In the Eye of the Storm

07. To Watch for Fat and Gold

When I opened the door to his office, Mr Ambrose was sitting in his chair, glaring at a piece of paper on his desk as if he wanted to freeze it solid with his look. He didn't look up when I stepped in, but still managed to make me feel that the icy look was not for the paper alone.

'You are two and a half seconds late, Mr Linton!'

'Good Morning, Sir. It's very nice to see you again, too.'

'Send a message through the tubes! I want to know if my new cane has arrived yet.'

'Your new what, Sir?'

'My cane! I tried to hold on to my old one, but it slipped out of my fingers while swimming ashore.' He sounded as if having survived the sinking of the ship was an insignificant event that could in no way outweigh the horrendous loss of his invaluable walking stick. 'I have to buy a new one. If things continue at this rate, I'll be reduced to beggary soon.'

'Yes, Sir.'

'And it's going to be infernally expensive! I have to have it custom-made, of all things! They don't sell them like I want them.'

'Really, Sir? I can't imagine why shops don't usually sell walking sticks with hidden swords inside. They're such a handy, everyday item.'

'Mr Linton?'

'Yes, Sir?'

'Get a move on and get me my cane!'

'Yes, Sir!'

While Mr Ambrose continued to shoot death-stares at the paper in front of him, I went into the office next door, to a spot where there was a hole in the wall, and beside the hole a number of levers and buttons. They gave me access to the system of pneumatic tubes that ran through the entire buildings. Shove a small cylinder with a message into one of the tubes and push the right buttons, and it would pop out at almost any place in the building, saving my leg muscles from eternal cram and Mr Ambrose a lot of valuable time.

Dear Sallow-Face...

My hand stopped writing, hovering over the little bit of paper. Hm... I probably shouldn't address him like that. He might be offended. Men were funny that way.

But I had such bloody difficulties remembering the man's name! What was it again? Parsnips? Pumpkin? No, Pearson! That was it, Pearson!

Dear Mr Pearson,

Mr Ambrose has requested...

I halted again. Then I crossed out 'requested' and wrote 'ordered' instead.

Dear Mr Pearson,

Mr Ambrose has ordered me to inquire with you if his custom-made walking stick has already arrived. You know, the one with the pig sticker inside?

Yours Truly

Mr Victor Linton

The answer came back quickly and efficiently:

Mr Linton,

No.

Yours,

Pearson

Ah. Apparently the good Mr Pearson had embraced wholeheartedly Mr Ambrose's policy on quick and efficient communication in the workplace. Returning to Mr Ambrose's office, I handed him the slip of paper.

'Here, Sir! As requested, Sir!'

He through a glance at the paper. He didn't curse – curses were a waste of valuable breath, after all – but the way in which his little finger twitched spoke volumes. Ones with lots of dirty words inside.