the estate agents who represented the building’s owners, and request a tour — but that would take ages, and I wanted in there now .
“Can I help you, sir?” an elderly man in a gray cap and a long gray duster, with a mustache like a push-broom and matching eyebrows, emerged from a closet at the end of the corridor, from which came a strong smell of cleaning fluid and pipe-tobacco, “There’s nobody in that office, there.”
“So I noticed,” I said happily, “Would it be possible to see inside it?”
“You want to ask the estate agents, sir,” he scratched his head thoughtfully and examined me from head to toe.
“Well, it’s more a matter of curiosity than of business,” I explained, fishing in my pocket for an appropriate coin, “I don’t want to lease it or anything, I just want to have a look at it.”
“What for?” he asked, leaning in and frowning at me as if not sure I was really there.
“The back wall of my sitting-room is the other side of this office’s back wall,” I handed him a couple of florins, which he examined closely, “And I heard someone talking in there this morning. I just want to see what’s in there.”
“Well, I could let you in, sir,” he put the coins in his pocket and actually tugged at the bill of his cap like an old serf, “Not like there’s nothin’ to steal. But you be quick about it, I have work to do.”
“You’re an angel!” I grinned as he pulled a mighty ring of jangling keys from some inner pocket of his costume, then went through them one by one until he found the one he wanted — by which time I was practically dancing with impatience. He eventually opened the door for me, and followed me inside to see I didn’t get into any mischief.
The office was cavernous, made up of four rooms separated by arches, which let the meagre light from the courtyard reach into the farthest corners. Previous occupants had erected half-height pebbled glass partitions in the arches, with glass doors giving access to each room, but it was otherwise wide open. Some old wooden file cabinets stood by the back wall, and a few timeworn desks were littered about, along with a good deal of assorted trash.
“ Och , what a mess,” the old man snorted at the dust that lay over everything, “Must’ve left in a hurry, last tenants.”
“Who was in here before?” I asked idly, measuring my steps from the window to the archway in the middle; six full steps brought me a few inches from the glass partition.
“Some bright young lads thought they could sell stocks and bonds,” he shook his head sadly, “But don’t nobody buy stocks and bonds outside the City, do they? Stockbrokers in St. James’s? I ask you.”
“Not very smart,” I agreed, stepping over to the door leading into the next room to resume my measurements. Another seven steps brought me up short against the far wall, where more large windows looked out at a blank brick wall just a few inches away. Thirty-one feet, I reckoned, from wall to wall. If Hyacinth House started about two feet outside the courtyard wall, my fireside cupboard would be about seven or eight feet into the second room. I stood and stared at the spot, disappointed again: it was just a blank wall. But two men had stood there arguing, while I was crouching in a cupboard on the other side, six feet up, eavesdropping.
My curiosity was satisfied, but not my sense of romance. There should have been something there , a map with pins showing plotted bank robberies, a cork-board covered with photographs of proposed kidnapping victims, a pledge of allegiance to some Bolshevik cause painted in the blood of aristocrats. But it was just a plain plaster wall, painted a boring biscuit-colour, with nothing on it but an unattractive brass light fixture missing its electric bulb.
“Jumpin’ Christ!” the old man ejaculated loudly, startling me not a little. I went over to where he was standing, as white as a ghost and
“Can I help you, sir?” an elderly man in a gray cap and a long gray duster, with a mustache like a push-broom and matching eyebrows, emerged from a closet at the end of the corridor, from which came a strong smell of cleaning fluid and pipe-tobacco, “There’s nobody in that office, there.”
“So I noticed,” I said happily, “Would it be possible to see inside it?”
“You want to ask the estate agents, sir,” he scratched his head thoughtfully and examined me from head to toe.
“Well, it’s more a matter of curiosity than of business,” I explained, fishing in my pocket for an appropriate coin, “I don’t want to lease it or anything, I just want to have a look at it.”
“What for?” he asked, leaning in and frowning at me as if not sure I was really there.
“The back wall of my sitting-room is the other side of this office’s back wall,” I handed him a couple of florins, which he examined closely, “And I heard someone talking in there this morning. I just want to see what’s in there.”
“Well, I could let you in, sir,” he put the coins in his pocket and actually tugged at the bill of his cap like an old serf, “Not like there’s nothin’ to steal. But you be quick about it, I have work to do.”
“You’re an angel!” I grinned as he pulled a mighty ring of jangling keys from some inner pocket of his costume, then went through them one by one until he found the one he wanted — by which time I was practically dancing with impatience. He eventually opened the door for me, and followed me inside to see I didn’t get into any mischief.
The office was cavernous, made up of four rooms separated by arches, which let the meagre light from the courtyard reach into the farthest corners. Previous occupants had erected half-height pebbled glass partitions in the arches, with glass doors giving access to each room, but it was otherwise wide open. Some old wooden file cabinets stood by the back wall, and a few timeworn desks were littered about, along with a good deal of assorted trash.
“ Och , what a mess,” the old man snorted at the dust that lay over everything, “Must’ve left in a hurry, last tenants.”
“Who was in here before?” I asked idly, measuring my steps from the window to the archway in the middle; six full steps brought me a few inches from the glass partition.
“Some bright young lads thought they could sell stocks and bonds,” he shook his head sadly, “But don’t nobody buy stocks and bonds outside the City, do they? Stockbrokers in St. James’s? I ask you.”
“Not very smart,” I agreed, stepping over to the door leading into the next room to resume my measurements. Another seven steps brought me up short against the far wall, where more large windows looked out at a blank brick wall just a few inches away. Thirty-one feet, I reckoned, from wall to wall. If Hyacinth House started about two feet outside the courtyard wall, my fireside cupboard would be about seven or eight feet into the second room. I stood and stared at the spot, disappointed again: it was just a blank wall. But two men had stood there arguing, while I was crouching in a cupboard on the other side, six feet up, eavesdropping.
My curiosity was satisfied, but not my sense of romance. There should have been something there , a map with pins showing plotted bank robberies, a cork-board covered with photographs of proposed kidnapping victims, a pledge of allegiance to some Bolshevik cause painted in the blood of aristocrats. But it was just a plain plaster wall, painted a boring biscuit-colour, with nothing on it but an unattractive brass light fixture missing its electric bulb.
“Jumpin’ Christ!” the old man ejaculated loudly, startling me not a little. I went over to where he was standing, as white as a ghost and
Similar Books
