Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  There was to be had, he noted, in the reasonably fashionable area of Cadogan Square, S.W.1, a Gentleman's Apartment comprising a Full Ground Floor; Mr Franklin stood absorbed by the catalogue of luxury - the fitments and furnishings by Liberty, the crockery by Doulton with which the kitchen and pantry were stocked, the fine masterbedroom with its private dressing-room and bathroom, the cosy panelled study, the opulent drawing-room with its Afghan carpeting and French chandelier, the elegant breakfast-room with furniture by Chippendale, the spare bedroom and second bathroom, the servants' room at the back, the excellent storage space, the polished cedar floors, the embossed wallpaper, the newly-installed silent flush toilets from Stoke-on-Trent, the electric lighting throughout at 1,000 candlepower for a penny, the patent boiler ensuring constant hot water and all for the moderate sum of £200, a mere thousand dollars, per annum....

  ... Twelve cents a night for twelve square feet of Yancy's shack in the Tonopah diggings and a place at the communal table, bring your own grub. Fifteen cents if your space was against the wall - old Davis had rated a wall space, being over sixty, with Franklin on his unguarded side so that Yancy's clientele couldn't come creeping in the night to untie the blanket lashed around the old boy's ankles and remove the precious poke from beneath it. One thing about London, S. W.1, you probably didn't need to sleep with your goods tied to your legs. Twenty-seven cents a night all told, more than they could afford, but the old fellow's chest couldn't take the weather any longer; just a week in the mud under the tarpaulins would have curled him up for keeps - and even if it hadn't, it would have left him unfit to dig on the ledges. And life without the ability to dig his stint wouldn't have been worth living to Davis -Well, boy, I'm just an old gopher; 'less I'm grubbin' up the dirt I feel all deprived like. I shifted so much shit offn Mother Earth, she's got a permanent tilt. Seen 'em all - Comstock, Australie, Cripple Creek, Sierra Madre, Klondyke - ten thousand dollars Jocky Patterson an' me took into Dawson City, nuggets an' dust, an' the little bastard lost the whole dam' pile in a stud game while I was drunk. Never did touch liquor since, 'cept for medicinal purposes ... ' And his old croaking voice had trailed into sleep, gradually murmuring into gentle snores in Yancy's mouldy, flea-ridden, sweat-stinking shack, packed with scratching bodies, wet and filthy, and the Mex came slithering like a rattler, eyes glinting in the moonlight from the window, hand out towards old Davis's blanket until Franklin's Remington was thrust into his face, the muzzle resting on the olive cheek, and the eyes widened in terror, with gasping breath as the hammer clicked back: `Si, si . . . campadre!' Si, si, campadre, your greasy dago ass, stir a finger and I'll blow your black head off. Vamos! Twelve cents a night for the privilege of lying awake against verminous thieves while old Davis babbled in his sleep in that leaky shed under the Big Smokies - and fifty dollars a night at the Bella Union after they came down singing together from the mountains with their saddle-bags plump with silver, soaking off the grime of months in their own private bath-tub, with French champagne being poured over old Davis's matted grey locks by a squealing twenty-dollar whore, and the waiter feeding the old rascal cream cakes as he wallowed in the tub, yelling at the girls to get in beside him 'cos he was the richest son-of-arich-bitch and he was going to blow the whole danged pile in one riotous night and die in the morning, see if he wasn't, and Franklin sitting on the tin trunk that held their goods, the Remingtons handy beneath his jacket and an eye on the waiters and bar flies and raddled strumpets who abetted old Davis's hooting celebrations and drunken staggerings - the wreckage of their private room had cost them a mint in damages, on top of the fifty-dollar rent for that single carousing night ... Two hundred pounds a year in Cadogan Square, cheaper than the Bella Union, dearer than Yancy's, and with silent flush toilets from Stoke-on-Trent thrown in .. .

  'A most desirable property, sir.' The senior partner was murmuring at his elbow; perhaps he would care to see over it that afternoon? One of the assistants would be most happy to . . . ah, the gentleman had something else in mind. Quite so - and Mr Franklin was borne off to the inner sanctum where he and the senior partner spent an hour in earnest discussion. Mr Franklin's requirements were specific - unusually so, and while the result of their talk seemed to satisfy him, it is a fact that he left the senior partner in a state of some mystification, blended with satisfaction at the cheque which his visitor had paid over, sight unseen.

  Mr Franklin's next call took him to the West End, and the discreet offices of one of those exclusive domestic agencies which specialised in supplying personal servants to the nobility and the more ancient nouveaux riches. Here Mr Franklin beat his own record for upsetting managers, for while he had caused concern at the American Express, and bewilderment at the estate agent's, he caused in Mr Pride, director of the domestic agency, something close to outrage.

  'You wish to engage a personal attendant,' said Mr Pride, faintly, 'for one afternoon only? One afternoon?'

  'Yes,' said Mr Franklin.

