Page 25 of Storm of Bells
His voice slowly drained away, and hestiffened. His eyes sped up, devouring line after line.
‘Hrm.’
He flipped a page, reading even fasternow.
‘Hrm. Hmph.’
‘Sir?’ the young man enquired, cautiously.‘I…is everything all right?’
‘Yes.’ Slowly, a smile started to spreadacross my face, and I stepped towards Mr Ambrose. Could it be…?‘I’d like to know that too, Sir.’
Mr Ambrose slammed shut the folder. Slowly, apair of arctic eyes rose to focus on the innocent young clerk. Tojudge by the way he looked, Mr Ambrose had never heard of thesaying ‘don’t shoot the messenger.’ Or maybe he just preferred itwithout the ‘don’t’ at the beginning.
‘What,’ he demanded, enunciating each wordcoldly and clearly, ‘is the meaning of this?’
‘Err…’ The young man took a step back. ‘It’sthe profit report for the last two days’ sales of Cocaine CoughDrops.’
‘That’s what I mean! Why are there profits?Why? And why so many?’
‘Um…’ The poor clerk looked as if his worldwas standing on its head. ‘Because, um…they sell well? That’s good,right? Profits are good?’
He didn’t sound too certain.
‘Yes, tell us your opinion,’ I encouraged,fighting hard to keep from laughing out loud. ‘Are profits good?I’d always believed so, but if your opinion on the matter haschanged, by all means, educate me.’
Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitched.
‘My opinion on the matter remains thesame.’
‘How gratifying to hear that.’ I inclined myhead in the sombre manner befitting a private secretary who wasabout to choke on her giggles. ‘Now, won’t you tell us howsuccessful your newest product has been? We’re all dying to hearhow much money your latest stroke of genius has made.’
Mr Ambrose gave me a look that told me if Ididn’t shut up someone would indeed be dying—violently andabruptly. Allowing myself the tiniest of smirks, I shut up—fornow.
Mr Ambrose, meanwhile, turned his ice-coldeyes on the innocent clerk.
‘Why?’
‘Err…why what, Sir?’ The young man retreateda few steps. ‘Why wasn’t it more successful? I’m sure we can do abetter job next time! I’ll get a painter up here straight away toimprove the advertisements, and—’
‘No, man! Why was it successfulatall? It was supposed to be a disaster! A total and utterfailure!’
‘Err…it was? But wouldn’t that have beenrather costly?’
Mr Ambrose chose not to answer that question.Instead, he started flipping through the report, his eyes racingover page after page like searchlights. ‘What was it? How did thishappen? Was there a flu epidemic I have not heard of among smallchildren? Have London’s mothers suddenly gone mad? What?’
‘Err…’ Mr Ellis cleared his throat. ‘It’s notchildren who are buying the sweets, Mr Ambrose.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. And it’s not their mothers, either. Seehere?’ Cautiously stepping forward, the young man pointed astatistic. ‘For some reason, all the candy appears to be purchasedby young women between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one.’
‘Young women?’
‘Yes, Sir. The news about the newconfectionary seems to have spread like wildfire among them. Forsome reason, the product appears to be extraordinarily popular intheir age group. I can’t imagine why.’
Raising his eyes, Mr Ambrose gave me apenetrating look that made me wish I’d worn woollen underwear. ‘Oh,I have a feeling there is an explanation.’
‘Err…Yes, Sir.’
