Next I considered going over there and skinning him alive. But that might not be so great an idea either. First of all, it might get me sacked. Secondly, I couldn’t muster the energy to get up. And thirdly, the blasted door was still locked anyway!
A plink announced the arrival of the next message.
It appeared that I had to get up, whether I had the energy or not! The message read:
Mr Linton,
Fetch file S39XX300
Rikkard Ambrose.
Spiffing! Simply Spiffing! Here we go again. Rising, I started towards the rows of shelves. But then I hesitated.
Wait just a moment… file S39XX300?
I frowned. The numbering systems for the files didn’t start with letters, did it? It always started with numbers proclaiming the years of the file’s origin. The 39 in the name probably stood for 1839, this very year, but 'S'? What did that stand for? Snoop? Saucy? Silly?
I went looking under 39 because I didn’t know what else to do. Ten minutes later, I had three open boxes standing before me and a volcano rumbling somewhere inside me.
Dear Mr Ambrose
There is no file S39XX300. I cannot find it.
Yours sincerely
Miss Lilly Linton
The reply came immediately.
Mr Linton,
There IS a file S39XX300 Have you looked in the safe?
Rikkard Ambrose.
What the heck?
Dearest Mr Ambrose,
I did not know there was a safe here. Might I inquire why you neglected to tell me this?
Yours always
Miss Lilly Linton
Angrily I shoved the message into the tube and waited. Only half a minute later, a plink announced the answer.
Mr Linton,
You might indeed enquire. It is because I expect my employees be capable of independent thought. The 'S' stands for safe. If that is too difficult for you to comprehend, then maybe you should look for another post. One more fitted to your limited intellectual capabilities.
Rikkard Ambrose
The arrogant… ‘limited intellectual capabilities’? Gah! I didn’t even know what names to call him! The newspaper articles about women’s insufficient brain size and all the other arguments against our working and voting came to mind. Oh how I would have loved to skin that man alive. And then maybe roast him slowly over an open fire…
Dear Mr Ambrose,
I will go looking for the safe directly. Do not fear - even my limited mental capacity should be sufficient to find a big metal box.
Yours always (Which means you’re not getting rid of me!)
Miss Lilly Linton
I stood up. I went looking. I found the safe. It took me only five minutes and then I was back at my desk - still without file S39XX300, for a very simple reason. Fuming, I grabbed a message slip from the bowl and scrawled four simple words on it.
The safe is locked!
Had he been waiting for me to write that? Because the reply came almost instantly.
Mr Linton,
It is locked to keep things safe. That is why it is called a safe.
Rikkard Ambrose
Gah! Was this man trying to drive me crazy? Well… probably. To hell with him!
Dear Mr Ambrose,
I know it what a safe is, thank you very much. And I know it is locked, because I have tried to open it and not succeeded, as mentioned before. WHERE IS THE KEY?
Yours Sincerely
Miss Lilly Linton
I pushed the message into the tube with maybe a bit more force than necessary and pulled the lever. His answer came as quick as ever.
Mr Linton,
Writing in capitals is not as quick or efficient as writing in normal letters. Please refrain from such time-wasting habits while in my employ. The key I have already pushed under the door, as any observant employee would have noticed.
Rikkard Ambrose
Muttering some not very polite things about Mr Ambrose, I went over to the door and fetched the key. Then I returned to the back of the room where, in a small niche I hadn’t noticed before today, a big, black metal door had been inserted into the wall, with the word 'Ambrose' written in simple steel letters at the top. I wondered for a moment why he would feel the need to write his name on his own safe. Did he have that bad a memory? Then I realized that it was probably the name of the manufacturer. So he made safes, did he? What else did he do?
Pushing the thought aside and the key into the lock, I turned it and opened the door. It went smoothly and without even squeaking. Sleek and impenetrable, just like its maker.
I had expected a metal container of maybe about three square feet to lie beyond. Instead I found myself facing the gloom of an enormous steel room, larger than my office, with scores of objects on the shelves that lined the walls.
There was everything from the mundane file box to strange rocks, painted wooden idols and large scrolls of parchment that looked as though they had already lived through several centuries. What the hell were these? If Mr Ambrose was an industrialist as the duchess had suggested, where had he gotten these from? They didn’t look like anything coming out of a factory.