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‘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 morning 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.’