Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
… ah, the gentleman had something else in mind. Quite so – and Mr Franklin was borne off to the inner sanctum where he and the senior partner spent an hour in earnest discussion. Mr Franklin’s requirements were specific – unusually so, and while the result of their talk seemed to satisfy him, it is a fact that he left the senior partner in a state of some mystification, blended with satisfaction at the cheque which his visitor had paid over, sight unseen.
Mr Franklin’s next call took him to the West End, and the discreet offices of one of those exclusive domestic agencies which specialised in supplying personal servants to the nobility and the more ancient nouveaux riches. Here Mr Franklin beat his own record for upsetting managers, for while he had caused concern at the American Express, and bewilderment at the estate agent’s, he caused in Mr Pride, director of the domestic agency, something close to outrage.
“You wish to engage a personal attendant,” said Mr Pride, faintly, “for one afternoon only? One afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Mr Franklin.
“My dear sir,” said Mr Pride, recovering his normally austere composure, “I am afraid that is quite impossible. Indeed,” he went, on turning his cold eye-glass on this peculiar person and deciding, after a distasteful survey of his eccentric tweed cape (a disgusting garment, in Mr Pride’s opinion) that he might carry his refusal a stage farther in reproof – “indeed, I do not recollect ever to have heard of such a thing. There are, I believe, agencies which undertake to engage staff for limited periods and … ah … what I understand are called special engagements –” he said it in a way that suggested longshoremen being recruited to help out at carnivals “– but we … ah … do not.”
Mr Franklin nodded sympathetically. “The commission isn’t worth it, I suppose. However, in this case I can assure you it will be.”
Mr Pride’s eye-glass quivered as though it had been struck, but he mastered his emotion. Pointless to try to explain to this eccentric that managing an exclusive domestic agency, which dealt with clients even more sensitive and highly-strung than their noble employers, called for the combined qualities of a theatre manager, a sergeant-major, and a racehorse trainer; financial consideration was the least of it to one who, like Mr Pride, had had to contend with hysterical butlers, psychotic nannies, and on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, a Highland head stalker who had tried to assassinate an Indian potentate because he was teetotal. He contented himself now by saying icily:
“Our personnel come to us in the hope of permanent employment, or at the very least, extended engagements. I may say that we have on our books three individuals whose families have served in the same establishments – the very highest establishments – since the eighteenth century.”
He had no sooner said it than Mr Pride was uncomfortably aware that it sounded like defensive boasting, stung out of him by this person’s gross mention of “commission’; he was, however, gratified at the admiration it produced.
“The eighteenth century? You don’t say!”
Mr Pride smiled frostily. “So you see, Mr … ah … Franklin, that we can hardly –”
“With a record like that, it ought to be easy to fix up a first-class valet for just one afternoon. For the right price, of course.”
“I have tried to indicate that it is out of the question,” said Mr Pride with asperity. “We could not consider it.”
“Could one of your clients, though?” asked Mr Franklin. “For five pounds an hour, say. Or whatever you think would be reasonable.”
He regarded Mr Pride innocently, and Mr Pride, on the brink of a crushing retort, suddenly hesitated. He looked again at his visitor and wondered. You could never tell with Americans; this one, in spite of his outlandish attire and uncivilized ideas, had an indefinable air about him – it couldn’t be breeding, of course, so it was probably money, and yet, Mr Pride admitted reluctantly, he could not truly be described as vulgar. Perhaps he had been a trifle hasty in rejecting Mr Franklin’s peculiar request; after all, it would be foolish to offend one who might, just possibly, prove against all the signs to be a lucrative customer if properly handled. And Mr Pride had to confess it to himself – he was curious. A valet – for one afternoon? It was, when he came to think of it, intriguing.
“It is most unusual,” he said at length. “Most unusual. And frankly, I cannot guarantee that any of our clients would be agreeable … however, it is just possible that there may be one …” Samson, he was thinking, was in his servants’ waiting-room at the moment, and Samson, in addition to being Al starred on Mr Pride’s list, was also in need of a new employer, his previous master having recently fled the country rather than face certain conviction for indecent assault on the Newcastle Express. Of course, Mr Pride would have no difficulty in placing Samson in a new situation; he had just the viscount in mind for him, in fact – but in the meantime Samson would be the very man to satisfy Mr Pride’s curiosity about his American visitor.
He rang a bell, and within five minutes Samson, a stocky, sober and impassive man of middle-age who looked more like a retired cavalry trooper (which he was) than one of the best gentlemen’s gentlemen in London (which he also was), had agreed, without a flicker of expression on his craggy face, to place his unrivalled expertise at Mr Franklin’s disposal for the rest of the afternoon. Mr Franklin was gratified, and was plainly on the point of asking Mr Pride, how much? when the director airily waved him aside – the agency were privileged to assist in such a trivial matter, and would not dream of charging, leaving it to Mr Franklin to make his own arrangement with Mr Samson. Mr Pride, in fact, had come full circle and decided that if he was going to humour this strange American, he might as well do it properly. What, he wondered, as the pair took their leave, could be behind it?
The answer, could he have overheard it on the pavement outside, was disappointingly mundane. Mr Franklin wanted to buy clothes and equipment suitable for his new surroundings, and he was prepared to pay handsomely for the best advice on the matter. He explained as much to Samson, and the latter accepted the information with judicious gravity. Mr Franklin had a vague feeling that if he had suggested they should rob the Bank of England, Samson would have received it with the same courteous detachment and asked: “And will there be anything further, sir?” As it was, he merely asked: “Both for town and country wear, sir? Then we had better begin with Lewin’s.”
At this exclusive establishment they bought shirts, and more shirts, and Mr Franklin was initiated into the mysteries of stiff fronts and rolled collars, for evening and day wear respectively, after which they passed on to socks, in the fashionable shades of tobacco, Leander, Wedgwood and crushed strawberry, with black lace silk for the evenings; the grey ties known as “whitewash” they also added to their store, with a selection of new Mayfair pins, and when a zealous assistant attempted to demonstrate the latest treble knot, Samson patiently took the tie from him and tied it with such swift precision that the assistant abased himself as before a high priest.
With Mr Franklin’s body linen attended to they repaired to Lobb’s for boots, a matter in which Mr Franklin needed little assistance. They then considered suits, and on Mr Franklin’s supposing that they should visit Savile Row, for which he had read advertisements in the newspapers, Samson pursed his lips, observed, “I don’t think we need to, hardly, sir,” and conducted him to a small, dim establishment off Oxford Street where an unhappy-looking little Jewish tailor, whom Samson addressed as Zeke, provided Mr Franklin with two immaculate morning dress suits, two evening dress suits, with white weskits and ties, two tweed suits, a magnificent Norfolk jacket and breeches, two lounge suits, all off the peg, and for a total of less than £100.
Mr Franklin was both delighted and doubtful. “Are these as good as we’d get at the fashionable shops?”
“Better,” said Samson briskly. “Most gentlemen can’t buy off the peg, sir, and wouldn’t if they could, because they feel bound to patronise the fashionable tailors. Not necessary, sir. Zeke can cut with any man in London – you’ll have to shorten the sleeves on the Norfolk, Zeke, and bring in the waist on the morning coats. Have them all round at the Waldorf by six, mind. Now, sir, spats, top hats, cane, great-coat,