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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 enquire 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 threw 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.
‘I can’t go without some protection,’ he growled. ‘Not there! Who knows what they might get up to?’
Shoving his chair back abruptly, he rose from his desk and marched out of his office into mine. A moment later I heard the rustling of keys and knew what he was doing.
What the bloody hell does he want in the safe?
‘No, not that,’ I heard him murmur to clanking and thudding. ‘Not that either, and that’s not right at all… Ah, yes!’
Seconds later he re-entered his office. And he had found what he’d been looking for. My eyes went wide! It was a massive wooden cudgel, painted lines drawn around the top, and the image of a very determined, very ugly demon’s face carved into it.
‘What the hell is that?’ I blurted out before I could control myself. He gave me a look. One of those looks. ‘Sir,’ I added hurriedly.
‘It is one of many trophies from my travels. Originally, I believe it had a ceremonial purpose. But it will suffice for what I have in mind.’
He gave the thing an experimental swing, and I jumped back.
‘What in God’s name do you need a ceremonial cosh for?’
Picking up the letter he had been staring at from the desk, he thrust it at me. ‘Read!’
Carefully, not sure whether he would break out into any more sudden bouts of experimental stick-fighting, I took the piece of paper. Even more carefully, I lowered my eyes to it.
Sir,
