“Oh! Mr. Pinner! Why… I am done.”
He stared for a moment at the book that lay on the table before me, open to its last page.
“But no,” he said. “I mean… it’s quite an accomplishment, no doubt, but we must ask you to complete all three volumes. The whole directory.”
“I did,” I told him.
He got quite pale at that point. “Already?” he asked, his voice a whisper. “God’s socks... The whole directory?”
I didn’t quite understand. I had the feeling, dear journal, that I had done something wrong—that Harry Pinner didn’t really want me to complete his task.
Oh, but then… you know… I was tired. Probably these things don’t seem quite right when one’s mind is near the point of exhaustion. “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!” I told myself and gave him a smile.
“Of course, the whole directory,” I said. “I know it was an important undertaking and I wished to be of use to the firm. I’m very sorry about all the nose blood on the floor. And the desk and the chair and the walls. But I was most careful not to get any on the list or the directory and I’m certain the rest will wash.”
He stared at me. Blinked. “Did you even stop to eat?”
“I probably should have,” I admitted. “I walked out of here rather light in the head most nights. But in any case, my job is done. Now, we should discuss how else I might make myself useful, eh?”
To which he replied, “Um… um… um…” while he walked around the office for a number of minutes. At last he snapped his fingers and said, “Ah! Furniture dealers! They sell crockery, don’t they? We sell crockery!”
“Oh! The furniture dealers!” I yelled supportively. “I should have thought of that!”
“I’m afraid we’ll need another list,” he said.
“Of course we will,” I agreed, then flipped all three volumes over and sat down.
But Harry Pinner leapt to my side and put a hand on my shoulder, crying, “Wait! Please, just hold on a moment, won’t you, Mr. Pycroft.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, because… because we don’t want you overworking yourself, do we?”
“Overworking?”
“Yes! By God, man, do you realize what you’ve done? In only seven days? It is unaccountable! I thought in seven weeks you’d be halfway through.”
“Oh no, no! Seven weeks? The company needs this list, Mr. Pinner.”
“All right. Sure. We do,” he said, bobbing his head. “But do you know what we really need, Mr. Pycroft? A business manager who has not completely ruined his intellect or died of a nosebleed. Now, here is what I want you to do: go rest. Go back to your hotel and have a nice big meal and a lie-in. Maybe go to a show. Birmingham has some wonderful music halls, you know. And then sure, come to work. But not that much work.”
“But… the second list!”
“I am confident you will have it in a more than satisfactory timeframe,” said Mr. Pinner, rolling his eyes a bit. “Yet, here is the thing, Mr. Pycroft: I will now be checking more carefully on your progress. Today is Saturday. I will be absent from this office until Monday. Business stuff—you know. Monday afternoon I shall check in on you. If you have made no progress, I shall be disappointed.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“But if you have made too much progress, I shall also be disappointed. I want you to be able to tell me about a musical you’ve seen, or a puzzle you’ve done, or something. Do you understand? Something! Go to a museum! Maybe see a doctor about that nose. In fact, definitely do that; it looks like someone murdered a cow in here.”
I felt so terrible, dear journal. I had this feeling of betrayal—like all my labors were of no true value to this man in whose interest I had strived so hard. But there was something else, too. A little voice from inside me, screaming, “His teeth, you idiot! His teeth!” It was not the first time this thought had occurred to me, but in my exhaustion, my natural defenses seemed weaker and the voice was louder than ever before.
“Yes, Mr. Pinner,” I said. “You are quite correct. I shall endeavor to do my best for you. But not too much best, eh?”
“Just so, Mr. Pycroft. Just so,” he said, and patted my shoulder.
And smiled.
Smiled rather broadly.
And there it was: the second tooth on the left. Badly stuffed with gold! My mind reeled. He saw me down the stairs and made sure my feet had me pointed roughly in the direction of my hotel. Yet as I staggered through the streets of Birmingham, the flood of unwanted thoughts nearly overwhelmed me.
It was too much of a coincidence. I could deny it no longer. Harry Pinner was Arthur Pinner.
But why? Where lay the limit of his contrivances? Was the list truly necessary? Was the company even real? Why had he sent me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me? Why had he had me bear a letter from himself, to himself? I could not fathom it. More than anything, I wished not to try!
“Hip! Pip! Top!” I stammered. “Derpy-derpy! Oh, please! Oh, God! Hip! Pip! Top!”
I made it all the way back to the hotel, but not to my room. I collapsed on the sofa in the lobby, with my head in my hands and tears in my eyes, rocking back and forth and weeping, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!”
Presently, this attracted the attention of the proprietor, who strolled up with one of those big, tooth-blackening
