Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, opera cloak, caps, everyday hat – not a bowler for you, sir, I think. You’ll feel more at home in something more wideawake, I dare say, like Mr Andrew Lang. Very stylish, the broad brim, but only for travellers and literary men.”

      “And which am I?” wondered Mr Franklin aloud, as he surveyed the growing stack of clothing on Zeke’s table with some misgivings. Samson, without a flicker of a smile, replied gravely: “I’m sure you enjoy good literature very much, sir. Plain grey in the spats, I think.”

      The fact was, Mr Franklin was half-regretting his recruitment of an expert in the matter of clothing. It had been an impulse – since he could afford the best, why not make sure that the best was what he got? But he had thought of what, to him, was a full outfit – a couple of suits, coat, hat, and boots, and here he was being kitted out with an opulence that would have embarrassed a railroad tycoon. The trouble was that every purchase seemed to call for some undreamed-of-accessories; it wasn’t the expense he minded, so much as the extravagance – but there was nothing to be done about it now. Piker was a word that Mr Franklin had been brought up to despise; besides, this Samson undoubtedly knew his business, and it would have been a shame to spoil his fun.

      In fact, Samson was enjoying himself immensely, in his restrained way. He had never had the opportunity, despite his great experience, of outfitting a gentleman entire before, and this one was a pleasure to equip. Too long and lean for true elegance, perhaps, but splendid shoulders, trim waist, and excellent bearing: Samson the soldier liked a man to look like a man, and not a tailor’s dummy, and he went to work accordingly, undeterred by the growing unease which he sensed in Mr Franklin’s manner. He could guess its source, and wisely did not let it trouble him. His professional pride apart, he liked this big American with his frontier face and diffident manner, and he was going to see him right. So when the last garment had been bought, he bore Mr Franklin off to Drews of Piccadilly for a full set of oxhide luggage, and finally to a Bond Street jewellers for a rolled gold cigarette case, silver and diamond links and studs, and the thinnest of platinum watch-chains set with tiny pearls. By this time Mr Franklin was totally silent; never mind, thought Samson, you’re the best-dressed man in London this minute – or will be when you’ve put them on. And having weighed his man up precisely, he was not in the least surprised, as they drove back to Aldwych in a four-wheeler loaded with packages, when Mr Franklin broke the silence by saying suddenly:

      “I imagine you think I’m all kinds of fool – buying all this sort of stuff?”

      Samson looked straight to his front. “I’d think you would be ill-advised to continue in your present garments, sir,” he said, and Mr Franklin digested this.

      “You know what I mean, Samson. It isn’t – well, it isn’t my style, and you know it. Is it, now?”

      Samson turned to look at him, his bright blue eyes without expression. “It’s as much your style as anybody’s, sir. The clothes you’ve bought look extremely well on you. And that’s a professional opinion, sir.”

      “Well,” СКАЧАТЬ