by Robert Thier
‘Ah, come on, Sir!’ A huge hand slammed into my back, and I had to suppress the instinctive reaction of grabbing it, twisting it and forcing its owner to his knees with a gun put to the side of his head. Old habits die hard. ‘Everybody has a home! After all the time you’ve been away in the colonies, I’m sure your family is going to give you a big, warm welcome back! Your mum and your old man will be tickled pink to see you!’
‘Captain?’
‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘We’re very close to the shore now.’
‘Yes, I know, Sir.’
‘But do you also know what that means, Captain?’
‘I’m afraid not, Sir.’
I gave the man a very meaningful look. ‘It means that I don’t need you anymore to reach my destination. Shut up or I will throw you over the side.’
‘Um… Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
After that, the captain didn’t seem to feel quite so jovial anymore. He made himself scarce. I didn’t even glance at his retreating back. Instead, I continued to stare at the distant cliffs of Dover, rising in front of us out of the mist.
Home…
A foreign concept to me. After years in the colonies, what was there about this place that could be home to me?
How about the Bank of England?
Not a bad thought, actually. I would have to see what could be done about buying it.
‘Sahib?’
Still, I didn’t turn. There was no need. I knew that voice coming from behind me.
‘Yes, Karim?’
‘The captain says we will approach the coast in about half an hour. He asks if you wish to land in London, or a place called Dover.’
‘London, Karim. I paid for the whole trip across the Atlantic, and I don’t plan to get off this ship before I reach my destination only to have to hire a coach to go the rest of the way.’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
There were a few seconds of silence. And this time, they didn’t just come from me.
‘Sahib?’
‘Yes, Karim?’
‘Do you think he’s waiting for us? Dalgliesh, I mean. Does he have a surprise waiting for us?’
I glanced at my bodyguard. Behind the bristly barrier of his beard, his black eyes were narrowed, staring suspiciously at the shore.
‘Do you expect him to?’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘Then he won’t have a surprise waiting for us, Karim.’ Reaching into the pocket of my tailcoat, I pulled out my revolver and whirled the drum. All six chambers were loaded. ‘Something you expect is never a surprise.’
Even through the beard, I could see one corner of Karim’s mouth twitch. One of his massive hands curled around the hilt of his sabre. ‘Wise words, Sahib.’
I said nothing. Instead, I looked again towards the distant cliffs.
‘I shall go and check on the goods, Sahib.’
‘Do that.’
‘And… Sahib?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you sure you wish to go to London? Do you not want to sail somewhat farther North? Maybe to your fam-’
I felt a muscle in my cheek twitch.
‘Go check on the cargo, Karim,” I cut him off.
‘Are you sure? We could-’
‘Go!’
‘Yes, Sahib. As you wish, Sahib.’
*~*~**~*~*
There was a welcoming committee present when we arrived in the harbour. However, the committee did not consist of smiling family members. What a big surprise. The lights of cameras started flashing the moment I stepped onto the gangway.
‘Mr Ambrose! Mr Ambrose, why did you suddenly decide to come back to London after all those years?’
‘No comment!’
‘Mr Ambrose! A statement, please, Mr Ambrose!’
‘No comment!’
‘What do you say to the rumours that you ruined Harlow & Sons to take over their company?’
‘Yes.’
The reporters were so startled at my reply that they actually stopped badgering me with questions for a moment. The one right in front of me nearly dropped his pen and notepad. ‘W-what do you mean, yes?’
I took a step towards him, off the gangway and onto the embankment. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. I say yes to the rumours. I ruined their company to take it over. And if you don’t get out of my way I’ll do the same to your paper.’
‘Are you threatening me? I’m a member of the free press, and-’
‘-in my way.’ Taking the reporter by the scruff of the neck, I lifted him off the ground and, with a splash, dropped him into the harbour basin right beside me. He resurfaced a second later, spewing dirty seawater. I looked at the remaining reporters gathered all around me like a pack of hungry jackals, and cocked my head. ‘Do any of you gentlemen still have questions for me?’
They scattered.
‘The press here appears to be easier dealt with than in America,’ Karim commented, thoughtfully.
I nodded.
‘What about them?’ asked my bodyguard, pointing to a crowd of gape-mouthed gawkers who had gathered around the dock to stare at the splashing reporter, at the huge Mohammedan with the sabre and the turban on his head, and most of all - at me. Now that the reporters were gone, the gawkers were the only thing in our way. ‘Should I remove them, Sahib?’
I shook my head.
Stepping forward, I focused my gaze on the foremost of the spectators: a spindly little half-bald man with enormous ears. I lifted my hand, with three fingers outstretched.
One finger retracted.
Three…
Another finger followed.
Two…
I met the spindly man’s eyes. My last extended finger twitched.
The man moved faster than the fastest race horse. He stepped back so quickly that he stepped on the toes of the fat fishwife behind him. Instead of reacting in the usual manner of a fishwife and hitting him over the head with a haddock, she caught sight of me and stepped back just as hurriedly. As did the man behind her, and the one behind him, too. A corridor through the crowd began to open.
