Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

There was a pause in the conversation. Something unusual for me since, under normal circumstances, I would not condone such a frivolous waste of time. But the behaviour of my secretary had thrown me off course for a minute. The bloody cheek of the man! He didn’t even have the decency to let himself be sacked for his ineptitude!

‘Sahib?’

‘Yes?’

‘Should I put an advertisement about an open post for a secretary in the papers?’

Those words jarred me out of my paralysis. ‘Have you lost your mind, Karim? Do you know how much an advertisement in the Manchester Guardian costs these days? Let alone in The Times?’

‘No, Sahib.’

‘Well, I d

o! There has to be some other way to find the right man for the job. In the meantime, I’ll do the work myself.’

*~*~**~*~*

There are a few things you tend to forget about secretaries. One is that you pay them to do the work you don’t want to do yourself. So, when your secretary is suddenly gone, he leaves you with a big pile of idiotic correspondence and an intense wish to shoot him for the deserter he is.

Icily, I stared at the pile of letters on my table. When I did this with people, they usually turned and ran. The letters, unfortunately, seemed to feel no such inclination. They just lay there leering at me. Most of them seemed to be from charities, or from mothers who wanted nothing so much as to invite me to a ball, shackle me to a wall and feed me tea and biscuits until I agreed to marry their daughter out of desperation.

‘Have you changed your mind yet about the advertisement, Sahib?’ asked Karim from behind me.

Without a word, I grabbed all the letters in pastel-coloured envelopes and dropped them in the bin.

‘It is conceivable that prospective business partners might send correspondence in pastel-coloured envelopes,’ Karim pointed out.

‘Not ones with whom I wish to do business.’

‘Yes, Sahib. Of course, Sahib.’

‘Have you heard anything new from the estate agents we’ve been contacting?’

‘No, Sahib.’

‘Pressure them, Karim. I need a place in the country for my negotiations.’ I looked around my perfectly designed office - bare, grey stone walls, bare stone floor tiles and a single wooden chair in front of the desk. ‘For some reason, people I invite up here do not seem comfortable discussing business.’

‘I can’t imagine why, Sahib.’

I was just about to tear open the first of the letters that remained on my desk, when there came a knock from the door.

‘Enter!’

A message boy stuck his head in the door. ‘Guv? I ‘ear you was wanting a place in the country?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Mr Elseworth sent me. Mr Elseworth of Elseworth and Brown, estate agents. He’s got a place for you, if you was interested.’

‘I was, or more grammatically correct, I am.’ Throwing aside the letter, I rose from behind the desk. ‘Come, Karim. Let’s meet this Mr Elseworth.’

‘He’s downstairs,’ the boy piped up. ‘Your man said you was looking for a place real quick, so ‘e didn’t want to lose any time, Guv.’

‘A man after my own heart. Lead on.’

Downstairs at the entrance, Mr Elseworth was waiting. The good feeling created by his promptness was not supported by his appearance. The man was fat, with small, piggish eyes that made him look like a nasty, greedy bastard. But I knew better than to judge by appearance. After all, by popular opinion I was the most handsome man in London, and I was a nasty, greedy bastard myself.

‘Ah, Mr Ambrose!’ Spreading his arms, Mr Elseworth sent me an ingratiating smile. ‘How very kind of you to spare some minutes of your valuable time for me! I truly think I have an offer that will interest you greatly. Shall we go up to your office and-’