New Directions (4) re-write

I heard the faint sound of a female voice on the other side of the oak door asking it wait just a minute. I waited. After a few seconds I heard a click then a squeak of a dry hinge followed by shuffling footsteps. The oak door opened as far as the safety chain would let it. Part of a face and a wisp of blonde coloured grey hair appeared. A bright aristocratic blue eye looked me up and down.

‘Good morning. Can I help you?’ it asked in the kind of accent you only hear on pre-war Hitchcock films.

Getting eyed through a gap in the door wasn’t what I expected. I froze. The two seconds it took to recover myself felt like an hour. ‘Sorry to call on you without notice madam. Would you be,’ I made a show of checking the notebook in my hand, ‘Miss Celia Harrington-Bow?’

‘I am Miss Bow, yes.’ She leaned on the door jam and twisted around trying to see more of me.

‘I’m an associate if Mr. Mullur,’ I smarmed. I held up one of the cards Dev had printed for me with his company logo and my name on it. It said I was his accounts manager.’

An ancient hand with perfectly manicured nails squeezed through the gap and collected the card. The eye along with its face disappeared and I found myself staring into darkness and a cheap brass safety chain. I heard the same shuffle going in the opposite direction followed by the same dry hinge squeak.

It was a long wait, so long I considered kicking the door open. The safety chain was about as secure as a sheet of writing paper. It wouldn’t even have made a decent bracelet. I calculated the chain and slider cost a fiver in some pound shop. The screws that held it place were probably worth more.

The shuffling steps and squeak returned. After a tinkle as the chain dropped the slab of oak swung open without a sound and a woman, exactly as I’d imagined stood in front of me wearing a pair of gold pince-nez attached to a fine gold chain. ‘I do apologise for keeping you waiting, I mislaid my glasses you see. I hope it wasn’t too long.’

‘A mere minute.’ I lied.

‘Dear Dev, he’s such a perfect gentleman. I do hope he is well. Please, Mr James, won’t you come in?’

Miss Harrington-Bow wore a loose full length pale green house robe the colour of pistachio ice cream. It looked very expensive, most likely pure silk. Beneath it a wide chintz shawl with a purple on blue Indian pattern wrapped itself around her small neck. I thought I saw peacocks. She stepped aside and waved me into a narrow hall just about wide enough to allow a thick doormat with an image of yellow ceremonial Hindu elephant against a brown background. I tried not to wipe mud on its backside or its face.

‘Dreadfully sorry for such an unfriendly reception,’ she said, following me as I passed through the inner door. ‘You’re young colleague, David advised me to get one fitted. I don’t like it, but he said Dev insisted on it for my security. A very pleasant young man, he even supplied and fitted it. I thought seventy pounds was very reasonable. Please take a seat Mr. James. Would you like a pot of tea?’

‘Thank you Miss Harrington—‘

‘Bow . . .  I prefer to use only Bow. These long names are such an inconvenience don’t you think? Please call me Celia. She glanced at the card. May I call you Terence? A very strong name isn’t it?

‘Yes of course, please do . . . Celia.’  

I took one of a pair of armchairs loosely covered with a delicate Indian patterned fabric facing a two yard wide inglenook fireplace. Soft purplish flames danced off a glowing log simmering behind the window of the cast iron wood burner. A carpet which could have Persian or Indian covering most of the wood floor had a few black scars made by rebellious sparks from the days when it housed an open fire. The warm atmosphere could have nodded an insomniac into a coma.

 Wondering, ‘who the fuck is David?’ kept me wide awake. I would have to tread very carefully, Dev never mentioned anything about a David. Something didn’t hang right.

Miss B, standing at the kitchen entrance confirmed it. ‘David normally comes on the first week of the month for the rent. . . . Next week.’ She added next week just a tad pointedly,

Three-foot high neon signs flashed SCAM inside my head. I took a chance on the pack of lies evolving inside my brain case.

‘I’m awfully sorry, I should have explained when I arrived. David has been unwell. He had to have a minor operation. It’s not a serious thing but he’s in recovery at the minute. It seems my secretary gave me the wrong dates. She has been a little distracted recently. She’s quite close to David you see.’

‘Oh poor thing, she must be very worried.’

‘There’s not really any need to, he is in very good hands, but you know how young people in love are.’ I attempted what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

‘He’ll be back to work shortly. . . Um if my visit is inconvenient, I’m happy to return next week. We can wait a week or two, until David is back on his feet.’

‘No it isn’t really inconvenient. I can make out a cheque now. I have my own little routines. Silly I know.’ Her pale thin skin flushed.

‘I understand perfectly. An orderly mind is a healthy mind. I will arrange for a visit as soon as possible. Quite possibly David will be available next week. I know he is keen to start work, we just didn’t want to push him.’

‘Oh you are very kind. You must be a very nice person to work for.’

‘We try to keep a happy company.’

She suspected nothing. As far as Miss Celia was concerned I was David’s boss and everything was “tickety-boo.” 

“Nice young David” would be around next week unless he was wised up enough to realise a scam like this has a time limit, plus getting the old girl to write cheques was infantile. With luck the weasel’s as greedy as he’s stupid, but if I needed to find him, five minutes on a computer for a guy I know would be too long. No matter how it pans out we'll be waiting for him. The days of David’s lucrative little adventure were numbered, but first I needed to know more about how he worked it. So it’s not time to take my leave of Miss Bow just yet.