Any other man might have smiled, maybe even felt triumph. I didn’t. A lion doesn’t feel triumph when his prey steps aside.
At least I didn’t think he did. I had never actually asked one.
Stepping forward, I brushed past the people, easily parting what was left of the crowd in front of me. All around, I could hear whispers:
‘…Ambrose! Rikkard Ambrose…’
‘…richer that Croesus, they say! Richer than Midas!’
‘Back from the colonies…’
‘…should have stayed there! Who does he think he is?’
‘Psht! If he hears you-’
‘I heard,’ I said.
From one moment to the next, a blanket silence fell over the crowd. Without looking, I pointed my cane over my shoulder, directly at the man who had spoken.
‘You have one week to get out of the city. By then, I will have squashed the company you work for and your job along with it.’
I reached the exit of the harbour without any further interruption, Karim close behind me.
‘I see you are in a good mood, today, Sahib,’ he said in what was, for Karim, almost a jovial voice. ‘You gave him a week.’
Nod.
‘That was very generous of you.’
Shrug.
‘Shall I order a cab for you, Sahib?’
Headshake.
‘Are we going to walk?’
Nod.
‘The address?’
I handed him a piece of paper on which I had noted the address.
‘This is where your new offices are?’
Nod.
‘Very well, then, Sahib. We shall walk.’
Nod.
I so enjoyed these lively conversations with my bodyguard. They really brightened my day.
Ten minutes later, the massive supports of a two-columned portico rose up out of the m
orning mist in front of us. The door under the portico stood wide open, and some strangely deluded fool had unrolled a red carpet all the way into the street. His idiot friends, meanwhile, had been busy decorating the outside of the building with garlands. Coloured garlands!
Very slowly, I turned my head towards my bodyguard and gave him a long, long look. ‘Karim?’
The Mohammedan shook his head. ‘This is not my doing, Sahib.’
‘I see.’
Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the door - and was almost blasted off my feet by the fanfare of the brass band arrayed at the opposite end of the hall. Quickly, my eyes took in the scene:
The brass band, the cheering people arrayed along both sides of the wastefully expensive-looking red carpet, the committee of what was probably senior staff awaiting me by the reception desk, headed by a sallow-faced man in a grey waistcoat. Behind them, the walls and ceiling were bedecked with banners and garlands.
I didn’t know any of these people. This was the first time I had set foot on British soil for over a decade. I’d had this office established in my absence. Not a single one of the staff members had I met in my entire life, and they had hung up garlands and banners for me?
I had to admit, they were accomplished bootlickers. But they had made a mistake, or even two. The first was that they, I was sure, had not paid for this welcome out of their own purses. And the second…
Well, the second was that one of the banners, the largest, right behind sallow-face, read ‘Welcome Home, Mr. Ambrose’.
Welcome home?
Home?
‘Silence!’
My voice cut through the brass music like a guillotine through the neck of a luckless French aristocrat. The musicians lowered their instruments. The cheering people stopped cheering and clapping, their hands frozen in mid-air. They watched cautiously as I marched to the welcoming committee in front of the reception desk.
‘Why are you not working?’
Sallow-face seemed a bit taken aback by my curt demand. ‘S-sir?’
‘It’s a simple enough question.’ Reaching into my waistcoat pocket, I pulled out my silver watch and let it snap open, not even glancing at the coat of arms on the lid. The times when that had made me flinch were long past. ‘It is eleven thirty-one a.m., and not a single one of you is doing the job he is supposed to. Do you think I pay you for lazing about?’
‘N-no, Sir.’
‘And what is this litter cluttering my entrance hall?’ Raising my cane, I pointed at the banners, the garlands and the members of the marching band. ‘Sell everything you can find a buyer for, and throw the rest in the Thames!’
‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’
‘Excuse me?’ The conductor of the marching band stepped forward, red in the face. He apparently wasn’t used to being treated like this.
Well, he’s in for a novel experience.
‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are?’
‘Rikkard Ambrose,’ I told him. ‘That’s much too easy a question. I can think of a better one. What are you doing here? You are not members of my staff!’
‘No, Sir, but-’
‘Out! This building is only for authorized personnel.’
‘But, Sir, our fee-’
‘Out, I said! I didn’t hire you. You won’t see a penny from me, unless it’s one you find at the bottom of the River Thames!’
To judge by the speed with which they ran from the hall, they believed me.
I was standing at the door, glaring after the marching band, when Sallow-face came sidling up to me.
‘I have prepared some refreshments for you after your long journey, Mr Ambrose. Is there anything you would like particularly?’
‘Yes. For you to stop licking my boots.’
‘W-what?’
‘They’re quite clean enough at the moment. But don’t worry.’ Whirling, I marched towards a door that looked as if it led upstairs. I had to find myself an office in this place. ‘If I ever need a shoeshine boy, I’ll remember your talents.’
‘Um… yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’
‘Which of these goggling buffoons is my secretary?’
‘That would be Mr Simmons, Sir.’
‘Send this Simmons upstairs with a progress report and an annual balance. It’s time someone took this place in hand!’
*~*~**~*~*
Plink.
