Flames Coming out of the Top (7 page)

Dunnett's name was taken by a youth, with black, eloquent eyes and a waist like a ballet dancer's.

“Perhaps you have already made an appointment with el Señor?” the youth asked.

Dunnett denied this and gave him the letter. The envelope was marked conspicuously “Private and Confidential” and was left unsealed only by courtesy to the bearer. The youth seemed impressed. He took the letter behind a coloured glass screen and read it. When he emerged he was far more
impressed. He took another long, embracing look at Dunnett out of the tail of his eye and hurried down the office out of sight. Dunnett waited. Five minutes later he was still waiting. He began to wonder if the sinister Señor Muras had simply destroyed the letter and was going to refuse even to see him. At the end of a quarter of an hour he went up to the visitor's bell on the counter and rang it sharply. He only wished that Mr. Verking had been there to see him do it. The German clerks went on working without looking up—they had not looked up even when Dunnett entered—but the beautiful youth came running.

“Did you tell Señor Muras that I was here?” Dunnett demanded.

“Excuse, please,” the youth replied. “Señor Muras was prevented at his house before leaving. Only now arrived. Will you kindly to follow? Two steps down, thank you. Señor Muras very much looks forward to nice, personal visits.” The speaker had a high, lisping voice and spoke with the conscious pride of the professional linguist. It was his remarkable talent as a conversationalist that had earned him his present position.

They came to a studded-leather door at the far end of the corridor and the youth stopped. He knocked twice and then threw the door open. “Señor Dunnett,” he announced magnificently.

The room into which Dunnett stepped was a large one; it was as much a drawing-room as an office. A suite of chairs and a couch stood against the wall. The brilliant sunshine outside had been sifted down by green Venetian blinds and the room itself was no more than dimly lit. There seemed to Dunnett, as he stood there, to be altogether too much foreground and middle distance: he recognised that he would have to walk twenty paces before he was properly inside. And then, as he raised his eyes, he saw the other occupant of the room. At a desk at the far end, a man in a white alpaca coat was sitting, his back halfway towards the door. For a moment Dunnett doubted what he saw; the back that was towards
him must have been nearly three feet across. The first effect was of a clumsily rolled-up mattress diligently poring over a pile of papers. Doubt was, however, dispelled by movement. The man at the desk made two attempts to heave himself to his feet and finally got himself into a standing position. Then, on amazingly small feet like a child's, he crossed the room towards Dunnett, holding out a hand like a boxing glove.

“Mr. Dunnet,” he exclaimed. “How very nice of you. I was expecting you last night.”

“You were expecting me …” Dunnett began, and stopped himself.

“Why, naturally,” Señor Muras answered. “I would have come to your hotel myself but I thought you would probably be resting. There are moments, are there not, when a stranger, a total stranger, can intrude?”

“Might I ask,” Dunnett enquired coldly, “how you knew I was here?”

Señor Muras smiled; it was a smile that ran downwards from his small, heavily pouched eyes to the voluminous folds of his chin. “You asked the way of one of my clerks last night,” he explained. “He naturally informed me.”

“But how did he know my name?”

“He didn't,” Señor Muras replied: “I enquired at the Post Office this morning. They told me that there were several letters waiting for you Poste Restante and that they bore the names of Govern and Fryze on the envelope. So I put two and two together and here we are.” He smiled deprecatingly as he spoke.

“Is it usual for a Post Office to give that sort of information?” Dunnett asked. “In England, Post Offices regard the letters they handle as confidential.”

“It is the same here,” Señor Muras assured him. “They only give information to people they know they can trust. They soon get to know one sort from the other.”

