As the Crow Flies (33 page)

“No,
he was not,” replied Charlie with a grin. “Marshall Field is a department store
in Chicago, where you can purchase anything you could ever want for the rest of
your life. What’s more they have two million square feet of selling space all
under one roof.”

I
couldn’t think of a more ghastly concept, but I didn’t attempt to stop the boy’s
enthusiastic flow. “The building takes up an entire block,” he informed me. “Can
you imagine a store that has twenty-eight entrances? According to the
advertisements there’s nothing you can’t buy, from an automobile to an apple,
and they have twenty-four varieties of both. They’ve revolutionized retailing
in the States by being the first store to give full credit facilities. They
also claim that if they don’t have it they’ll get it for you within a week.
Field’s motto is: ‘Give the lady what she wants.’”

“Are
you suggesting that we should purchase Marshall Field in exchange for 147
Chelsea Terrace?” I asked ingenuously.

“Not
immediately, Colonel. But if in time I was able to get my hands on every shop
in Chelsea Terrace we could then carry out the same operation in London, and
perhaps even remove the first line from their current cheeky advertisement.”

I
knew I was being set up so I duly asked what the line proclaimed.

“The
biggest store in the world,” Charlie replied.

“And
how do you feel about all this?” I asked, turning my attention to Becky.

“In
Charlie’s case,” she replied, “it would have to be the biggest barrow in the
world.”

T
he first
annual general meeting of Trumper’s was held above the fruit and vegetable shop
in the front room of 147 Chelsea Terrace. The colonel, Charlie and Becky sat
round a small tresde table, not quite sure how to get things started until the
colonel opened the proceedings.

“I
know there are only three of us, but I still consider all our future meetings
should be conducted in a professional manner.” Charlie raised his eyebrows but
made no attempt to stop the colonel’s flow. “I have therefore taken the libery,”
he began, “of setting out an agenda. Otherwise I find one can so easily forget
to raise quite important issues.” The colonel proceeded to pass both his
colleagues a sheet of paper width five items neatly written in his own hand. “To
that end the first item to come under discussion is headed ‘financial report’
and I’ll begin by asking Becky to let us know how she sees the current fiscal
position.”

Becky
had carefully written out her report word for word, having the previous month
purchased two large leather-bound books, one red, one blue, from the stationer’s
at 137 and for the past fortnight having risen only minutes after Charlie had
left for Covent Garden in order to be sure she could answer any questions that
might arise at their first meeting. She opened up the cover of the red book and
began to read slowly, occasionally referring to the blue book, which was just
as large and authoritative-looking. This had the single word “Accounts” stamped
in gold on the outside.

“In
the year ending 31 December 1921 we showed a turnover on the seven shops of one
thousand three hundred and twelve pounds and four shillings, on which we
declared a profit of two hundred and nineteen pounds eleven shillings, showing
seventeen percent profit on turnover. Our debt at the bank currently stands at
seven hundred and seventy-one pounds, which includes our tax liability for the
year, but the value of the seven shops remains in the books at one thousand two
hundred and ninety pounds, which is the exact price we paid for them. This
therefore does not reflect their current market value.

“I
have made a breakdown of the figures on each of the shops for your
consideration,” said Becky, handing copies of her efforts to Charlie and the
colonel, both of whom studied them carefully for several minutes before either
spoke.

“Grocery
is still our number one earner, I see,” said the colonel, as he ran his monocle
down the profit and loss column. “Hardware is only just breaking even, and the
tailor’s is actually eating into our profits.”

“Yes,”
said Charlie. “I met up with a right holy friar when I bought that one.”

“Holy
friar?” said the colonel, perplexed.

“Liar,”
said Becky, not looking up from her book.

“Afraid
so,” said Charlie. “You see, I paid through the nose for the freehold, too much
for the stock, then got myself landed with poor staff who weren’t properly
trained. But things have taken a turn for the better since Major Arnold took
over.”

