2

Four days later I received a letter from The Spartacus Machine Tool Company Limited of Wolverhampton. It was signed by a Mr. Alfred Pelcher, the Managing Director, and requested me to call upon him at Wolverhampton the following day. Should, the letter concluded, our meeting not produce any result to our mutual advantage, we shall be pleased to refund to you the travelling expenses from London.

That sounded fair enough. The following day I walked out of Wolverhampton station and asked to be directed to the Spartacus Works. After a bus ride and a ten-minute walk, I came to them, a dingy, sprawling collection of buildings at the end of a long and very muddy road. The view did nothing to raise my drooping spirits. Neither did my reception.

As I approached, a decrepit looking gate-keeper appeared out of a wooden office and asked my business.

I want to see Mr. Pelcher.

He sucked his teeth and shook his head firmly. No travellers seen except on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Its a waste of time to try other days.

Im not a traveller. I have an appointment with Mr. Pelcher.

He bridled. Why didnt you say so? Ive got my job to do. I cant be expected to know everything. Im not, he added unnecessarily, a ruddy crystal gazer. Here-he grasped my arm-over there and up the stairs. He indicated a flight of steel stairs set against the side of a black brick building on the opposite side of the yard and retired, muttering, to his office.

I thanked him, clanked up the stairs and pushed open a door marked S ALES O FFICE AND E NQUIRIES. P lease walk in. Beyond it was a small frosted glass window, labelled K NOCK. I knocked. The window slid open with a crash and a fat, pale youth with the beginnings of a moustache peered through at me.

I want to see Mr. Pelcher.

Reps., Tuesdays and Thursdays, said the youth severely. Theres a notice at the gate. I dont know what some of you chaps are coming to. Its a waste of your time and mine. You cant see him now.

I have an appointment.

He shrugged. Oh well! Name?

Marlow.

O.K.

The window slammed again and I heard him asking over a telephone for Mrs. Moshowitz. Then: Is that Mrs. Mo? This is your little Ernest speaking from the Sales office. There was a pause. Now, now! Naughty, naughty, he went on playfully. He lapsed suddenly into the lingua franca of the gangster film. Say, listen, sister. Theres a sucker here named Marlow. He claims he has an appointment with the Big Boy. Shall I let him have it in the stomach or will the Big Boy give him the works himself? Another pause. All right, all right, keep your stays on. He slammed down the telephone, reappeared at the door and announced that he would himself take me across to Mr. Alfreds office.

We descended the stairway, turned to the right along an alleyway littered with rusty scrap and climbed up another flight of stairs to a door with a Wet Paint notice hanging on the handle. My escort kicked the door open with his heel and informed the elderly and harassed-looking Jewess who glared at him indignantly across a sea of blue-prints that I was the man for Mr. Alfred.

This I was beginning to doubt. What I had so far seen of the Spartacus Machine Tool Company had impressed me so little that I was within an ace of leaving then and there, without seeing its Managing Director or troubling about my travelling expenses. I was a fool, I told myself, to have wasted a day on such a wild goose chase. But it was too late to think about that now. I was being shown into Mr. Alfreds room.

It was large and very untidy. Stack upon stack of dusty files and tattered blue-prints formed a sort of dado round the green distempered wall, the upper part of which was decorated with many framed catalogue illustrations of machines and two yellowing gold-medal award certificates from Continental trade exhibitions. A coal fire smoked below a mantelpiece groaning under a pile of technical reference books, an Almanach de Gotha, a bronze Krishna mounted on a teak plinth and a partly concealed copy of Etiquette for Men. In one corner was a bag of golf-clubs. In the centre of the room, behind an enormous table strewn with labelled machine parts, correspondence trays, wooden golf tees, engineering trade papers and boxes of various sorts of paper clips, sat Mr. Alfred Pelcher himself.

He was a small, bald, cheerful man of about fifty with rimless, bi-focal spectacles and a soft, soothing manner which suggested that he had judged you to be in a very bad temper and was determined to coax you out of it. His dress-clearly the product of a compromise between the demands of a morning in the office and an afternoons golf-consisted of a black lounge suit jacket, a brown cardigan and a pair of grey flannel trousers. He had a habit of wrenching desperately at his collar as if it were choking him.

When I entered the room he was fiddling busily with the curser of a two-foot slide-rule and transferring the results of his calculations to the margin of a copy of The Times Trade and Engineering Supplement. Without looking at me he waved the slide-rule in the air to indicate that he was nearly finished. A moment or two later he dropped the slide-rule, sprang to his feet and shook me warmly by the hand.

How very good of you to come all this way to see us. He pressed me into a chair. Do sit down. Now let me see, its Mr. Marlow, isnt it? Splendid. He waved a deprecatory hand at his marginal calculations. Just a little problem in mechanics, Mr. Marlow. Ive been trying to work out approximately how many foot-pounds of energy an eighteen handicap man saves on an average round by having a caddy to carry his clubs for him. Its a tremendous figure. He chuckled. Do you play golf, Mr. Marlow?

