.
I’ve known the Major for some years and during that time I have never heard him ask for a loan. If he ever borrowed, he knew he probably wouldn’t pay it back. Peabody would not stand for being called a welsher. I presume this is why borrowing is strictly against his principles. He wouldn’t accept an offer of even a short-term, non-interest bearing loan.
If I attempted to give him a few hundred, he would call it “charity” (unless, of course, he ‘earned’ it through some thoroughly unscrupulous deception). Accepting charity would be an admission that he had become dependant on others. Such an admission was an anathema to Major Peabody. Moreover, he would despise me. By making such an offer I would be telling him I considered him incapable of managing his own affairs. I believe he must have had at least a vague suspicion that it was the truth, but he would never admit it.
With those avenues to immediate financial assistance closed, the Major’s only alternative was to resort to chicanery. Peabody has often (too often) maneuvered me into a card game or some ridiculous wager that consistently ended in a reduction in the width of my wallet. I’m tired of delivering his monthly remittance to some hunting camp in some distant and terrifying place inhabited by bears, snakes, unshaven men and other wild animals, only to be greeted with the words: “Major, your patsy has arrived.”
Many, many times I have promised myself I would never again be taken in by Major Peabody’s crafty maneuverings. This time I was forewarned. I knew he was broke and I suspected he would be planning some outrage designed to separate me from my money. No, I didn’t want to be bamboozled, but, I will admit it, I did want to help him out.
Associating with Major Peabody is an educational experience. You learn misdirection and duplicity. You learn how to allow a person to mislead himself. I took a page from the Major’s book. I put my mind to it and found a way to help him without him knowing it. The Major won’t accept money, but he would accept cigars and Scotch whisky. I acted before he could spring whatever trap he had envisaged.
“The Macallan,” I said appearing to savor the highball. “I thought you preferred The Glenlivet.”
“I did,” he answered. “I did until I found out the company was owned by Frenchmen. I’ll be damned if I’ll buy any of their products.”
“Well, that’s lucky.”
“What’s lucky?”
“You preferring The Macallan,” I answered. “There’s a sale on the stuff. If I had known, I would have laid in a supply. I don’t think it’s too late. I’ll be back in a minute. I picked up my coat, drove to the nearest liquor store and bought a case of the Macallan. I wish it had been on sale. I also wish the Tobacco Shop had a sale on the H. Upmann 48x6 ring Corona Brava cigars. After the tobacconist quoted the best price he could offer for a box of twenty five (a hundred and fifty dollars) I must have turned pale. He asked me to sit down and brought me a glass of water.
* * * * *
I set the case of Scotch on the floor and placed the box of cigars on top of it. Peabody took my coat, started for the closet and then changed his mind. He dropped the coat on a chair and opened the case of The Macallan. He handed me a bottle and suggested I prepare a drink, saying: “We should taste it to make sure some scoundrel hasn’t mislabeled it.”
I performed the duty. When he took a sip and informed me it was, in fact, legitimate, I suggested we celebrate the cigar and Scotch sale by having dinner together.
During dinner, I brilliantly performed another coup. “Oh, Major,” I said, squinting my eyes and slowly shaking my head. “I completely forgot. The lovely Stephanie wanted to know if you would be free for dinner tomorrow. Please don’t say no. I’ll be in serious trouble if you can’t make it and she finds out we’ve had dinner tonight without her.”
I was in a good mood as I drove home after delivering the Major to his apartment. It was worth the investment. I had provided him with food, with drink and with cigars. He never suspected I had slipped one past him.
* * * * *
Major Peabody opened his hallway closet door. He hung up his coat and then kicked his hunting boots to the side. After sliding the attorney-purchased case of the Macallan into the place vacated by his hunting boots, Peabody reviewed the supplies stored on the top shelf of the closet. Four additional bottles of the Macallan and two unopened boxes of Dominican Republic cigars rested there.
Peabody returned into his living room. He sat in his favorite wing back chair and put the twenty five H. Upmann cigars in the humidor. It had been a successful day.
“Let’s see,” he mused. “Dinner with the counselor and the lovely Stephanie tomorrow and dinner with Doc Carmichael on Monday. We’ll talk about a November duck hunt on the Chesapeake and he’ll pick up the tab. I’ll have to figure out something for Tuesday. Yes,” he said, “this worked out much better than I planned. I would have settled for the dinner at Bookbinders, but I managed to get a case of The Macallan and a box of cigars, too.”