Flames Coming out of the Top

by Norman Collins

  “If you please,” Dunnett answered.

  “Then in that case I will show you round,” Señor Muras replied. “Our stock rooms may not be big, judged by London standards, but they are interesting. And they’re certainly big for this part of the coast.” He began heaving himself backwards and forwards in his chair and then shook himself suddenly on to his feet. “I’ll lead the way,” he announced.

  He led Dunnett out of the private office into the courtyard where the warehouses themselves stood. There were five of them in all, long, low buildings with doors at intervals down their length; the whole place was on a larger scale than Dunnett had anticipated. There was an air of quiet, orderly prosperity about it all. “You see we have five separate buildings,” Señor Muras explained, “because we handle five principal agencies. The end one is yours. We’ll go over it together some time.”

  “I’d like to go now, thank you,” Dunnett answered.

  Señor Muras’s smile returned. “Youth again,” he said. “The divine impatience.” He felt in his pocket and brought out a key. “You’ll find it pretty full just now,” he said. “I’m afraid some of the stuff hasn’t been moving very fast. It’s the war situation. All legitimate trade has suffered.”

  When Señor Muras had opened the door Dunnett found himself facing a neat, swept out corridor. Rows of shelves ran down the whole length of the walls and the shelves themselves were full. Large cases and small, they were all there, packed and marked systematically. “Household Soap. Grade A.” “Matches 36 gross safety.” “Sheffield cutlery, two gross stainless scissors.” “Dr. Coward’s Couth Cure; large, small, 50 each” The warehouse was a model of what all warehouses should be. Señor Muras stood by and apologised for it.

  “That’s where your stuff goes,” he said. “In there, and I’m afraid it stays there. Perhaps some day we’ll be able to shift it.”

  Dunnett crossed over and began examining a crate entitled Tinned fruits assorted 2 cwt. It was not yet unpacked, and the whole crate was still roped up. One corner of the case, however, was damaged, as though someone had diligently and maliciously attempted to prise it open. He had just bent down to examine it, when he was aware of a looming bulk of flesh just behind him.

  “Do our things usually arrive in that condition?” Dunnett asked.

  “Sometimes,” Señor Muras answered. “For months we have no trouble and then, for no reason, they damage the boxes in unshipping them. Of course we complain. We make protests. But there is nothing really that can be done about it. It is the native stevedores. They are savages.”

  Dunnett was about to walk to the far end of the warehouse when Señor Muras stopped him.

  “And now, if you will permit me,” he said, “we’ll go back to the office. I wish to introduce you to the staff.”

  Señor Muras led the way across the courtyard. For a man of his weight he moved astonishingly fast: he swayed from side to side on his little feet like a seal. Dunnett followed in his shadow. There was certainly no appearance of a trade depression at the Compañia Muras. At the gates, a large lorry was unloading large square cases of something heavy, the toothless negro making futile, passionate efforts to assist; and between the various buildings there were constant comings and goings. Altogether a note of activity and business hung in the air. From one of the outer depots there came the steady sound of sawing and hammering as though a labour corps were building crates and packing them against time; and from a nearby window came the fierce clatter of typewriters. Señor Muras opened the door in the main building and stood inside for Dunnett to precede him: they were back in his private office again.

  Whilst they had been away someone had served drinks. On a small table in front of the divan now stood a vacuum jug of iced water, a dish of limes, a couple of siphons. A large bottle of gin stood beside them. Señor Muras’s eye brightened at the sight.

  “You’ll drink a gin-fizz with me,” he said. “It’s the best thing there is in this climate. In Spain, sherry; in England, whisky-and-soda; in France, champagne; in Germany lager beer. But, in South America, gin-fizz.” He spoke reverently, as though he had just uttered some quintessential philosophy, something which summed up in a few simple words the inner secrets of nations.

  “No, really, thank you. Not if I’m going to work afterwards.” Dunnett ran his hand across his forehead. Small beads of moisture made a line from temple to temple. The gin-fizz looked cool and tempting, but he resisted it.

