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A large rectangular platter on the side table held the remnants of the luncheon. What had been a small mountain formed from a variety of sandwiches that had been cut into quarters—sliced ham and turkey, chicken and tuna salads—now was almost completely gone. The large glass bowl of mayonnaise potato salad next to it had been practically scraped clean.
The kitchen staff had prepared fresh pots of coffee and hot water for tea and brought in clean cups and silverware. They now efficiently cleared the plates from the table and the large platter and bowl from the side table.
“I do hope you will excuse my ill manners,” Commander Ian Fleming said. “I shamelessly helped myself to too much food.”
“You should be ashamed,” Major David Niven said to him between sips of tea. “And should you not be, I am prepared to be ashamed for you. Such an example of an officer and a gentleman you are setting for the young Private Ustinov here.”
There were chuckles around the table from First Lieutenant Charity Hoche, Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, and the Duchess Stanfield.
“I am quite impressionable,” Peter Ustinov said as he stole the last quarter square of tuna salad sandwich from Niven’s plate.
Niven looked at him in mock disgust.
“Well,” Commander Ewen Montagu said, motioning toward the typewriters at the table, “shall we get on with it?”
“So we shall,” Niven said and sat down in front of one of the Oliver typewriters, the Special Model 15.
“You’re going to do this?” Fleming said.
“And why would I not?” Niven said. “We could have Ustinov here do it, but, then, it would take forever with the way he hunt-and-pecks out the characters with his index fingers.”
“This first one is to be from the father to the son,” Montagu said, reaching into the box and producing a small stack of letterhead from a hotel in Wales. “He’s of course aware of the pending marriage, and, as a father would, is getting papers in order.”
Niven looked at the Oliver, then at the Hermes Model 5 beside it.
“Then I’d better use that one,” he said, getting up and sitting in front of the Hermes. “The Olivers should be used only for government correspondence.”
“Right,” Montagu said. He pulled out a second sheet of letterhead, then put it beside the Hermes. “Now, before you begin, you should know that the name of the solicitor firm is McKenna and Company.” He pointed that out on the new letterhead. “My wife’s brother F.A.S Gwatkin works there and agreed to provide this.”
“I think I can make that work, with some minor changes,” Niven said smugly.
“David,” Montagu said, “we really should be rather faithful to—”
Niven held up his hand and said lightly, “Trust me.”
“Last time I heard him say that,” Fleming said, standing up and stepping behind Niven to read over his shoulder, “I was a wealthier man.”
Niven turned to the Hermes. He picked up a sheet of hotel letterhead and fed it into the typewriter platen, rotating the sheet by expertly working the long, chromed carriage-return arm.
He placed his fingers on the keys of the typewriter in the practiced manner of a skilled typist. After again looking at the McKenna letterhead beside the typewriter, he stared at the ceiling in thought, then turned his attention to the blank sheet in the typewriter.
And began typing.
But, to everyone’s astonishment, not just typing—his fingers flew in a frenzy, the machine noisily making a rapid series of clack-clack-clacks . As he went, this was then punctuated by the ding! of the bell at the end of each line and then the rip-whir as Niven worked the carriage return that advanced the sheet one line and reset the platen for the typing to begin again at the left margin. And then came another chorus of clack-clack-clacks….
* * *
Black Lion Hotel
Mold, North Wales
Tele. No. 98
13th April, 1943
My Dear William
I cannot say that this Hotel is any longer as comfortable as I remember it to have been in pre-war days. I am, however, staying here as the only alternative to imposing my self once more upon your aunt whose depleted staff & strict regard for fuel economy (which I agree to be necessary in wartime) has made the house almost uninhabitable to a guest, at least one my age. I propose to be in Town for the nights of the 20th & 21st of April, when no doubt we shall have an opportunity to meet. I enclose the copy of a letter which I have written to Gwatkin of McKenna’s about your affairs. You will see that I have asked him to lunch with me at the Carlton Grill (which I understand still to be open) at a quarter to one on Wednesday the 21st.
