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Rikkard Ambrose
Blimey! He couldn’t be that fast a reader, could he? No, of course he couldn’t! I could see his game! He wanted to chase me around again, did he? Well then, let him chase me! I didn’t mind sweating for my money!
Plink! Plink!
Message after message landed on my desk. They became faster and faster, shorter and less polite, if that was at all possible. From a shower of demanding little messages I stumbled into a rainstorm, and from that into a hailstorm!
I remembered the words I had flung at him not long ago - You’ll have to think of something better than that to get rid of me! - and his soft Will I, now? in reply. It hadn’t taken me long to realize that those three words had been a promise. He hadn’t given up on forcing me to quit, not by a long shot.
But if this was his best effort, he truly would have to think of something better. Forcing me to carry files around? I had done that for him from the beginning! I could do it with my eyes closed, I could do it drunk, I could do it sleepwalking!
Bring me file 38XI199.
Bring me file 35IV150.
Bring me file 36VII176.
Thus it went on and on and on. I ran in a triangle between my desk, the shelves and Mr Ambrose’s office door, hardly daring to sit down before with another plink, a new message popped out of the pneumatic tubes.
Plink.
Grab message, read.
Bring me file 35IV155.
Jump up, run to shelves, grab file, run to door, run back to de
sk.
Plink.
Grab message, read.
Bring me file 36VII174.
Jump up, run to shelves, grab file, run to door, run back to desk.
Plink.
Grab message, read, jump u-
I was already half-way to my feet when my eyes fell onto the piece of paper on my hand. I froze.
I had to read it twice before the message written there in Mr Ambrose’s meticulously tidy hand reached my brain. Still, I did not comprehend it. I read it again. Slowly, the meaning of the sentence began to penetrate into my mind.
Mr Linton,
Tomorrow we are leaving by ship on a lengthy trip to Africa. Be at St Katherine’s Docks at 7 pm sharp.
Mr Ambrose
*~*~**~*~*
I sat there for at least five minutes, staring at the message. I didn’t have to consult my new pocket watch to know that it was at least that long. I just knew it. Maybe it was even longer. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? A year?
Finally, one thought managed to crystalize in my stunned mind.
Africa? Bloody Africa?
