A Strange Likeness by Paula Marshall

Simpson, would you say all that again? Didn’t quite get it.’
    Simpson stared at him offensively, and repeated his outrageous offer.
    Alan yawned. ‘You’ve lost me, old man. Could you take me through it again—more slowly this time.’
    George would have laughed at Simpson’s expression if Alan had not warned him beforehand of what he proposed to do. Simpson repeated what he had said as though Alan were ten years old, and backward at that.
    Alan picked up a piece of paper and began to write on it, slowly, his tongue protruding between his lips as though he were having acute difficulty in forming the words and figures on paper. Simpson and his aides watched him, fascinated. They had heard that he was shrewd: they saw nothing shrewd here. Alan continued to struggle with the figures before him, breathing heavily. He then gazed earnestly at them, his face contorted.
    â€˜Profitable contract for you, would you say?’ he managed at last.
    Simpson was careless. ‘Profitable for both of us, Mr Dilhorne.’
    Alan addressed his paper once again.
    The mute hostility and impatience radiating from Simpson and his cohorts could almost be felt. Nothing daunted, he struggled on, swore gently when his pencil point broke, looked up and managed to avoid George’s eye. George, indeed, was purple in the face from suppressed laughter.
    â€˜I am a busy man,’ announced Simpson repressively, when Alan began working on his figures again from the beginning, his face screwed up in almost palpable concentration on the task before him.
    â€˜I have already spent the best part of the morning on this. I believe that Mr Johnstone understands the terms I am offering, and why I have offered them. He knows the market and the current rates. Pray save us all our time by consulting with him and closing with us.’
    Alan ignored him. Suddenly shouting a triumphant ‘Yes’ he finished adding up a line of figures. He walked to the window, holding the paper up to the light the better to examine it.
    â€˜You are sure your figures are correct, Mr Simpson?’ he asked dubiously. ‘I would not like to get my sums wrong. Bad example for George here to discover that a member of the firm is not up to it and all that. Pray repeat them for me.’
    He sounded more like fatuous Ned Hatton than ever.
    George gave a curious muffled groan when Simpson, plainly nearing breaking point, repeated his figures for the fourth time.
    â€˜We have dealt with Dilhorne’s for some years now, young sir. No one has ever expressed any reservations about our prices before.’
    â€˜I know,’ said Alan, waving his paper about in a vague, happy manner. ‘Begging George’s pardon, and yours, too,I am sure, what puzzles me is not you, sir—I quite see your corner in this—but why Dilhorne’s should ever have agreed to such prices in the first place.
    â€˜Now, this piece of paper would seem to show me that you have made something like five hundred per cent profit out of us in the last three years. A pretty little swindle, wouldn’t you say? Taking advantage of poor George, here. Not really trained in all this, was he? He don’t mind me saying that, I’m sure, he’s learning fast is George.
    â€˜Why, just yesterday George helped me to negotiate a possible deal with your rival Jenkinson down the road, at half your price. You see, in the past George took your word of honour—a big mistake that—he knows better now, don’t you, George?’
    George, his face red with the effort of trying not to laugh at the expression on Simpson’s face, nodded, and muttered, ‘Yes, Mr Dilhorne, sir, I’ve learned a lot since you arrived in London.’
    â€˜Thank you, George.’ Alan smiled. ‘Now, let me explain to Mr Simpson that if he wants our business he’d better dip under what Jenkinson has to offer, and after that we’ll see what Jenkinson has