  Señor Muras, however, ignored him. He bent over the table for a moment, breathing heavily from the exertion of stooping, and then straightened himself slowly and laboriously. He had two glasses in his hand and gave one of them to Dunnett. “No gin to speak of in that,” he said reassuringly. “Just a little lime and soda to wet the throat.” He passed the glass to Dunnett and allowed himself to collapse gradually onto a chair. He took a slow, appreciative drink and turned once more to Dunnett.

  “You’re not smoking your cigar,” he said. “Is it not to your liking?”

  Dunnett twisted the thing in his fingers and looked at it. “It’s all right,” he said at length. “It’s only that I don’t happen to feel much like smoking.”

  “You have a strong head for cigars,” Señor Muras remarked. “I smoke only the mildest myself. Perpetually a cigar, but only of the lightest.”

  “I suppose this is rather a heavy one,” Dunnett admitted.

  “It is an evening cigar,” Señor Muras remarked reprovingly. “To smoke it in the morning is like drinking port before a meal. Will you allow me to introduce you to a very gentle, elegant cigar?”

  “Thank you.” He was surprised at himself for accepting. What he really wanted was to start work right away. But somehow the gin-fizz seemed to have removed the top layer of urgency from the morning. He saw now that it would be far more sensible to accept Señor Muras’s gentle, elegant cigar and hear what he had to say for himself. His best tactics for the moment were to play a waiting game and give Señor Muras a chance to let something unguarded slip out in the ordinary course of conversation.

  “Permit me.” Señor Muras took Dunnett’s cigar and laid it carefully on a tray. Then he forced a new one on him. It was not quite so thick as the old one but considerably longer. On the band was the portrait of some national liberator long since executed by some other national liberator.

  “But this is as big as the old one,” Dunnett objected. “This is a very big cigar.”

  “The difference lies in the leaf,” Señor Muras replied. “It could be as short as your little finger and still be a heavy cigar. These are very mild and gentle. A schoolgirl could smoke them. They are ladies’ cigars, in fact.”

  Dunnett lit the cigar with diffidence. It seemed scarcely less pungent than its predecessor; there was the whole lurid history of Cuba in every puff. He moistened his throat with the rest of the gin-fizz.

  Señor Muras poured him out another drink and suddenly became very serious. “Mr. Dunnett,” he said slowly and intently, “I want to ask you a favour.”

  “What is it?” Dunnet enquired.

  Señor Muras cleared his throat. “You have been sent out here to discover any possible discrepancies, is that not so?” he asked.

  Dunnett nodded.

  “Then may I ask a favour of you, I repeat? Something that may not be easy but would be very gracious of you.”

  “What is it?”

  “If you discover any discrepances do not report them. That is all I ask, but I ask that with all my heart. I will see that it is worth your while.”

  Dunnett rose to his feet. “Are you trying to bribe me?” he asked.

  Señor Muras coughed. “I was not offering you anything,” he replied. “But I shall be happy to reward you if you wish. I only did not wish to offend you.”

  “If I find any discrepancies I shall report them immediately,” Dunnett replied. “That’s what I came for, and that’s what I’m going to do. And from what I know I’m going to find plenty.”

  “That is precis
ely what I fear,” Señor Muras replied. “The clerk who was dismissed, remember. I do not know what else he has done. For all I know he may have juggled with balances to suit himself. It will take months to discover.”

  “It won’t take me months,” Dunnett said ominously. “Not if the books are in order.”

  “But how can we be sure even of that?” Señor Muras enquired helplessly. “He was my confidential clerk. I entrusted him with everything and now he is in a prison cell. It is all very dreadful and upsetting. That is why I had hoped you could have told me about the defalcations and spared dear Mr. Govern in London.”

  “What do you want to know for?”

  “In order that I might make good the deficiency out of my own pocket.”

  “Then if you’re so eager to make good why don’t you settle the accounts themselves?”

  “I want to, but they won’t let me?”