I heard the noise of the little metal capsule landing on the desk on the other side of the wall and nodded, with something that almost approached contentment. The decision to install the pneumatic tubes had been an excellent one. If I’d had to communicate with my secretary in the ordinary way, I would have had to get up, open the door, holler his name and march back to my desk again before continuing to work. Right now, I had saved at least ten precious seconds. Over the last few days, I had been able to save at least three hundred and seventy-one seconds. If I managed to do that every hour of every workday, I would save at least forty-three thousand eight hundred and fifty-five seconds this year.
Or maybe not.
Because my secretary, it seemed, didn’t share my work ethic today. He wasn’t answering my call. Shoving another message into the tube, I pulled the lever.
Plink.
Nothing.
Plink.
Still nothing.
Plink! Plonk! Plink!
I was just about to shove the next message into the tube when I realized this was turning into a senseless waste of perfectly good paper. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I called: ‘Simmons!’
No reply.
Where was the blasted fool? Kicking my chair back, I rose and marched over to the connecting door between our two offices and pushed it open.
Two minutes later I was back in my own office, lifting the mouthpiece that connected it with downstairs.
‘Karim? Get up here! Simmons has vanished!’
Karim marched into my office after only a few moments. Without asking, he continued to Simmons’ office, and I heard rustling and clanking. I waited. The man was good at his job. There was no sense in interfering while he did it.
‘Nothing, Sahib.’ His bushy eyebrows drawn together in a frown, Karim reappeared at the door. ‘No clue to where he’s gone.’
‘Search the building.’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘And if the idiot has accidentally locked himself in the archives again, demonstrate to him what I think of time wasters.’
‘With pleasure, Sahib.’
When Karim returned half an hour later, his frown had deepened. ‘I could not find a sign of him anywhere, Sahib. He’s gone.’
‘You mean permanently gone?’
‘Apparently.’ Karim hesitated. ‘When I searched his room just now, I didn’t just not find any clue to his whereabouts - I found nothing at all. No personal possessions, no loose cash, nothing. He cleaned his desk out completely. It seems Mr Simmons decided to leave your employ.’
‘Leave? Why now? He’s worked here for three years.’
‘Maybe your charming personality overwhelmed him, Sahib.’
‘Karim?’
‘Yes, Sahib?’
‘Was that sarcasm?’
‘No, Sahib. Of course not, Sahib. I would never take the liberty, Sahib.’
‘Good.’
There was a pause in the conversation. Something unusual for me since, under normal circumstances, I would not condone such a frivolous waste of time. But the behaviour of my secretary had thrown me off course for a minute. The bloody cheek of the man! He didn’t even have the decency to let himself be sacked for his ineptitude!
‘Sahib?’
‘Yes?’
‘Should I put an advertisement about an open post for a secretary in the papers?’
Those words jarred me out of my paralysis. ‘Have you lost your mind, Karim? Do you know how much an advertisement in the Manchester Guardian costs these days? Let alone in The Times?’
‘No, Sahib.’
‘Well, I d
o! There has to be some other way to find the right man for the job. In the meantime, I’ll do the work myself.’
*~*~**~*~*
There are a few things you tend to forget about secretaries. One is that you pay them to do the work you don’t want to do yourself. So, when your secretary is suddenly gone, he leaves you with a big pile of idiotic correspondence and an intense wish to shoot him for the deserter he is.
Icily, I stared at the pile of letters on my table. When I did this with people, they usually turned and ran. The letters, unfortunately, seemed to feel no such inclination. They just lay there leering at me. Most of them seemed to be from charities, or from mothers who wanted nothing so much as to invite me to a ball, shackle me to a wall and feed me tea and biscuits until I agreed to marry their daughter out of desperation.
‘Have you changed your mind yet about the advertisement, Sahib?’ asked Karim from behind me.
Without a word, I grabbed all the letters in pastel-coloured envelopes and dropped them in the bin.
‘It is conceivable that prospective business partners might send correspondence in pastel-coloured envelopes,’ Karim pointed out.
‘Not ones with whom I wish to do business.’
‘Yes, Sahib. Of course, Sahib.’
‘Have you heard anything new from the estate agents we’ve been contacting?’
‘No, Sahib.’
‘Pressure them, Karim. I need a place in the country for my negotiations.’ I looked around my perfectly designed office - bare, grey stone walls, bare stone floor tiles and a single wooden chair in front of the desk. ‘For some reason, people I invite up here do not seem comfortable discussing business.’
‘I can’t imagine why, Sahib.’
I was just about to tear open the first of the letters that remained on my desk, when there came a knock from the door.
‘Enter!’
A message boy stuck his head in the door. ‘Guv? I ‘ear you was wanting a place in the country?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Mr Elseworth sent me. Mr Elseworth of Elseworth and Brown, estate agents. He’s got a place for you, if you was interested.’
‘I was, or more grammatically correct, I am.’ Throwing aside the letter, I rose from behind the desk. ‘Come, Karim. Let’s meet this Mr Elseworth.’
‘He’s downstairs,’ the boy piped up. ‘Your man said you was looking for a place real quick, so ‘e didn’t want to lose any time, Guv.’