'Yes, madam, a taxi will call for you in three minutes,' she said. 'Thank you.' She had a pleasant high voice of excellent carrying quality.
The two girls in the outer office looked at me expectantly. They wore tight sweaters and large quantities of mascara. I spoke to the one nearest the door.
'Er- I'm enquiring about booking some taxis- for a wedding. My sister's,' I added, improvising and inventing the sister I never had. 'Is that possible?'
'Oh, yes, I think so,' she said. 'I'll ask the manager. He usually deals with big bookings.'
I said, 'I'm only asking for an estimate- on behalf of my sister. She has asked me to try all the firms, to find out which will be most – er – reasonable. I can't give you a definite booking until I've consulted her again.'
'I see,' she said. 'Well, I'll ask Mr Fielder to see you.' She went out, down the passage, and through the door marked Private.
While I waited I grinned at the other girl, who patted her hair, and I listened to the girl at the switchboard.
'Just a minute, sir. I'll see if there's a taxi in your area,' she was saying. She flipped a switch and said, 'Come in, any car in Hove two. Come in, any car in Hove two.'
There was a silence and then a man's voice said out of the radio receiving set, 'It looks as though there's no one in Hove two, Marigold. I could get there in five minutes. I've just dropped a fare in Langbury Place.'
'Right, Jim.' She gave him the address, flipped the switch again, and spoke into the telephone. 'A taxi will be with you in five minutes, sir. I am sorry for the delay, we have no cars available who can reach you faster than that. Thank you, sir.' As soon as she had finished speaking the telephone rang again. She said, 'Marconicars. Can I help you?'
Down the hall came the clip clop of high heels on linoleum, and the girl came back from Mr Fielder. She said, 'The manager can see you now, sir.'
'Thank you,' I said. I went down the hall and through the open door at the end.
The man who rose to greet me and shake hands was a heavy, well-tailored, urbane man in his middle forties. He wore spectacles with heavy black frames, had smooth black hair and hard blue eyes. He seemed a man of too strong a personality to be sitting in the back office of a taxi firm, too high-powered an executive for the range of his job.
I felt my heart jump absurdly, and I had a moment's panic in which I feared he knew who I was and what I was trying to do. But his gaze was calm and businesslike, and he said only, 'I understand you wish to make a block booking for a wedding.'
'Yes,' I said, and launched into fictitious details. He made notes, added up some figures, wrote out an estimate, and held it out to me. I took it. His writing was strong and black. It fitted him.
'Thank you,' I said. 'I'll give this to my sister, and let you know.'
As I went out of his door and shut it behind me, I looked back at him. He was sitting behind his desk staring at me through his glasses with unwinking blue eyes. I could read nothing in his face.
I went back into the front office and said, 'I've got the estimate I wanted. Thank you for your help.' I turned to go, and had a second thought. 'By the way, do you know where I can find Mr Clifford Tudor?' I asked.
The girls, showing no surprise at my enquiry, said they did not know.
'Marigold might find out for you,' said one of them. 'I'll ask her.'
Marigold, finishing her call, agreed to help. She pressed the switch. 'All cars. Did anyone pick up Mr Tudor today? Come in please.'
A man's voice said, 'I took him to the station this morning, Marigold. He caught the London train.'
'Thanks, Mike,' said Marigold.
'She knows all their voices,' said one of the girls, admiringly. 'They never have to tell her the number of their car.'
'Do you all know Mr Tudor well?' I asked.
'Never seen him,' said one girl, and the others shook their heads in agreement.
'He's one of our regulars. He takes a car whenever he wants one, and we book it here. The driver tells Marigold where he's taking him. Mr Tudor has a monthly account, and we make it up and send it to him.'
'Suppose the driver takes Mr Tudor from place to place and fails to report it to Marigold?' I asked conversationally.
'He wouldn't be so silly. The drivers get commission on regulars. Instead of tips, do you see? We put ten per cent on the bills to save the regulars having to tip the drivers every five minutes.'
'A good idea,' I said. 'Do you have many regulars?'
'Dozens,' said one of the girls. 'But Mr Tudor is about our best client.'
'And how many taxis are there?' I asked.
'Thirty-one. Some of them will be in the garage for servicing, of course, and sometimes in the winter we only have half of them on the road. There's a lot of competition from the other firms.'
'Who actually owns the Marconicars?' I asked casually.
They said they didn't know and couldn't care less.
'Not Mr Fielder?' I asked.
'Oh, no,' said Marigold. 'I don't think so. There's a Chairman, I believe, but we've never seen him. Mr Fielder can't be all that high up, because he sometimes takes over from me in the evenings and at week-ends. Though another girl comes in to relieve me on my days off, of course.'
They suddenly all seemed to realize that this had nothing to do with my sister's wedding. It was time to go, and I went.
I stood outside on the pavement wondering what to do next. There was a caf‚ opposite, across the broad street, and it was nearly lunch-time. I went over and into the caf‚, which smelled of cabbage, and because I had arrived before the rush there was a table free by the window. Through the chaste net curtains of the Olde Oake caf‚ I had a clear view of the Marconicar office. For what it was worth.
A stout girl with wispy hair pushed a typed menu card in front of me. I looked at it, depressed. English home cooking at its very plainest. Tomato soup, choice of fried cod, sausages in batter, or steak and kidney pie, with suet pudding and custard to follow. It was all designed with no regard for an amateur rider's weight. I asked for coffee. The girl said firmly I couldn't have coffee by itself at lunch-time, they needed the tables. I offered to pay for the full lunch if I could just have the coffee, and to this she agreed, clearly thinking me highly eccentric.
The coffee, when it came, was surprisingly strong and good. I was getting the first of the brew, I reflected, idly watching the Marconicar front door. No one interesting went in or out.
On the storey above the Marconicars a big red neon sign flashed on and off, showing little more than a flicker in the daylight. I glanced up at it. Across the full width of the narrow building was the name L. C. PERTH. The taxi office had 'Marconicars' written in bright yellow on black along the top of its big window, and looking up I saw that the top storey was decorated with a large blue board bearing in white letters the information 'Jenkins, Wholesale Hats'.
The total effect was colourful indeed, but hardly what the Regency architect had had in mind. I had a mental picture of him turning in his grave so often that he made knots in his winding sheet, and I suppose I smiled, for a voice suddenly said, 'Vandalism, isn't it?'
A middle-aged woman had sat down at my table, unnoticed by me as I gazed out of the window. She had a mournful horsey face with no make-up, a hideous brown hat which added years to her age, and an earnest look in her eyes. The caf‚ was filling up, and I could no longer have a table to myself.
'It's startling, certainly,' I agreed.
'It ought not to be allowed. All these old houses in this district have been carved up and turned into offices, and it's really disgraceful how they look now. I belong to the Architectural Preservation Group,' she confided solemnly, 'and we're getting out a petition to stop people descrating beautiful buildings with horrible advertisements.'