Bond Street Story by Norman Collins Read Free Book Online

on the counter of the Wine and Tobacco Department as he sauntered through. There was something special about the patented spring cutting lever. And, as he sat fiddling with it, his resemblance to an elderly schoolboy was more marked than ever. If the cutter had been something that he had just invented and built out ofMeccano he could not have been more intense or preoccupied.
    But already he was off again.
    â€œWhat’s Tony say about it?” he asked.
    â€œHe doesn’t want to come into the firm,” Mr. Rammell told him. “Says he won’t, and that’s that.”
    Sir Harry gave his son a wink.
    â€œLeave him to me,” he said. “I know how to handle ’im.”
    â€œIt won’t do any good ...” Mr. Rammell began. But he was interrupted by the telephone. It was the verse-drama student who was on the other end of it.
    â€œMrs. Rammell to speak to you, sir,” she said, sounding as though she was on her way to bury Polynices.
    Because his father was there, Mr. Rammell spoke into the instrument carefully, diplomatically.
    â€œYes, dear. Yes. What is it?”
    Mrs. Rammell’s own voice came through very loud and clear. It was naturally a little high-pitched. Urgent-sounding. And on the telephone it was always singularly penetrating.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” she demanded. “Am I interrupting? Is someone with you?”
    â€œNo, dear. No. Go on.”
    â€œThen why are you using your business voice?”
    â€œI’m not, dear. Really, I’m not.”
    â€œOh, yes you are. But it doesn’t matter. I only wanted to remind you about to-night,” Mrs. Rammell went on. “It’s not eight. It’s seven-thirty. We’ll have to eat afterwards.”
    â€œAfter what?” Mr. Rammell asked. He felt his strength ebbing away from him.
    â€œAfter the concert,” Mrs. Rammell told him. “You said you’d come. You can’t let me down as late as this.” Mrs. Rammell was fairly shrieking by now. “There’s a box reserved for us. Constance’ll be there ...”
    â€œAll right, dear. I’ll be back in good time, dear. Good-bye, dear. Good-bye.”
    As Mr. Rammell hung up the receiver he congratulated himself. There had been nothing for his father to get his teeth into from overhearing that conversation. Not a hint that he felt that he would go stark raving mad if he were ever dragged off to another concert anywhere. Last time it had been madrigals of all things. Part-songs and bleatings, like musical and demented sheep. His wife, Mr. Rammell realized gloomily, somehow belonged among such goings-on. And he didn’t. That was the whole trouble. He didn’t even look as though he belonged. Anyone seeing the pair of them sitting up there in the box would probably assume that it was thelady patroness being kind to the man who had landed the refreshments contract.
    He looked up and caught his father’s eye.
    The old man winked again. Evidently Mrs. Rammell’s voice had been louder than he realized.
    â€œYou singin’ to-night?” Sir Harry asked.
    Â 
Chapter Four
1
    But Mr. Rammell wasn’t the only person connected with the firm who was having a bad day. There was also Marcia. And even though it was getting on for midday the curtains of her little flat were still not drawn back. Nothing very remarkable in that. In any large city there will always be plenty of late ones, night birds and other odd misfits who get home with the milk and try to make up for it afterwards. But for a member of Rammell’s staff to be down under the bedclothes at this time was certainly a bit of an exception. Because among the whole of the one thousand and eleven employees there was only one—Staff No. 737—from whom such behaviour would have been tolerated.
    That was because No. 737 was one of Rammell’s big assets, their ambassadress. While there were five other mannequins in