As he spoke he pulled up a chair and offered it to Dunnett. Then he sat down again himself. The sitting down was not an immediate process; he eased his body bit by bit, sagging
a little at the knees as he did so, and finally collapsed backwards on to the seat. From where he was sitting Dunnett could get a better view of him. He was simply a vast sack of a man. Underneath the swelling alpaca jacket, his body, forced somehow into a blue silk shirt, was a great spreading volume of extravagant manhood. Whenever he moved, he rippled. For a moment Dunnett got the impression that the whole man was merely an unstatic, liquid mass held together by a suit of loose clothes. But the face belied the liquidity. In the midst of a framework of folds and creases there was a face that was firm and hard and acquisitive. The eyes were small and deep set, perpetually puckered into the beginnings of a smile; indeed, the whole face was set in an expression of smiling and contemptuous benevolence. The contempt lurked mostly in the mouth. The corners of that were turned down too sharply for there to be any benevolence there. And the teeth, small and rounded, were set back from the lips. Altogether it was an unpleasant, rapacious sort of mouth. At that moment, the mouth was smiling to match the eyes. But there might have been a line drawn across the face in the middle so that the mouth could have been condemning people to be shot while the eyes were still smiling with a kind of mesmeric cordiality.

“So they sent you all this way to see me,” Señor Muras remarked musingly. “And had they any special object or was it just a courtesy visit, might I ask?” He spoke as though either object would have been equally welcome.

“They want me to go through the books for the company,” Dunnett replied. He endeavoured to make his voice sound experienced and authoritative. “And they want me to take a check of the stock sheets.”

Señor Muras leant back and inserted his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat. He spread a heavy waft of scent all round him as he did so; apparently he was bathed in perfume. “I believe there was something to that effect in the letter,” he remarked casually. “I didn't set much store by it.” He paused and began to fan himself idly with Mr. Govern's
notepaper. Then he turned to Dunnett again. “I am an older man than you are,” he said in a low, serious voice, “and I know exactly how you must feel. I can assure you that I should feel just as embarrassed myself if I had to go suddenly into someone else's office and ask to go all through his private ledgers.”

“I don't feel in the least embarrassed,” Dunnett replied stiffly. “It's only part of the routine of the company. All exporting houses have to send someone round from time to time.”

Señor Muras's smile broadened. “No need to apologise,” he said. “I've already told you that I understand. So far as I'm concerned I shan't ever refer to it again.”

“Would it be convenient if I began straight away?” Dunnett enquired. “I'd like to get started on the books this morning if possible.”

The smile vanished, but Señor Muras did not move. “That is the spirit I admire,” he said reflectively. “So strangely typical of youth. And so foreign. All fire and impatience. You come thousands of miles, and all that you think about when you get here is finishing your work so that you can go back again.” He passed his hand across his forehead and resumed. “But in a sense I don't like it,” he said. “It makes me feel so middle-aged; I seem tired and indifferent to things. But there you are: I've got a daughter of nearly twenty. I'm not so young as I was.”

Dunnett got to his feet. “If you wouldn't mind showing me where things are,” he said, “I'd like to start checking your receipt notes by our invoices.”

Señor Muras did not attempt to move: he regarded Dunnett through half-closed eyes. “If I had had your energy, your energy and your head for business, I should be a richer man now than I am. Only last month one of my clerks stole a whole month's consignment of goods from under my nose, and I had to make up the loss out of my own pocket.”

“Could you please take me through to the counting house?” Dunnett asked a little more pointedly. “There's a lot of work
to be done.” He began to move towards the door as he spoke: he knew that if he stopped, little by little he would be drawn into the entangling web of Señor Muras's conversation.

Still Señor Muras did not move. “I prosecuted my clerk,” he said. “He was only a young boy. A very handsome-looking fellow too. But I made myself do it. A thief in our midst is not a pleasant thing; and once a man's integrity had gone there's nothing left to save.” He looked at Dunnett again and his eyes smiled invitingly. “You said that you wanted to check the stock?” he asked.

“If you please,” Dunnett answered.

“Then in that case I will show you round,” Señor Muras replied. “Our stock rooms may not be big, judged by London standards, but they are interesting. And they're certainly big for this part of the coast.” He began heaving himself backwards and forwards in his chair and then shook himself suddenly on to his feet. “I'll lead the way,” he announced.

