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“Can I speak to you alone a moment?” he said to Mr. Norris, in a tone which was obviously intended to insult me. His tie, collar and lounge suit were as neat as ever. I could see no sign whatever of the violent handling he had apparently just received.
“Yes. Eryes. Certainly. Of course.” Mr. Norris’ tone was petulant but meek. “You’ll excuse me, my dear boy, a moment? I hate to keep my guests waiting, but this litttle matter is rather urgent.”
He hurried across the sitting-room and disappeared through a third door, followed by Schmidt. Schmidt was going to tell him the details of the row, of course. I considered the possibility of eaves-dropping, but decided that it would be too risky. Anyhow, I should be able to get it out of Mr. Norris one day, when I knew him better. Mr. Norris did not give one the impression of being a discreet man.
I looked round me and found that the room in which I had all this time been standing was a bedroom. It was not very large, and the available space was almost entirely occupied* by a double bed, a bulky wardrobe and an elaborate dressing-table with a winged mirror, on which were ranged bottles of perfume, lotions, antiseptics, pots of face cream, skin food, powder and ointment enough to stock a chemist’s shop. I furtively opened a drawer in the table. I found nothing in it but two lipsticks and an eyebrow pencil. Before I could investigate further, I heard the door into the sitting-room open.
Mr. Norris re-entered fussily. “And now, after this most regrettable interlude, let us continue our personally conducted tour of the royal apartments. Before you, you behold my chaste couch; I had it specially made for me in London. German beds are so ridiculously small, I always think. It’s fitted with the best spiral springs. As you observe, I’m conservative enough to keep to my English sheets and blankets. The German feather-bags give me the most horrible nightmares.”
He talked rapidly with a great show of animation, but I
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saw at once that the conversation with his secretary had depressed him. It seemed more tactful not to refer again to the stranger’s visit. Mr. Norris evidently wanted the subject to be dropped. Fishing a key out of his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked and threw open the door of the wardrobe.
“I’ve always made it a rule to have a suit for every day of the week. Perhaps you’ll tell me I’m vain, but you’d be surprised if you know what it has meant to me, at critical moments of my life, to be dressed exactly in accordance with my mood. It gives one such confidence, I think.”
Beyond the bedroom was a dining-room.
“Please admire the chairs,” said Mr. Norris, and added rather strangely as I thought at the time: “I may tell you that this suite has been valued at four thousand marks.”
From the dining-room, a passage led to the kitchen, where I was introduced to a dour-faced young man who was busy preparing the tea.
“This is Hermann, my major-domo. He shares the distinction, with a Chinese boy I had years ago in Shanghai, of being the best cook I have ever employed.”
“What were you doing in Shanghai?”
Mr. Norris looked vague. “Ah. What is one ever doing anywhere? Fishing in troubled waters, I suppose one might call it. Yes … I’m speaking now, mind you, of nineteen hundred and three. Things are very different nowadays, I’m told.”
We returned to the sitting-room, followed by Hermann with the tray.
“Well, well,” observed Mr. Norris, taking his cup, “we live in stirring times; tea-stirring times.”
I grinned awkwardly. It was only later, when I knew him better, that I realized that these aged jokes ( he had a whole repertoire of them ) were not even intended to be laughed at. They belonged merely to certain occasions in the routine of his day. Not to have made one of them would have been like omitting to say a grace.
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Having thus performed his ritual, Mr. Norris relapsed into silence. He must be worrying about the noisy caller again. As usual, when left to my own devices, I began studying his wig. I must have been staring very rudely, for he looked up suddenly and saw the direction of my gaze. He startled me by asking simply:
“Is it crooked?”
I blushed scarlet. I felt terribly embarrassed.
“Just a tiny bit, perhaps.”
Then I laughed outright. We both laughed. At that moment I could have embraced him. We had referred to the thing at last, and our relief was so great that we were like two people who have just made a mutual declaration of love.
“It wants to go a shade more to the left,” I said, reaching out a helpful hand. “May I …”
But this was going too far. “My God, no!” cried Mr. Norris, drawing back with involuntary dismay. An instant later he was himself again, and smiled ruefully.
“I’m afraid that this is one of thoseermysteries of the toilet which are best performed in the privacy of the boudoir. I must ask you to excuse me.”
“I’m afraid this one doesn’t fit very well,” he continued, returning from his bedroom some minutes later. “I’ve never been fond of it. It’s only my second best.”
“How many have you got, then?”
“Three altogether.” Mr. Norris examined his finger-nails with a modestly proprietary air.
“And how long do they last?”
“A very short time, I’m sorry to say. I’m obliged to get a new one every eighteen months or so, and they’re exceedingly expensive.”
“How much, roughly?”
“Between three and four hundred marks.” He was seriously informative. “The man who makes them for me lives in Köln and I’m obliged to go there myself to get them fitted.”
“How tiresome for you.”
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“It is, indeed.”
“Tell me just one more thing. However do you manage to make it stay on?”
“There’s a small patch with glue on it.” Mr. Norris lowered his voice a little, as though this were the greatest secret of alclass="underline" “Just here.”
“And you find that’s sufficient?”
“For the ordinary wear and tear of daily life, yes. All the same, I’m bound to admit that there have been various occasions in my chequered career, occasions which I blush to think of, when all has been lost.”
After tea, Mr. Norris showed me his study, which lay behind the door on the other side of the sitting-room.
“I’ve got some very valuable books here,” he told me. “Some very amusing books.” His tone coyly underlined the words. I stooped to read the titles: The Girl with the Golden Whip. Miss Smith’s Torture-Chamber. Imprisoned at a Girls’ School, or The Private Dairy of Montague Dawson, Flagellant. This was my first glimpse of Mr. Norris’ sexual tastes.
“One day I’ll show you some of the other treasures of my collection,” he added archly, “when I feel I know you well enough.”
He led the way through into a little office. This, I realized, was where the unwelcome visitor must have been waiting at the time of my own arrival. It was strangely bare. There was a chair, a table, a filing cabinet, and, on the wall, a large map of Germany. Schmidt was nowhere to be seen.
“My secretary has gone out,” Mr. Norris explained, his uneasy eyes wandering over the walls with a certain distaste, as if this room had unpleasant associations for him. “He took the typewriter to be cleaned. This was what he wanted to see me about, just now.”
This lie seemed so entirely pointless that I felt rather offended. I didn’t expect him to confide in me, yet; but he needn’t treat me like an imbecile. I felt absolved from any lingering scruples about asking pointed questions, and said, with frank inquisitiveness:
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“What is it, exactly, that you export and import?”