Unfortunately, no.

A great game. The greatest of all games. He beamed at me. Well, well now. To business, eh? We wrote to you, didnt we? Yes, of course. He relapsed into his chair again and stared at me through the lower half of his spectacles for fully thirty seconds. Then he leaned forward across the table. Se non e in grado, he said deliberately, di accettare questa mia proposta, me lo dica francamente. Non me lavro a male.

I was a little taken aback, but I replied suitably: Prima prendere una decisione vorrei sapere sua proposta, Signore.

His eyebrows went up. He snapped his fingers delightedly. He lifted the slide-rule, banged it down on the table and sat back again.

Mr. Marlow, he said solemnly, you are the first person to answer our advertisement who has read it carefully. I have seen six gentlemen before you. Three of them could speak tourist French and insisted that most Italians would understand it. One had been in Ceylon and had a smattering of Tamil. He declared, by the way, that if you shouted loud enough in English anyone would know what you were driving at. Of the other two, one spoke fluent German, while the last had been on a cruise and spent a day in Naples. You are the first to see us who can speak Italian. He paused. Then a sudden expression of alarm clouded his features. He looked like a child who is about to be hurt. You are an engineer, arent you, Mr. Marlow? He plucked anxiously at his collar. You are not, by any chance, an electrician or a chemist or a wireless expert?

I summarised my qualifications briefly and was about to refer him for greater detail to the letter I had written when I saw that my letter was on the table in front of him and that he was nodding happily over it while I talked. Mr. Pelcher was evidently not quite so ingenious as he appeared.

When I had finished, he slid the letter discreetly under his blotter and emitted a loud sigh of relief. Then thats all right. I feel that we understand one another, Mr. Marlow. Now tell me-he looked like a small boy asking a riddle-have you had any sales experience?

None at all.

He looked crestfallen. I was afraid not. However, we cant have everything. A good engineer who can speak Italian with reasonable accuracy is something you dont find every day. Excuse me one moment. He lifted the telephone. Hallo, Jenny, my dear, please ask Mr. Fitch if he would mind stepping over to my office for a moment. He put the telephone down and turned to me again. Mr. Fitch is our export manager. A very nice fellow, with two bonny children, a boy and a girl. His wife, poor soul, is dead. I think you will like him.

I wonder, I said, if you would mind giving me some idea of what the post involves, Mr. Pelcher?

He clasped his forehead. Good heavens, of course. I thought Id told you. You see, Mr. Marlow-he clutched at his collar-we are not a very big concern. We specialise in one particular class of machine. You probably know that. I didnt, but I nodded. We have, he continued, a slogan. There is a Spartacus machine for every high-production boring job. It is, within limits, a comprehensive description of our activities. Actually, however, we have been concentrating more and more during the past year or so on high-speed automatic machines for shell production. About a third of our shop space is at present given over to that work. It was started more or less as a side-line. I had some ideas on the subject of that type of machine. We worked them out. They were successful. We secured world patent rights on the design of the Spartacus Type S2 automatic. Incidentally, the word Spartacus was my idea originally. Its good, dont you think-Spartacus the slave-neat. However, to return to the S2. We hold world patent rights, and I must say theyve proved very valuable to us. We have licensed some of our American friends to manufacture; but we retained the European market for ourselves. I think we were wise. The Germans have produced a machine to compete with the S2, but its no better than ours, and we have had a good start. Business with the Continent has been really brisk. The Italians, in particular, took to the S2 immediately. The ordnance department of the Italian Admiralty were very interested. Firms installing our machines were able to reduce their costs quite phenomenally. We have, of course, been approached by British concerns, but frankly we have been kept so busy with export business that we havent bothered so far to cultivate the home market. The Italians have been so very helpful, too, in arranging the financial details. As a rule, you know, its quite difficult to get money out of Italy in these days. In our special case they pay with drafts on New York. You see, they need the machines. Very friendly of them. About a year ago we decided that it would pay us to open an Italian office. I couldnt spare the time to keep on running over there all the time. Milan is, as you may know, the centre of things from our point of view. We got hold of a very good man for the job. You may have heard of his sad death. Ferning was the name.

I cant say that I know of him.

No? It was mentioned in the trade papers. But perhaps a man of your age doesnt read the obituary notices. He chuckled and pulled so violently at his collar that I thought the stud would snap. He became serious again. Poor Ferning! A nervous, sensitive sort of fellow I always thought. But then you cant always judge by appearances. He made an amazingly good thing of the Milan office. With an order we got from Turkey, weve sold practically the whole of our present output of S2 automatics for the next two years. Its a nice machine. Naturally, that is only on our present production basis. Were putting up a new shop, and as soon as that is going we shall be in a position to accept all the orders we can get. Bad luck about Ferning. The poor chap was run over a few weeks back. A very sad affair. As far as we can gather it was foggy and he was walking home when it happened. Killed outright, fortunately. The driver of the car, whoever it was, didnt stop. Probably didnt even know hed hit anybody in the fog. Theyre sometimes pretty thick in Milan, you know. Unmarried, thank goodness, but he leaves a sister who was dependent on him. Very hard lines.

