Mr Pearson
Deposit a list of last week’s visitors on my desk immediately.
Rikkard Ambrose
‘There,’ I murmured. ‘Much more realistic.’ My heart fluttering excitedly, I put the message into its metal container, shoved it into the tube and then examined the control board right beside it. This one was much more complicated than the one in my office, with innumerable dials, levers and buttons to reach every part of the vast complex which served Mr Ambrose as his headquarters.
I selected a lever labelled ‘E.H.’ and hoped fervently it stood for ‘Entry Hall’ and not ‘Excrement Hatch’. Why did men have to make all technical devices so infernally complicated? With bated breath, I sat and hoped for a result from my wild plan.
Only two minutes later, hurried footsteps approached from outside. Very hurried footsteps. A grin spread over my face. Yes, my plan had worked. Whoever was coming did indeed believe the message to originate from Mr Ambrose.
It didn’t take the runner long to reach the office door. He tried to turn the doorknob and, finding the door locked, hesitated. A moment later, I heard the sound of salvation: the jingling of keys. The lock made a clicking sound, and the door swung open, revealing Sallow-face, standing in the doorframe.
‘Mr Ambrose,’ he began, holding up a sheet of paper, ‘I have your…’
Then he noticed that the figure he was facing had little resemblance to his master.
‘Mister Linton!’
‘Mr Pearson!’ My smile widened into a joyous grin. ‘You don't know how glad I am to see you.’
‘Mr Linton,’ the pale bureaucrat managed, obviously having to struggle hard in order to contain his tumultuous emotions, ‘why, pray, are you sitting in Mr Ambrose’s private chair?’
‘Oh.’ Looking down, I saw he was absolutely right. I had completely forgotten that I was reposing on my employer’s official chair with my feet propped up on his desk, something that secretaries were probably not supposed to do. ‘Well, I just thought I’d give it a try, you know?’ I wiggled my behind for emphasis. ‘To see it if is comfy or not.’
Sallow-face’s features turned a little more yellow, which seemed to be his version of getting angry red blotches on the cheeks.
‘It is no concern of yours how “comfy” this honoured seat is, Mr Linton,’ he informed me, glaring at me as if I had sat on a king’s throne and committed high treason. ‘You shall never have another chance to sit there! Where is Mr Ambrose?’
‘Oh, he… he is in the safe, checking something,’ I lied and, when Sallow-face turned in the direction of the safe, hurriedly added: ‘And he doesn't want to be disturbed.’
‘I see.’ Sallow-face turned back to me. I, by now, had risen from my traitorous position on Mr Ambrose’s throne and was thus not quite as fiercely glared at as before. ‘Mr Linton, Mr Ambrose told me to bring him this.’ He held out the list of visitors. ‘Should I wait here for him, or…’
‘Leave it with me,’ I told him. ‘I’ll see that he gets it.’
He narrowed his eyes mistrustfully. ‘On your honour as a gentleman? This is very important business material. Mr Ambrose trusts me with the most important tasks of all his employees. He told me himself that he needs this information as soon as may be.’
‘Of course,’ I replied, trying my best to keep a straight face. ‘I swear on my honour as a gentleman that he shall receive it as soon as possible.’
‘Very well, then, Mr Linton. Here. I shall trust you with this important document. Do not fail me, or Mr Ambrose.’
‘I shall not.’
He nodded stiffly. ‘Until later, Mr Linton.’
‘Yes, until later, Mr Pearson. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘Leave the door open behind you, will you?’
Five minutes later I was out on the street, hailing the nearest cab. The very important business information Mr Pearson had delivered was crumpled up in the waste paper basket in Mr Ambrose’s office.
A cab drove up beside me, and at exactly the right time! Just as I climbed in, I saw Mr Ambrose’s chaise approach from the West End. Whatever arrangements he’d had to make before embarking on his secret mission lay in the opposite direction from his destination in the East End. Quickly, I ducked out of sight, peeking over the top of the cab’s window frame. From this hidden post I watched, while the cabbie regarded my antics with interest.
There he was! Karim was driving, and Mr Ambrose, his face colder and more distant than ever, was sitting straight as a rod, two large bags and a small chest beside him.
‘Follow that chaise!’ I hissed at the cabbie, without resurfacing from my hidden position.
‘Are ye from Scotland Yard, guv?’
‘Yes,’ I said boldly. ‘This is a criminal investigation of the highest level. The fate of the British Empire, maybe even the world, is at stake!’
‘Blimey!’ The cabbie seemed very impressed. ‘Well, we’d better be going then, ain’t we?’
I was in hearty agreement. The cabbie was about to spur on his horses, when my hand shot up. ‘Stop! Don’t!’ I had just remembered something. Of course! ‘Don’t follow them. I’ve changed my mind.’
The cabbie’s face fell. ‘No chase, guv?’
I smiled. ‘Only because I already know where they are going.’
On the entire way to number 97, East India Dock Road, the cabbie mumbled and complained. Apparently, he had read enough about the adventures of Scotland Yard detectives to know that this was not how things were done. Detectives of Scotland Yard were supposed to chase after their prey in an exciting race, not leisurely drive to wherever it was their prey was going because they already knew the place. Such a thing was apparently simply not done.
On arrival in East India Dock Road, still some distance away from number 97, I paid him with the last money I had left over from pawning my uncle’s walking stick and got out of the cab, promising myself again to retrieve the stick with my very first earned money. Well, maybe after I had bought a really big piece of solid chocolate. A girl has to have her treats in life.
The cabbie took the money and looked around curiously. ‘This is where ye wanted to go, guv? But there ain’t nothing close to 'ere except the docks.’
