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 that’s 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 can’t have everything. A good engineer who can speak Italian with reasonable accuracy is something you don’t 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 I’d 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 didn’t, 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. It’s good, don’t you think-Spartacus the slave-neat. However, to return to the S2. We hold world patent rights, and I must say they’ve 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 it’s 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 haven’t 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, it’s 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 couldn’t 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 can’t say that I know of him.”
“No? It was mentioned in the trade papers. But perhaps a man of your age doesn’t 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 can’t always judge by appearances. He made an amazingly good thing of the Milan office. With an order we got from Turkey, we’ve sold practically the whole of our present output of S2 automatics for the next two years. It’s a nice machine. Naturally, that is only on our present production basis. We’re 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, didn’t stop. Probably didn’t even know he’d hit anybody in the fog. They’re 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.”
“Ferning’s 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, he’s not a trained engineer. That’s 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, we’ve 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, that’s 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, “here’s 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 bottom’s 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 mustn’t 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?”
“I’m 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 you’d like to have a look round the works, Mr. Marlow? Fitch, do you mind showing Mr. Marlow round? When you’ve done, come back here and we’ll 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. He’s a fine engineer. If he had his way and we hadn’t got a Board of ex-Generals and Members of Parliament with a titled nitwit thrown in, this place would be twice the size. He’s a damned smart business man too. But did you ever see anything like his office? He’s 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. Pelcher’s office.
Back in London that evening, I gave Claire a resume of the day’s findings. “I think,” I concluded, “that they’ll probably offer me the job. Of course, I shan’t take it. The money they’ve got in mind is ridiculous. The lira may be in our favour, but that’s 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?
