My name is Gabriel Briar (no jokes, that’s the name on the old birth certificate) and I’m a Pipe Detective. I used to work for the Pipe Police, but I had ideas of my own about how to conduct a proper pipe investigation, so I left and started my own small agency. The sign outside reads, “PIPE PROS. We Solve Pipe Crimes, and We’re Not Just Blowing Smoke.” There’s more variety to this job, too, which is another reason I quit The Pops (slang for Pipe Cops).

Generally I take cases from pipe smokers like myself, people who’ve had their collection stolen, been mugged while walking along smoking a Dunhill or Castello, been cheated by a crooked pipe shop, or been hornswoggled over the Internet. Occasionally, I get a defamation of character case and have to gather evidence for a client to present at court. These are difficult and usually involve someone calling another’s favorite pipe “the ugliest chunk of wood in the history of the world.” Frequently, the judge agrees that the thing is ugly, and that’s that. But if malice can be proved, and the pipe is viewed as simply homely by a succession of expert witnesses, the plaintiff may prevail.

Frankly, when I was a cop, I often felt guilty about it. You see, most of the time I didn’t work for pipe smokers, but against them. There were some property crimes, but mostly we went around checking on the complaints of non-smokers or cigarette smokers with inferiority complexes. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to extinguish that pipe. The cigarette smokers in this establishment have complained that your pipe smells too good and it’s interfering with their attempts to pick up those young ladies at the end of the bar. They were making some headway, when you came in smoking that delightful mixture. Now the girls have lost interest and have remarked that the cigarettes, and the cigarette smokers, smell like dirty socks.”

But most complaints come from non-smokers. These people hate cigarettes and cigars, but take some consolation in the fact that the smokers are paying for their crimes. Many are dying of cancer, and some are gradually going broke, especially the cigar smokers. They know, however, that a pipe, if well taken care of, can last decades; the tobacco is pretty reasonably priced, too. These pipe smokers are enjoying themselves with no consequences, the complainants say. They’re not losing their homes, declaring bankruptcy, or taking out personal loans for a month’s supply of Carlos Delgado Coronas. What’s worse, their health seems good. The complainants demand justice! There’s a crime being committed, and they know just what it is: pipe smokers are having pleasure! Isn’t that the definition of a Puritan, One who has a suspicion that somewhere, somehow, someone, is having a good time?

I had planned to tell you about the case I’m working on now, but I’ve decided to tell about my most celebrated case while I was still a Pop. Next time, I’ll tell you about the current job, but for now let me tell you the tale surrounding The Case of The Perfidious Perique. I had been working out of the bunco division in the Third Precinct for over six months when a call came in from a somewhat hysterical gentleman who was babbling on about having been swindled. Since there was no one else around at the time, I caught the case. I really couldn’t understand what he was saying, so I suggested we meet in person, figuring I’d be able to calm him down when we were face to face.

He agreed to meet me at his pipe club, The Tinder Pox, so named because it was decorated after the fashion at the time of the Great Plague of London. Since it was supposedly a club devoted to smoking and to pipes, it seemed odd that so little there reminded one of that noble pursuit. It was a comfortable enough place, with overstuffed chairs--some with wide wings for a good snooze--a nice fireplace, colored-glass windows, lots of books, real wood wainscoting, and several fine rugs, but almost no evidence of pipes. The Tinder Pox even had a nice gift shop, but it had only a dozen or so pipes and a few tobaccos. Most of the shelf space was taken up with figurines, music boxes, and other non-pipe goods.

Mr. Haygood Huddleston seemed only slightly less distressed than on the phone. I was successful in calming him, though, and he was able to describe for me the source of his agitation. Huddleston was a devotee of that most special of tobaccos, the heady Perique of Louisiana fame. Personally, I always thought Napoleon made that deal with the US to rid himself of the noxious weed, yet it has its faithful following. I am told it grows only in one little place, a remote corner of one small Parish, in the aforementioned State of Louisiana. It is an extremely strong tobacco, used mostly in blends, but there are a few hardy souls--some say masochists--who take it straight. Huddleston has always paid a fairly steep price for his Perique and so, when offered a bargain, he could not resist. Usually a cautious man--except for smoking Perique, of course--he bought all that the stranger making the offer had with him, fifty pounds.

And where had this sale taken place, I asked. Was it in a dark alley? Was it at a New Orleans yard sale? Had he been in an antique shop looking for Elvis commemorative plates when accosted by this purveyor of pungent Perique? No, he told me. It was in this very club, The Tinder Pox. At the time, Huddleston has been ensconced in one of those deep chairs, puffing on the last of his Perique, and reading Pipes & Tobaccos Magazine, when approached by a rather hairy fellow. Oddly enough, the man introduced himself as one Simeon Vale, and began almost immediately to extol the virtues of Perique and to compliment Huddleston on his refined taste in tobacco. Huddleston was as goner from the getgo. When Vale asserted he could get a large quantity at half the usual price, our hapless victim fairly salivated. Had he never heard the expression, Too Good to Be True, I asked. Huddleston admitted he had been blinded by his passion--a passion for Perique and for low prices.

