A Quiver Full of Arrows

Edward asked me about the author I was chasing and made some penetrating comments about her earlier work, to which I responded as best I could while trying to think of a plot to make him discuss the pre-war backgammon championship, which I thought would make a far better story than anything she had ever written. But he never talked about himself once during the meal, so I despaired. Finally, staring up at the plaque on the wall, I said clumsily:

“I see you were runner-up in the club backgammon championship just before the war. You must have been a fine player.”

“No, not really,” he replied. “Not many people bothered about the game in those days. There is a different attitude today with all the youngsters taking it so seriously.”

“What about the champion?” I said, pushing my luck.

“Harry Newman? He was an outstanding player, and particularly good under pressure. He’s the gentleman who greeted us when we came in. That’s him sitting over there in the corner with his wife.”

I looked obediently toward Mr. Newman’s table but my host added nothing more, so I gave up. We ordered coffee and that would have been the end of Edward’s story if Harry Newman and his wife had not headed straight for us after they had finished their lunch. Edward was on his feet long before I was, despite my twenty-year advantage. Harry Newman looked even bigger standing up, and his little blond wife looked more like the dessert than his spouse.

“Ed,” he boomed, “how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you, Harry,” Edward replied. “May I introduce my guest?”

“Nice to know you,” he said. “Rusty, I’ve always wanted you to meet Ed Shrimpton because I’ve talked to you about him so often in the past.”

“Have you, Harry?” she squeaked.

“Of course. You remember, honey. Ed is up there on the backgammon honors board,” he said, pointing a stubby finger toward the plaque. “With only one name in front of him and that’s mine. And Ed was the world champion at the time. Isn’t that right, Ed?”

“That’s right, Harry.”

“So I suppose I really should have been the world champion that year, wouldn’t you say?”

“I couldn’t quarrel with that conclusion,” replied Edward.

“On the big day, Rusty, when it really mattered, and the pressure was on, I beat him fair and square.”

I stood in silent disbelief as Edward Shrimpton still volunteered no disagreement.

“We must play again for old times’ sake, Ed,” the fat man continued. “It would be fun to see if you could beat me now. Mind you, I’m a bit rusty nowadays, Rusty.” He laughed loudly at his own joke but his spouse’s face remained blank. I wondered how long it would be before there was a fifth Mrs. Newman.

“It’s been great to see you again, Ed. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, Harry,” said Edward.

We both sat down again as Newman and his wife left the dining room. Our coffee was now cold, so we ordered a fresh pot. The room was almost empty and when I had poured two cups for us Edward leaned over to me conspiratorially and whispered:

“Now there’s a hell of a story for a publisher like you. I mean the real truth about Harry Newman.”

My ears pricked up as I anticipated his version of the story of what had actually happened on the night of that pre-war backgammon championship more than thirty years before.

“Really?” I said, innocently.

“Oh, yes,” said Edward. “It was not as simple as you might think. Just before the war Harry was let down very badly by his business partner, who not only stole his money, but for good measure his wife as well. The very week that he was at his lowest he won the club backgammon championship, put all his troubles behind him and, against the odds, made a brilliant comeback. You know, he’s worth a fortune today. Now, wouldn’t you agree that that would make one hell of a story?”

BROKEN ROUTINE

Septimus Horatio Cornwallis did not live up to his name. With such a name he should have been a cabinet minister, an admiral, or at least a rural dean. In fact, Septimus Horatio Cornwallis was a claims adjuster at the head office of the Prudential Assurance Company Limited, 172 Holborn Bars, London EC1.

Septimus’s names could be blamed on his father, who had a small knowledge of Nelson, on his mother, who was superstitious, and on his great-great-great-grandfather, who was alleged to have been a second cousin of the illustrious Governor-General of India. On leaving school, Septimus, a thin, anemic young man prematurely balding, joined the Prudential Assurance Company, his careers master having told him that it was an ideal opening for a young man with his qualifications. Some time later, when Septimus reflected on the advice, it worried him, because even he realized that he had no qualifications. Despite this setback, Septimus rose slowly over the years from office boy to claims adjuster (not so much climbing the ladder as resting upon each rung for some considerable time), which afforded him the grandiose title of assistant deputy manager (claims department).

Septimus spent his day in a glass cubicle on the sixth floor, adjusting claims and recommending payments of anything up to one million pounds. He felt if he kept his nose clean (one of Septimus’s favorite expressions), he would, after another twenty years, become a manager (claims department) and have walls around him that you couldn’t see through and a carpet that wasn’t laid in small squares of slightly differing shades of green. He might even become one of those signatures on the million-pound checks.

Septimus resided in Sevenoaks with his wife, Norma, and his two children, Winston and Elizabeth, who attended the local comprehensive school. They would have gone to the grammar school, he regularly informed his colleagues, but the Labor government had stopped all that.

Septimus operated his daily life by means of a set of invariant sub-routines, like a primitive microprocessor, while he supposed himself to be a great follower of tradition and discipline. For if he was nothing, he was at least a creature of habit. Had, for some inexplicable reason, the K.G.B. wanted to assassinate Septimus, all they would have had to do was put him under surveillance for seven days and they would have known his every movement throughout the working year.