He led Dunnett out of the private office into the courtyard where the warehouses themselves stood. There were five of them in all, long, low buildings with doors at intervals down their length; the whole place was on a larger scale than Dunnett had anticipated. There was an air of quiet, orderly prosperity about it all. “You see we have five separate buildings,” Señor Muras explained, “because we handle five principal agencies. The end one is yours. We'll go over it together some time.”

“I'd like to go now, thank you,” Dunnett answered.

Señor Muras's smile returned. “Youth again,” he said. “The divine impatience.” He felt in his pocket and brought out a key. “You'll find it pretty full just now,” he said. “I'm afraid some of the stuff hasn't been moving very fast. It's the war situation. All legitimate trade has suffered.”

When Señor Muras had opened the door Dunnett found himself facing a neat, swept out corridor. Rows of shelves ran down the whole length of the walls and the shelves themselves were full. Large cases and small, they were all there, packed and marked systematically. “
Household Soap. Grade
A.” “Matches
36
gross safety.” “Sheffield cutlery, two gross stainless scissors
.” “
Dr. Coward's Couth Cure; large, small
, 50
each”
The warehouse was a model of what all warehouses should be. Señor Muras stood by and apologised for it.

“That's where your stuff goes,” he said. “In there, and I'm afraid it stays there. Perhaps some day we'll be able to shift it.”

Dunnett crossed over and began examining a crate entitled
Tinned fruits assorted 2 cwt
. It was not yet unpacked, and the whole crate was still roped up. One corner of the case, however, was damaged, as though someone had diligently and maliciously attempted to prise it open. He had just bent down to examine it, when he was aware of a looming bulk of flesh just behind him.

“Do our things usually arrive in that condition?” Dunnett asked.

“Sometimes,” Señor Muras answered. “For months we have no trouble and then, for no reason, they damage the boxes in unshipping them. Of course we complain. We make protests. But there is nothing really that can be done about it. It is the native stevedores. They are savages.”

Dunnett was about to walk to the far end of the warehouse when Señor Muras stopped him.

“And now, if you will permit me,” he said, “we'll go back to the office. I wish to introduce you to the staff.”

Señor Muras led the way across the courtyard. For a man of his weight he moved astonishingly fast: he swayed from side to side on his little feet like a seal. Dunnett followed in his shadow. There was certainly no appearance of a trade depression at the Compañia Muras. At the gates, a large lorry was unloading large square cases of something heavy, the toothless negro making futile, passionate efforts to assist; and between the various buildings there were constant comings and goings. Altogether a note of activity and business hung in the air. From one of the outer depots there came the steady sound of sawing and hammering as though a labour corps were building crates and packing them against time; and from a
nearby window came the fierce clatter of typewriters. Señor Muras opened the door in the main building and stood inside for Dunnett to precede him: they were back in his private office again.

Whilst they had been away someone had served drinks. On a small table in front of the divan now stood a vacuum jug of iced water, a dish of limes, a couple of siphons. A large bottle of gin stood beside them. Señor Muras's eye brightened at the sight.

“You'll drink a gin-fizz with me,” he said. “It's the best thing there is in this climate. In Spain, sherry; in England, whisky-and-soda; in France, champagne; in Germany lager beer. But, in South America, gin-fizz.” He spoke reverently, as though he had just uttered some quintessential philosophy, something which summed up in a few simple words the inner secrets of nations.

“No, really, thank you. Not if I'm going to work afterwards.” Dunnett ran his hand across his forehead. Small beads of moisture made a line from temple to temple. The gin-fizz looked cool and tempting, but he resisted it.

Señor Muras, however, ignored him. He bent over the table for a moment, breathing heavily from the exertion of stooping, and then straightened himself slowly and laboriously. He had two glasses in his hand and gave one of them to Dunnett. “No gin to speak of in that,” he said reassuringly. “Just a little lime and soda to wet the throat.” He passed the glass to Dunnett and allowed himself to collapse gradually onto a chair. He took a slow, appreciative drink and turned once more to Dunnett.