Vale asked Huddleston to follow him and thereupon led him on a circuitous route, passing through every room in the club, then through a large back door to the outside, and finally into a dilapidated, poorly lit building somewhere in The Street of The Artificial Meerschaum Makers. No longer within the protective walls of The Tinder Pox, Huddleston became increasingly fearful. Seemingly a man of his word, though, Vale produced the tobacco, all fifty pounds worth, accepted payment, and left the scene quickly. It took Huddleston some time to find his way back to the familiar surroundings of his club, especially under the weigt of that 50 pounds. He forced himself to relax, sought refuge once again in the big chair, and settled down to enjoy a bowl of his beloved Perique. Before he could light up, two old friends came upon the scene and Huddleston, feeling generous in the aftermath of his frightening, yet profitable, adventure, offered these gentlemen a bowl of his treasured substance. What happened next was a triple catastrophe for, what might have been only an ordinary disappointment confined to one person, became a disaster for three. It is fortunate that the pipes had small bowls, else the ensuing explosion would surely have resulted in a triple nasal amputation. It seems that the spicy flavor Huddleston experienced during the one testing sniff Vale allowed to him was, in fact, gunpowder.

Much as it pained me to do so, I felt obligated to tell the unfortunate Huddleston that there was little I could do. I told him that my superiors would not allow more than a one day investigation in such a matter. I said I was not likely to find out much, given the absence of major clues, but would give it my best efforts for eight hours. After that, he would be wasting time to hope for any real answers. He said he understood, but that he wasn’t seeking a return of his money, or even necessarily to see Vale punished. But he had to know more about the man, and if he’d done similar things to others in the past. He also expressed a desire to prevent the same sad story repeating itself. I said I’d call him when I knew something worthwhile. I had little hope at that point.

Surprisingly enough, I was able to make a fairly detailed report to Huddleston after all, and with only a small effort expended. I had given up, actually, and after six hours told him as much. It was about a month later that I learned our Mr. Vale tried another scam, but this time without success. Hearing a building contractor complain that he didn’t have enough explosive left to remove the tree trunks on some cleared land, Vale offered to provide the material. Dipping into his supply of Perique, which he kept handy should his tobacco swindle go sour and he be forced to turn over the real thing to a clever victim, Vale sold the contractor fifty pounds. But before he could make his getaway, the contractor insisted on testing the material. He was not pleased when the “explosion” he’d anticipated consisted of nothing more than an overpowering and, to him, most sickening odor. As it turned out this contractor was connected in high places (maybe low places would be more accurate). And for getting a few city contracts thrown his way he provided a special service to his friends involving the use of cement. It is rumored that the floors of his parking structures contain some rather exotic material. I reported all this to Huddleston and added--though I could not vouch for the accuracy of this--that the new office tower at Fifth and Adams could quite logically be called the Vale Building.

Haygood Huddleston thanked me and mumbled something about my having helped him to achieve “closure,” whatever that is. I returned to the precinct and went about my regular routine, but only after having a nice bowl of extra mild cavendish. I did not know at the time that I would be resigning and going into private practice in less than 90 days and that my first case would be one of the most chilling in the annals of pipe crime.

Old friend, companion through the years, you have been steadfast and true, through every season, in every situation, from the day we first met until this very hour.

When I needed solace, or a moment of quiet reflection, you were there to provide it.

In times when celebrations were called for, you provided an appropriate outlet; in times of disappointment, you were sympathetic.

Reliable, dependable, perfect in your duty through a thousand lightings and relightings, always cool, and easy drawing.

How handsome you were that first day; you shone within the glass case; you were perfect and unmarked.

You were more than I could afford, yet I knew almost instinctively that you were worth more than your price.

Your color was blond then; now you are medium brown. Your bit was shiny black, without a blemish; now you are dull and nicked.

But you have been well cared for--only time has marred you, as it has me.

You are marred on the exterior only, though, for there is no diminishment of function.

So we go on, you and I, and with your brothers keep me company through the cascading years, even unto the final puff.

Is there a dog more faithful? A songbird more able to lift falling spirits? An old book more companionable?

Modern machines are wonderful, as are the advances of science; who can deny the benefits to man of the computer, the CD player, the fast plane?

Yet, in moments of need--the need of the spirit for beauty, for comfort, for that perfect quiet place--what can replace the sound of rain upon the roof, the first flowers of Spring, the smell of salt air at the ocean’s edge, or the mellow drifting of sweet smoke from a good pipe?

Old friend, I wish you, and myself, many more years of tranquil puffing.

And, until that final puff, that last, calming draw, let us continue: two united against the meaness that sometimes exists in our tired world.

With the flare of a match, we will bring light to some dark corner and with a white plume of smoke soften harsh realities.

Come, join me once again in our ritual of peace, of contemplation, of deep tranquility.

As we have done for two score years and shall, with good luck, do for two score more.