  “Won’t let you?”

  “No. My pride forbids it. Every time I make myself ready to pay, another letter arrives from England. And such letters. As though I were a thief, a common swindler. Cannot they understand that such methods are no use with Juan Muras? I tell you that I would sooner go to jail than pay a bill in those circumstances.”

  Dunnett considered this point.

  “I should have thought that you might have managed to swallow your pride and pay up,” he remarked at length. “It would have been far simpler in the long run.”

  “To some natures possibly, but not to mine,” Señor Muras repeated. “It is there that you do not understand us. An Englishman has many fine points. He can be honest, he can be conscientious, he can be faithful, he can be ambitious; very often he is all those things, and that is why he has become master of half the world. But there is one thing that an Englishman very rarely is—proud. With us, pride is a national quality. It is a Latin characteristic.”

  “It’s not a very businesslike one,” Dunnett observed.

  “Businesslike.” Señor Muras snapped his fingers in the air. “How I detest the word. Only the Englishmen uses it. It does not exist in other languages. It is the compliment of shopkeepers. In England to call a man businesslike is to pay him the highest tribute in the dictionary.” Señor Muras paused. “Forgive me,” he said, reaching out for Dunnett’s glass, “I had not noticed that it was empty.”

  “No more during office hours,” Dunnett replied. “Don’t forget that I’ve got some work to do.”

  “Then I will send for my chief accountant,” Señor Muras answered. “I am only sorry that you should feel yourself unable to spend a few moments in conversation. You come all the way from London and you haven’t time to drink a gin-fizz.” Señor Muras stretched out his hand and rang a bell that stood on the table beside him: it was a small, silver bell which produced a silly tinkle when he shook it.

  “But I’ve just had a gin-fizz,” Dunnett pointed out.

  Señor Muras turned to him. “Forgive me,” he said, “if I seem rude and overbearing, but as I said just now I am an older man and I can speak to you without offence. If you had been of my own age, no doubt we should have quarrelled. As it is, I can talk quite freely. I can even give you advice: above all things, cultivate elasticity of mind; it is esssential to the proper enjoyment of life. Because you are not accustomed to drinking in the middle of the morning at home do not conclude that it would necessarily be wrong to take a light drink in Amricante.”

  “But how can I be expected to keep a clear head for figures if I go on drinking?” Dunnett asked.

  “Have you ever tried to handle figures in this temperature?” Señor Muras replied. “Believe me, national habits are not acquired without some good reason. Moreover, you are here as the representative of a great firm. Your first visit is naturally a ceremonial one to me. To drink with me would be to show our mutual respect.”

  “If you put it in that way,” Dunnett replied, “I must accept.” As he said it, he tried to persuade himself that it was more subtle not to go on refusing. He did not want Señor Muras to think that he was a man unaccustomed to a little simple drinking.

  Señor Muras smiled. “That is better,” he answered. “We’re civilising you already.” He mixed Dunnett a drink and passed it over to him with a little effusive flourish. Then he turned to the servant who had come in and was standing politely beside the table. “Present my compliments to Señor Olivares and inform him that I have a distinguished visitor whom I wish him to meet.” He turned back to Dunnett with an apologetic smile. “If only the office in London could have understood,” he continued. “Then everything would have been so simple. For me business is only a means to life. But to Mr. Govern, business is life itself. That is what is wrong with the age we live in.”

  “But to get back to what we were saying,” Dunnett interrupted, “do you still intend to pay?”

  Señor Muras’s face straightened; the smile in his eyes disappeared. “I have not decided,” he said briefly. “Probably I shall, but on the other hand I may not. Perhaps what I shall do is to pay at once and then close the account. It is the most honourable course.”

  Dunnett was cautious. “I don’t imagine we should want that to happen,” he said. “If you settle everything I’m sure Mr. Govern would want you to continue.”

  “Then he must come himself and apologise,” Señor Muras replied. “He has insulted me and he must make amends. If he does not care to do so, he must be punished.”