  'My dear sir,' said Mr Pride, recovering his normally austere composure, 'I am afraid that is quite impossible. Indeed,' he went, on turning his cold eye-glass on this peculiar person and deciding, after a distasteful survey of his ecentric tweed cape (a disgusting garment, in Mr Pride's opinion) that he might carry his refusal a stage farther in reproof-'indeed, I do not recollect ever to have heard of such a thing. There are, I believe, agencies which undertake to engage staff for limited periods and . . . ah . . . what I understand are called special engagements -' he said it in a way that suggested longshoremen being recruited to help out at carnivals ' - but we . . . ah . . . do not.'

  Mr Franklin nodded sympathetically. 'The commission isn't worth it, I suppose. However, in this case I can assure you it will be.'

  Mr Pride's eye-glass quivered as though it had been struck, but he mastered his emotion. Pointless to try to explain to this eccentric that managing an exclusive domestic agency, which dealt with clients even more sensitive and highly-strung than their noble employers, called for the combined qualities of a theatre manager, a sergeant-major, and a racehorse trainer; financial consideration was the least of it to one who, like Mr Pride, had had to contend with hysterical butlers, psychotic nannies, and on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, a Highland head stalker who had tried to assassinate an Indian potentate because he was teetotal. He contented himself now by saying icily:

  'Our personnel come to us in the hope of permanent employment, or at the very least, extended engagements. I may say that we have on our books three individuals whose families have served in the same establishments-the very highest establishments-since the eighteenth century.'

  He had no sooner said it than Mr Pride was uncomfortably aware that it sounded like defensive boasting, stung out of him by this person's gross mention of 'commission'; he was, however, gratified at the admiration it produced.

  'The eighteenth century? You don't say!'

  Mr Pride smiled frostily. 'So you see, Mr ... ah ... Franklin, that we can hardly -'

  'With a record like that, it ought to be easy to fix up a first-class valet for just one afternoon. For the right price, of course.'

  'I 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 never could tell with Americans; this one, in spite of his outlandish attire and uncivilised 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 con
fess 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 A1 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 gentleman 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 strawbery, with black lace silk for the evenings; the grey ties known as 'whitewash' they also added to their store, with a selection of the 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 Saville 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 has 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 expresson. `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,' said Mr Franklin, looking out at the bustling Aldwych traffic, 'I guess that's why I asked you along.'

  'I'm glad you did, sir. It's been a pleasure.' He preceded Mr Franklin from the cab at the Waldorf, and when they were both on the pavement he added: `You'll be dining out this evening, sir. A theatre, perhaps. I'll look back in a couple of hours and help you dress. Many gentlemen dress themselves, of course, but with new clothes, sir, it's advisable to have a second opinion, I always think, in case of any last-minute adjustments, sir.'

  He knew perfectly well that Mr Franklin had not given a thought to dining out, let alone the theatre; a sandwich in his room while he glowered uneasily at his new-bought finery would be more like it. Samson was not going to permit that if he could help it; why this quiet American had engaged him in the first place, and allowed Samson to provide him with the trappings of the fashionable metropolis, he did not bother to speculate, but since he had, Samson's professional ethic demanded that the job be seen through. So having refreshed himself with a pie and a pint of beer at a St Clement's tavern
, he returned to the Waldorf at seven prompt and proceeded to attire his client for the evening.

  Mr Franklin submitted with a good-natured tolerance behind which there obviously lay a deal of self-consciousness; the statutory uniform of dress tails with white tie and weskit he bore without too much unease, but at the cloak, hat and cane he rebelled.

  'No.' He shook his head. 'I don't need them. I don't need a stick.'

  'For the theatre, sir -'

  'Who says I'm going to the theatre? I could go in my street clothes, couldn't I?'

  Samson's raised brows suggested that he could go in a diving suit if he wished, but he merely said:

  'Then for dining out, sit. ..'

  'I don't have to dine out, either. I can get supper downstairs.'

  'Of course, sir.' Samson allowed a moment of neutral silence while Mr Franklin glowered at his patent-leather shoes. 'Shall I return your evening dress to the wardrobe, sir?'

  Mr Franklin regarded him steadily, prepared to speak, changed his mind, breathed through his nose, and finally squared his shoulders, Sydney Carton leaving the tumbril.

  'No,' he said heavily. 'Let's put the damned things on.'

  'Thank you, sir,' said Samson. 'The cane, sir - and the cloak. If it feels more comfortable, why not carry the hat, sir?' It sounded like a concession; in fact he was a trifle uneasy about the length of his client's hair. He stepped back, contemplating his handiwork, mentally comparing the tweeded colonial of the afternoon with the imposing and even elegant gentleman who now confronted him; quite striking, really, with that bronzed face, and the slightly raffish hair and moustache seemed to enhance the splendour of his dress. Samson made a mental note to recommend a barber of his acquaintance. 'Very passable, sir,' he said, and indicated the pier glass.