Christopher Fowler - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 10

“Sir,” said Mr Clubb in a stern, teacherly voice, “where you speak of defacing, we use the term enhancement. Enhancement is a tool we find vital to the method known by the name of Visualization.”

I retired defeated to my desk. At five minutes before two, Mrs Rampage informed that the Captain and his scion, a thirty-year-old inheritor of a great family fortune named Mr Chester Montfort d’M—, awaited my pleasure. Putting Mrs Rampage on hold, I called out, “Please do give me absolute quiet, now. A client is on his way in.”

First to appear was the Captain, his tall, rotund form as alert as a pointer’s in a grouse field as he led in the taller, inexpressibly languid figure of Mr Chester Montfort d’M—, a person marked in every inch of his being by great ease, humor, and stupidity. The Captain froze to gape horrified at the screen, but Montfort d’M— continued round him to shake my hand and say, “Have to tell you, I like that thingamabob over there immensely. Reminds me of a similar thingamabob at the Beeswax Club a few years ago, whole flocks of girls used to come tumbling out. Don’t suppose we’re in for any unicycles and trumpets today, eh?”

The combination of the raffish screen and our client’s unbridled memories brought a dangerous flush to the Captain’s face, and I hastened to explain the presence of top-level consultants who preferred to pitch tent on-site, as it were, hence the installation of a screen, all the above in the service of, well, service , an all-important quality we.

“By Kitchener’s mustache,” said the Captain. “I remember the Beeswax Club. Don’t suppose I’ll ever forget the night Little Billy Pegleg jumped up and. ” The color darkened on his cheeks, and he closed his mouth.

From behind the screen, I heard Mr Clubb say, “Visualize this.” Mr Cuff chuckled.

The Captain recovered himself and turned his sternest glare upon me. “Superb idea, consultants. A white-glove inspection tightens up any ship.” His veiled glance toward the screen indicated that he had known of the presence of our “consultants” but, unlike Gilligan, had restrained himself from thrusting into my office until given legitimate reason. “That being the case, is it still quite proper that these people remain while we discuss Mr Montfort d’M—’s confidential affairs?”

“Quite proper, I assure you,” I said. “The consultants and I prefer to work in an atmosphere of complete cooperation. Indeed, this arrangement is a condition of their accepting our firm as their client.”

“Indeed,” said the Captain.

“Top of the tree, are they?” said Mr Montfort d’M—. “Expect no less of you fellows. Fearful competence. Terrifying competence.”

Mr Cuff’s voice could be heard saying, “Okay, visualize this.” Mr Clubb uttered a high-pitched giggle.

“Enjoy their work,” said Mr Montfort d’M—.

“Shall we?” I gestured to their chairs. As a young man whose assets equalled fifteen to twenty billion dollars (depending on the condition of the stock market, the value of real estate in half a dozen cities around the world, global warming, forest fires and the like) our client was as catnip to the ladies, three of whom he had previously married and divorced after siring a child upon each, resulting in a great interlocking complexity of trusts, agreements, and contracts, all of which had to be re-examined on the occasion of his forthcoming wedding to a fourth young woman, named like her predecessors after a semi-precious stone. Due to the perspicacity of the Captain and myself, each new nuptial altered the terms of those previous so as to maintain our client’s liability at an unvarying level. Our computers had enabled us to generate the documents well before his arrival, and all Mr Montfort d’M— had to do was listen to the revised terms and sign the papers, a task which generally induced a slumberous state except for those moments when a prized asset was in transition.

“Hold on, boys,” he said ten minutes into our explanations, “you mean Opal has to give the race horses to Garnet, and in return she gets the teak plantation from Turquoise, who turns around and gives Opal the ski resort in Aspen? Opal is crazy about those horses, and Turquoise just built a house.”

I explained that his second wife could easily afford the purchase of a new stable with the income from the plantation and his third would keep her new house. He bent to the task of scratching his signature on the form. A roar of laughter erupted behind the screen. The Captain glanced sideways in displeasure, and our client looked at me blinking. “Now to the secondary trusts,” I said. “As you will recall, three years ago. ”

My words were cut short by the appearance of a chuckling Mr Clubb clamping an unlighted cigar in his mouth, a legal pad in his hand, as he came toward us. The Captain and Mr Montfort d’M— goggled at him, and Mr Clubb nodded. “Begging your pardon, sir, but some queries cannot wait. Pickaxe, sir? Dental floss? Awl?”

“No, yes, no,” I said, and then introduced him to the other two men. The Captain appeared stunned, Mr Montfort d’M— cheerfully puzzled.

“We would prefer the existence of an attic,” said Mr Clubb.

“An attic exists,” I said.

“I must admit my confusion,” said the Captain. “Why is a consultant asking about awls and attics? What is dental floss to a consultant?”

“For the nonce, Captain,” I said, “these gentlemen and I must communicate in a form of cipher or code, of which these are examples, but soon. ”

“Plug your blow-hole, Captain,” broke in Mr Clubb. “At the moment you are as useful as wind in an outhouse, always hoping you will excuse my simple way of expressing myself.”

Sputtering, the Captain rose to his feet, his face rosier by far than during his involuntary reminiscence of what Little Billy Pegleg had done one night at the Beeswax Club.

“Steady on,” I said, fearful of the heights of choler to which indignation could bring my portly, white-haired, but still powerful junior.

“Not on your life,” bellowed the Captain. “I cannot brook. cannot tolerate… If this ill-mannered dwarf imagines excuse is possible after. ” He raised a fist. Mr Clubb said, “Pish tosh,” and placed a hand on the nape of the Captain’s neck. Instantly, the Captain’s eyes rolled up, the color drained from his face, and he dropped like a sack into his chair.

“Hole in one,” marvelled Mr Montfort d’M—. “World class. Old boy isn’t dead, is he?”

The Captain exhaled uncertainly and licked his lips.

“With my apologies for the unpleasantness,” said Mr Clubb, “I have only two more queries at this juncture. Might we locate bedding in the aforesaid attic, and have you an implement such a match or a lighter?”

“There are several old mattresses and bedframes in the attic,” I said, “but as to matches, surely you do not. ”

Understanding the request better than I, Mr Montfort d’M— extended a golden lighter and applied an inch of flame to the tip of Mr Clubb’s cigar. “Didn’t think that part was code,” he said. “Rules have changed? Smoking allowed?”

“From time to time during the workday my colleague and I prefer to smoke,” said Mr Clubb, expelling a reeking miasma across the desk. I had always found tobacco nauseating in its every form, and in all parts of our building smoking had of course long been prohibited.

“Three cheers, my man, plus three more after that,” said Mr Montfort d’M—, extracting a ridged case from an inside pocket, an absurdly phallic cigar from the case. “I prefer to smoke, too, you know, especially during these deadly conferences about who gets the pincushions and who gets the snuffboxes. Believe I’ll join you in a corona.” He submitted the object to a circumcision, snick-snick, and to my horror set it alight. “Ashtray?” I dumped paper clips from a crystal oyster shell and slid it toward him. “Mr Clubb, is it? Mr Clubb, you are a fellow of wonderful accomplishments, still can’t get over that marvelous whopbopaloobop on the Captain, and I’d like to ask if we could get together some evening, cigars and cognac kind of thing.”