  There was a knock at the door and a clerk came in carrying a letter. He handed it to Señor Muras. Señor Muras examined it, and the smile came back to his eyes. He was almost mincingly agreeable again. “For you, Mr. Dunnett,” he said. “From my wife.”

  Dunnett stared at the letter. The notepaper was flimsy and absurd, like violet tissue paper. Upon it, the letters flourished and danced in large scrolls and whorls. He opened it suspiciously. “Dear Mr. Dunnett” the message ran, “my husband informs me that you have paid him the honour of visiting him. Will you now please pay me the further honour of dining with us to-night. We shall be happy to send the car for you. I hope the ride will not be too tiring. Tours most sincerely, Dolores Muras”

  “This is very kind of Señora Muras,” Dunnett stammered. “It is most unexpected.”

  “It is the least, the very least, we could do to repay you for your visit,” Señor Muras replied. “You can come?”

  “I should be delighted, of course,” Dunnett answered.

  “My wife will be enchanted,” Señor Muras assured him. “And my daughter. She meets so few people. To hear of London and the Continent would be a treat for her. You must forgive my wife’s English. She knows only a little. It is my daughter who speaks. She learnt it at her convent.”

  There was a knock at the door and a small, dark man came into the room. He was neat and brisk and birdlike. His eyes were set so close together that as soon as he moved his head his nose obscured one of them. Dunnett decided at once that he did not trust him.

  Señor Muras beckoned him over. “Let me introduce you,” he said. “Mr. Dunnett, this is Señor Olivares who presides over our accounts. Mr. Dunnett is here for some time, I am happy to say. I shall ask you to place yourself entirely at Mr. Dunnett’s disposal.”

  Señor Olivares bowed. “Anything in my power to assist is yours,” he said gallantly.

  “Then may I take a look at the books?” Dunnett asked. Now that he had got to his feet he found that the gin-fizz had gone alarmingly to his head. “I want to go through all the books.”

  Señor Olivares appeared embarrassed. “That,” he said, “is most unfortunate. I have just been calling for the ledgers. I find that most of them are missing. They were lost in a fire that broke out here last month.” He dropped his voice. “We had a dishonest clerk you know.”

  By five o’clock Dunnett realised that further effort was useless. The ledgers which had been brought to him were ridiculous, irrelevant volumes concerning transactions with local Amricante merchants; the name of Govern and Fryze appeared nowhere in th
eir pages. He rejected them indignantly and demanded others. None was forthcoming. Señor Olivares’s embarrassment increased. He stood by, desperately ringing his hands and beseeching the book-keeper to make one further effort to discover the missing tomes. The book-keeper grew flurried and resentful. In a maze of conflicting instructions he did not know what was expected of him; he felt, moreover, that to expect anything of a man at a time when, by immemorial tradition, he should be recumbent upon two chairs with a bandanna handkerchief across his face was stretching the demands of business too far. Finally Dunnett rose.

  “It’s no use, Señor Olivares,” he said. “I can’t do anything without the books. I shall just have to report that the books can’t be produced and the head office will have to take steps. I’ll cable them to that effect.”

  Señor Olivares almost leapt to his feet. “One moment,” he entreated. “Let me personally see if I can find the volumes. Never before has such a thing happened. In my counting-house everything has always been in order. It was a thief in our midst who has betrayed us.”

  He left the room and Dunnett sat looking through the slats of the blind into the courtyard beyond. Out there, the sunlight was harsh and white: it burnt with the glare of arclights. But in the room itself the light was soft and diffused. It was a quiet, sleep-inducing light. He felt his head dropping forward onto his chest. Even the sweep of the electric fan blades in the ceiling seemed to take on a drowsy soporific quality. Just as he was nodding, the door opened and three large ledgers entered supported on a pair of slender, avine legs. The ledgers manceurved themselves into position beside the table and Señor Olivares appeared from behind them. “Mr. Dunnett, Mr. Dunnett,” he cried. “I have found them. They were not burnt; they were only hidden.”