Yes, very.

Fernings assistant, Bellinetti, is carrying on at the moment. But we are not regarding that arrangement as permanent. A good assistant, no doubt, but not yet ready for responsibility. Besides, hes not a trained engineer. Thats what we need, Mr. Marlow. A trained man, a man who can go into the works and show the customer how to get the best out of our machines. With the Germans so active at the moment, weve got to keep well in with the people who matter, and-he winked broadly-and co-operate with the Italian officials. However, Mr. Fitch will tell you more about that. He lifted the telephone again. Hullo. Is Mr. Fitch coming over, Jenny? On his way? Good. He clawed at his collar and turned to me again. Naturally, Mr. Marlow, if we were to come to terms we should want you to spend a week or so here in the works before you left. But there again, thats something we can discuss later. Of course, you may not like the look of us -he chuckled as if at the idea of such a fantastic possibility-but I must say I feel that we might profitably discuss the matter in more detail first.

I laughed politely, and was about to intimate that more detail, and in particular more detail in connection with the financial aspects of the job, was precisely what I should like, when there was a knock at the door.

Ah! said Mr. Pelcher, heres Fitch.

Mr. Fitch was a very tall man with a long, thin head and a way of holding himself that made him look as though he were standing under a low, leaking roof on a wet day. He surveyed us from the door with the mournful air of an elderly borzoi being teased by a pair of fox terrier puppies.

This, Fitch, said Mr. Pelcher briskly, is Mr. Marlow. He is a trained engineer and he can speak Italian.

Mr. Fitch shambled forward and we shook hands.

I was just telling Mr. Marlow, pursued Mr. Pelcher, some of the circumstances of our Italian connection.

Mr. Fitch nodded and cleared his throat. The bottoms out of the export market, he asserted gloomily.

Mr. Pelcher laughed and twitched at his collar. Mr. Fitch has been saying that for ten years now, Mr. Marlow. You mustnt take his pessimism too seriously. Nothing less than doubling our turnover every year would satisfy him.

Mr. Fitch looked at me doubtfully. Do you know Italy very well, Mr. Marlow?

Not as well as I should like to, I replied evasively.

Play golf?

Im afraid not.

Fitch, said Mr. Pelcher fondly, is a scratch golfer. Hits a terrific ball and as accurate as the devil. However-he dragged his thoughts back to earth with a visible effort-to business! Perhaps youd like to have a look round the works, Mr. Marlow? Fitch, do you mind showing Mr. Marlow round? When youve done, come back here and well have another chat.

Whatever the shortcomings of the Spartacus offices, they were nowhere visible in the works. The Works Manager, to whom I took an instant liking, was obviously competent and the standard of work being turned out was extraordinarily high. Pelcher, said Mr. Fitch, as we crossed from one shop to another, likes everything just so. Hes a fine engineer. If he had his way and we hadnt got a Board of ex-Generals and Members of Parliament with a titled nitwit thrown in, this place would be twice the size. Hes a damned smart business man too. But did you ever see anything like his office? Hes a lousy golfer as well. The last time I played with him he took a slide-rule out to deal with problems of drift and wind resistance. Not that it made any difference to his game. On the first tee he spent two solid minutes with the slide-rule and then pulled his drive somewhere round the back of his neck.

As if to make up for this burst of confidence, Mr. Fitch maintained an unhappy silence for the rest of the tour; but it was with slightly more zest that I ascended for the second time the stairs to Mr. Pelchers office.

Back in London that evening, I gave Claire a resume of the days findings. I think, I concluded, that theyll probably offer me the job. Of course, I shant take it. The money theyve got in mind is ridiculous. The lira may be in our favour, but thats nothing to do with what the job is worth in pounds sterling. And Italy, too! The whole thing is out of the question.

Of course, darling, said Claire.

We said no more about it.

Two letters arrived for me next morning. One was from Mr. Pelcher, formally offering me the post of manager of the Spartacus Milan office. The other was from Hallett. His new job did not start for another fortnight. He thought I would probably be fixed up by now. Could I possibly lend him five pounds?

I went for a short walk, smoked a couple of cigarettes, sat down and replied to both letters.

Three weeks later I caught the Folkestone boat-train.

To my intense relief there was nobody at the station to see me off. I had said good-bye to Claire the previous night. She was, she had said with somewhat emotional practicality, too busy at the hospital to spare time to come to the station. Later on she had wept and explained, unnecessarily, that it wasnt that she couldnt spare the time, but that she didnt want to make a fool of herself and me on the platform. After all, we kept on assuring one another, its only for a few months, a temporary job until things get better here. By the time it was time for me to go back to the hotel into which I had moved, we had managed to evolve an atmosphere of bright camaraderie that spared both our feelings and our pocket handkerchiefs.

Good-bye, Nicky, darling, she had called after me as I had left, dont get into trouble.

And I had laughed at the idea and called back that I wouldnt.

I actually laughed.