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When, finally, I did turn round it was because the other door, the Export and Import door, had opened. A young man stood on the threshold.
“Is Mr. Norris in?” I asked.
The young man eyed me suspiciously. He had watery light yellow eyes and a blotched complexion the colour of porridge. His head was huge and round, set awkwardly on a short plump body. He wore a smart lounge suit and patent-leather shoes. I didn’t like the look of him at all.
“Have you an appointment?”
“Yes.” My tone was extremely curt.
At once, the young man’s face curved into oily smiles. “Oh, it’s Mr. Bradshaw? One moment, if you please.”
And, to my astonishment, he closed the door in my face, only to reappear an instant later at the left-hand door, standing aside for me to enter the flat. This behaviour seemed all the more extraordinary because, as I noticed immediately I was inside, the Private side of the entrance hall was divided from the Export side only by a thick hanging curtain.
“Mr. Norris wishes me to say that he will be with you in one moment,” said the big-headed young man, treading delicately across the thick carpet on the toes of his patent-leather shoes. He spoke very softly, as if he were afraid of being overheard. Opening the door of a large sitting-room, he silently motioned me to take a chair, and withdrew.
Left alone, I looked round me, slightly mystified. Everything was in good taste, the furniture, the carpet, the colour scheme. But the room was curiously without character. It was like a room on the stage or in the window of a high-class furnishing store; elegant, expensive, discreet. I had expected Mr. Norris’ background to be altogether more exotic; something Chinese would have suited him, with golden and scarlet dragons.
The young man had left the door ajar. From somewhere just outside I heard him say, presumably into a telephone: “The gentleman is here, sir.” And now, with even greater distinctness, Mr. Norris’ voice was audible as he replied, from
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behind a door in the opposite wall of the sitting-room: “Oh, is he? Thank you.”
I wanted to laugh. This little comedy was so unnecessary as to seem slightly sinister. A moment later Mr. Norris himself came into the room, nervously rubbing his manicured hands together.
“My dear boy, this is indeed an honour! Delighted to welcome you under the shadow of my humble roof-tree.”
He didn’t look well, I thought. His face wasn’t so rosy today, and there were rings under his eyes. He sat down for a moment in an armchair, but rose again immediately, as if he were not in the mood for sitting still. He must have been wearing a different wig, for the joins in this one showed as plain as murder.
“You’d like to see over the flat, I expect?” he asked, nervously touching his temples with the tips of his fingers.
“I should, very much.” I smiled, puzzled because Mr. Norris was obviously in a great hurry about something. With fussy haste, he took me by the elbow, steering me towards the door in the opposite wall, from which he himself had just emerged.
“We’ll go this way first, yes.”
But hardly had we taken a couple of steps when there was a sudden outburst of voices from the entrance hall.
“You can’t. It’s impossible,” came the voice of the young man who had ushered me into the flat. And a strange, loud, angry voice answered: “That’s a dirty lie! I tell you he’s here!”
Mr. Norris stopped as suddenly as if he’d been shot. “Oh dear!” he whispered, hardly audible. “Oh dear!” Stricken with indecision and alarm, he stood still in the middle of the room, as though desperately considering which way to turn. His grip on my arm tightened, either for support or merely to implore me to keep quiet.
“Mr. Norris will not be back until late this evening.” The young man’s voice was no longer apologetic, but firm. “It’s no good your waiting.”
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He seemed to have shifted his position and to be just outside, perhaps barring the way into the sitting-room. And, the next moment, the sitting-room door was quietly shut, with a click of a key being turned. We were locked in.
“He’s in there!” shouted the strange voice, loud and mena’c-ing. There was a scuffling, followed by a heavy thud, as if the young man had been flung violently against the door. The thud roused Mr. Norris to action. With a single, surprisingly agile movement, he dragged me after him into the adjoining room. We stood there together in the doorway, ready, at any moment, for a further retreat. I could hear him panting heavily at my side.
Meanwhile, the stranger was rattling the sitting-room door as if he meant to burst it open: “You damned swindler!” he shouted, in a terrible voice. “You wait till I get my hands on you!”
It was all so very extraordinary that I quite forgot to feel frightened, although it might well be supposed that the person on the other side of the door was either raving drunk or insane. I cast a questioning glance at Mr. Norris, who whispered reassuringly: “He’ll go away in a minute, I think.” The curious thing was that, although scared, he didn’t seem at all surprised by what was taking place. It might have been imagined, from his tone, that he was referring to an unpleasant but frequently recurring natural phenomenon; a violent thunder-storm, for instance. His blue eyes were warily, uneasily alert. His hand rested on the door handle, prepared to slam it shut at an instant’s notice.
But Mr. Norris had been right. The stranger soon got tired of rattling the sitting-room door. With an explosion of Berlin curses, his voice retreated. A moment later, we heard the outside door of the flat close with a tremendous bang.
Mr. Norris drew a long breath of relief. “I knew it couldn’t last long,” he remarked with satisfaction. Abstractedly pulling an envelope out of his pocket, he began fanning himself with it. “So upsetting,” he murmured. “Some people seem to be utterly lacking in consideration … My dear boy, I really
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must apologize for this disturbance. Quite unforeseen, I assure you.”
I laughed. “That’s all right. It was rather exciting.”
Mr. Norris seemed pleased. “I’m very glad you take it so lightly. It’s so rare to find anyone of your age who’s free from these ridiculous bourgeois prejudices. I feel that we have a great deal in common.”
“Yes, I think we have,” I said, without, however, being quite clear as to which particular prejudices he found ridiculous or how they applied to the angry visitor.
“In the course of my long and not uneventful life, I can truthfully say that for sheer stupidity and obstructiveness, I have never met anyone to equal the small Berlin tradesman. I’m not speaking, now, mind you, of the larger firms. They’re always reasonable: more or less …”
He was evidently in a confidential mood and might have imparted a good deal of interesting information, had not the sitting-room door now been unlocked and the young man with the large head reappeared on the threshold. The sight of him seemed to disconnect instantly the thread of Mr. Norris’ ideas. His manner became at once apologetic, apprehensive and vague, as though he and I had been caught doing something socially ridiculous which could only be passed off by an elaborate display of etiquette.
“Allow me to introduce: Herr SchmidtMr. Bradshaw. Herr Schmidt is my secretary and my right hand. Only, in this case,” Mr. Norris tittered nervously, “I can assure you that the right hand knows perfectly well what the left hand doeth.”
With several small nervous coughs he attempted to translate this joke into German. Herr Schmidt, who clearly didn’t understand it, did not even bother to pretend to be amused. He gave me a private smile, however, which invited me to join him in tolerant contemptuous patronage of his employer’s attempts at humour. I didn’t respond. I had taken a dislike to Schmidt already. He saw this, and, at the moment, I was pleased that he saw it.