A Battle of Wits!

The Brigadier crisply rotated about in his executive leather swiveling office chair to face his curiously attired guest, Prince Otto (depicted to the right).

“Aren’t you wondering why I invited you to my study, Prince Otto, hmmmmmmmmmm?” declared the Brigadier, turning his gaze to the large glass armoire set in the middle of the room further surrounded by a velvet rope.

The Prince replied, “Of course, however, with your leave, please allow to change, my outfit is, how do you say, anachronistic, if I do recall my English.”

“Naturally, you may use my executive washroom and …” but the Brigadier did not finish his sentence for his mouth stood agape as the Prince quickly emerged dressed in the standard fashion of the era .. for Krauts.

“Ah, much better, now, please .. Herr Brigadier, do continue and tell me of your bottle, yes, the one in the armoire - the bottle of gin older and finer zan any ozer bottle, scented with juniper berries and sloe harvested from the Hanging Gardens; the water, if I recall, collected from the Sacred River Alph …am I correct?” the Prince added with a satisfied prussian smirk.

The Brigadier surveyed his guest with a mixture of contempt and admiration, contempt for his fashion sense and admiration for his intellect. This Prince was no ordinary half-wit teutonic monarch as is often depicted in the stereo-opticons.

“You are, of course, quite correct Prince Otto" the Brigadier noted, "This gin is quite precious, in fact it is the ‘Ur-Gin’ or ‘original gin’ produced in the dawns of time” steepling his fingers for extra dramatic effect.

The Brigadier continued, unrestrained glee clear even through the normally impassive, humorless German facade, “Yes, many have lusted for it but it is my gin but none shall have it for it is mine and mine alone – how I gained it is my secret but it is well guarded by a contraption that recognizes only my touch and will transport any other user into another dimension of space and time.”

Prince Otto was non-plussed and attempted to humor his host. “But, naturally, I have no interest in stealing your gin, you had invited me here for a fox hunt.”

“Perhaps, perhaps” mused the bemused Brigadier, “But there is one individual who now possesses the capability to seize my most prized possession unless I exercise the utmost vigilance. “

“Bah, zat is ridiculous, only operator of a Q-Device could hope to defeat your fiendish traps and guards,” chortled the very ever so slightly discomfitted Prince.

The Brigaider interrupted. “Ah yes, and it has come to my attention that a certain Lady Marzipan - I believe you are familiar with her ‘work’ - has just bamboozled the Royal Society out of said device. And, she now has a confederate, someone using the pseudonym ‘Beabout’ claiming to be a farmer but yet a deadly shot with a pistol. I don’t suppose you might know anything about this my dear Prince ---- would you now?”

Through the picture window, the evening sun collapsed behind the Brigadier’s magnificent hedgerow. The Prince stared away. The Brigaider rose, an unlit cigarrette tucked between index and forefinger.