“No, yes, no,” I said, and then introduced him to the other two men. The Captain appeared stunned, Mr Montfort d’M— cheerfully puzzled.
“We would prefer the existence of an attic,” said Mr Clubb.
“An attic exists,” I said.
“I must admit my confusion,” said the Captain. “Why is a consultant asking about awls and attics? What is dental floss to a consultant?”
“For the nonce, Captain,” I said, “these gentlemen and I must communicate in a form of cipher or code, of which these are examples, but soon. ”
“Plug your blow-hole, Captain,” broke in Mr Clubb. “At the moment you are as useful as wind in an outhouse, always hoping you will excuse my simple way of expressing myself.”
Sputtering, the Captain rose to his feet, his face rosier by far than during his involuntary reminiscence of what Little Billy Pegleg had done one night at the Beeswax Club.
“Steady on,” I said, fearful of the heights of choler to which indignation could bring my portly, white-haired, but still powerful junior.
“Not on your life,” bellowed the Captain. “I cannot brook. cannot tolerate… If this ill-mannered dwarf imagines excuse is possible after. ” He raised a fist. Mr Clubb said, “Pish tosh,” and placed a hand on the nape of the Captain’s neck. Instantly, the Captain’s eyes rolled up, the color drained from his face, and he dropped like a sack into his chair.
“Hole in one,” marvelled Mr Montfort d’M—. “World class. Old boy isn’t dead, is he?”
The Captain exhaled uncertainly and licked his lips.
“With my apologies for the unpleasantness,” said Mr Clubb, “I have only two more queries at this juncture. Might we locate bedding in the aforesaid attic, and have you an implement such a match or a lighter?”
“There are several old mattresses and bedframes in the attic,” I said, “but as to matches, surely you do not. ”
Understanding the request better than I, Mr Montfort d’M— extended a golden lighter and applied an inch of flame to the tip of Mr Clubb’s cigar. “Didn’t think that part was code,” he said. “Rules have changed? Smoking allowed?”
“From time to time during the workday my colleague and I prefer to smoke,” said Mr Clubb, expelling a reeking miasma across the desk. I had always found tobacco nauseating in its every form, and in all parts of our building smoking had of course long been prohibited.
“Three cheers, my man, plus three more after that,” said Mr Montfort d’M—, extracting a ridged case from an inside pocket, an absurdly phallic cigar from the case. “I prefer to smoke, too, you know, especially during these deadly conferences about who gets the pincushions and who gets the snuffboxes. Believe I’ll join you in a corona.” He submitted the object to a circumcision, snick-snick, and to my horror set it alight. “Ashtray?” I dumped paper clips from a crystal oyster shell and slid it toward him. “Mr Clubb, is it? Mr Clubb, you are a fellow of wonderful accomplishments, still can’t get over that marvelous whopbopaloobop on the Captain, and I’d like to ask if we could get together some evening, cigars and cognac kind of thing.”
“We prefer to undertake one matter at a time,” said Mr Clubb. Mr Cuff appeared beside the screen. He, too, was lighting up eight or nine inches of brown rope. “However, we welcome your appreciation and would be delighted to swap tales of derring-do at a later date.”
“Very, very cool,” said Mr Montfort d’M—, “especially if you could teach me how to do the whopbopaloobop.”
“This is a world full of hidden knowledge,” Mr Clubb said. “My partner and I have chosen as our sacred task the transmission of that knowledge.”
“Amen,” said Mr Cuff.
Mr Clubb bowed to my awed client and sauntered off. The Captain shook himself, rubbed his eyes, and took in the client’s cigar. “My goodness,” he said. “I believe… I can’t imagine. heavens, is smoking permitted again? What a blessing.” With that, he fumbled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, accepted a light from Mr Montfort d’M—, and sucked in the fumes. Until that moment I had not known that the Captain was an addict of nicotine.
For the remainder of the hour a coiling layer of smoke like a low-lying cloud established itself beneath the ceiling and increased in density as it grew toward the floor while we extracted Mr Montfort d’M—’s careless signature on the transfers and assignments. Now and again the Captain displaced one of a perpetual chain of cigarettes from his mouth to remark upon the peculiar pain in his neck. Finally I was able to send client and junior partner on their way with those words of final benediction, “All is in order, all is in train,” freeing me at last to stride about my office flapping a copy of Institutional Investor at the cloud, a remedy our fixed windows made more symbolic than actual. The barnies further defeated the effort by wafting ceaseless billows of cigar effluvia over the screen, but as they seemed to be conducting their business in a conventionally businesslike manner I made no objection and retired in defeat to my desk for the preparations necessitated by the arrival in an hour of my next client, Mr Arthur “This Building Is Condemned” C—, the most cryptic of all the cryptic gentlemen.
So deeply was I immersed in these preparations that only a polite cough and the supplication of “Begging your pardon, sir” brought to my awareness the presence of Mr Clubb and Mr Cuff before my desk. “What is it now?” I asked.
“We are, sir, in need of creature comforts,” said Mr Clubb. “Long hours of work have left us exceeding dry in the region of the mouth and throat, and the pressing sensation of thirst has made it impossible for us to maintain the concentration required to do our best.”
“Meaning a drink would be greatly appreciated, sir,” said Mr Cuff.
“Of course, of course,” I said. “You should have spoken earlier. I’ll have Mrs Rampage bring in a couple of bottles of water. We have San Pellegrino and Evian. Which would you prefer?”
With a smile almost menacing in its intensity, Mr Cuff said, “We prefer drinks when we drink. Drink drinks, if you take my meaning.”
“For the sake of the refreshment found in them,” said Mr Clubb, ignoring my obvious dismay. “I speak of refreshment in its every aspect, from relief to the parched tongue, taste to the ready palate, warmth to the inner man, and to the highest of refreshments, that of the mind and soul. We prefer bottles of gin and bourbon, and while any decent gargle would be gratefully received, we have like all men who partake of grape and grain our favorite tipples. Mr Cuff is partial to JW Dant bourbon, and I enjoy a glass of Bombay gin. A bucket of ice would not go amiss, and I could say the same for a case of ice-cold Old Bohemia beer. As a chaser.”
“You consider it a good idea to consume alcohol before embarking on…” I sought for the correct phrase. “A mission so delicate?”
“We consider it an essential prelude. Alcohol inspires the mind and awakens the imagination. A fool dulls both by over-indulgence, but up to that point, which is a highly individual matter, there is only enhancement. Through history, alcohol has been known for its sacred properties, and the both of us know during the sacrament of Holy Communion, priests and reverends happily serve as bartenders, passing out free drinks to all comers, children included.”
“Besides that,” I said after a pause, “I suppose you would prefer not to be compelled to quit my employment after we have made such strides together.”
“We are on a great journey,” he said.
I placed the order with Mrs Rampage, and fifteen minutes later into my domain entered two ill-dressed youths laden with the requested liquors and a metal bucket in which the necks of beer bottles protruded from a bed of ice. I tipped the louts a dollar apiece, which they accepted with boorish lack of grace. Mrs Rampage took in this activity with none of the revulsion for the polluted air and spirituous liquids I had anticipated.