The
colonel smiled at the knowledge that the appointment of one of his former staff
of ricers had been such an immediate success. Tom Arnold had resumed to Savile
Row soon after the war only to find that his old job as under-manager at Hawkes
had been taken up by someone who had been demobbed a few months earlier than himself,
and he was therefore expected to be satisfied with the status of senior
assistant. He wasn’t. When the colonel told him there just might be an opening
for him at Trumper’s, Arnold had jumped at the opportunity.

“I’m
bound to say,” said Becky, studying the figures, “that people seem to have a
totally different moral attitude to paying their tailor than they would ever
consider applying to any other tradesman. Just look at the debtors’ column.”

“Agreed,”
said Charlie. “And I fear we won’t be able to show a great deal of improvement
on that until Major Arnold has managed to find replacements for at least three
members of his present staff: I don’t expect him to declare a profit during the
next six months, although I would hope they might be able to break even by the
end of the third quarter.”

“Good,”
said the colonel. “Now what about hardware? I see Number 129 declared a decent
enough profit last year, so why should the figures have fallen back so badly
this? They’re down over sixty pounds on 1920, declaring a loss for the first
time.”

“I’m
afraid there’s a simple enough explanation,” said Becky. “The money was stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“I
fear so,” replied Charlie. “Becky began to notice as long ago as October of
last year that the weekly receipts were falling, at first only by a little but
then the amount grew as a pattern began to evolve.”

“Have
we discovered who the culprit is?”

“Yes,
that was simple enough. We switched Bob Makins from grocery when one of the
staff at hardware was on holiday, and he spotted the tea leaf in no time.”

“Stop
it, Charlie,” said Becky. “Sorry, Colonel. Thief.”

“It
turnd out the manager, Reg Larkins, has a gambling problem,” Charlie continued,
“and was using our money to cover his debts. The bigger those debts became the
more he needed to steal.”

“You
sacked Larkins, of course,” said the colonel.

“The
same day,” said Charlie. “He turnd rather nasty at the time and tried to deny
that he’d ever taken a penny. But we haven’t heard a word from him since and in
the last three weeks we’ve even begun to show a small profit again. However, I’m
still looking for a new manager to take over as soon as possible. I’ve got my
eye on a young man who works at Cudson’s just off the Charing Cross Road.”

“Good,”
said the colonel. “That covers last year’s problems, Charlie, so now you can
frighten us with your plans for the future.”

Charlie
opened the smart new leather case that Becky had given him on 20 January and
took out the latest report from John D. Wood. He cleared his throat
theatrically and Becky had to put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Mr.
Crowther,” began Charlie, “has prepared a comprehensive survey of all the
properties in Chelsea Terrace.”

“For
which, incidentally, he has charged us ten guineas,” said Becky, checking the
accounts book.

“I
have no quarrel with that, if it turns out to be a good investment,” said the
colonel.

“It
already has,” said Charlie. He handed over copies of Crowther’s report. “As you
both already know, there are thirty-six shops in Chelsea Terrace, of which we
currently own seven. In Crowther’s opinion a further five could well become
available during the next twelve months. However, as he points out, all the
shopkeepers in Chelsea Terrace are now only too aware of my role as a buyer,
which doesn’t exactly help keep the price down.”

“I
suppose that was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“I
agree, Colonel,” said Charlie, “but it’s still far sooner than I’d hoped for.
In fact, Syd Wrexall, the chairman of the Shops Committee, is becoming quite
wary of us.”

“Why
Mr. Wrexall in particular?” asked the colonel.

“He’s
the publican who owns the Musketeer on the other corner of Chelsea Terrace. He’s
started telling his customers that it’s my long-term aim to buy up all the
property in the block and drive out the small shopkeepers.”

“He
has a point,” said Becky.

“Maybe,
but I never expected him to form a cooperative with the sole purpose of
stopping me purchasing certain properties. I was rather hoping to get my hands
on the Musketeer itself in time but whenever the subject comes up he just says,
‘Over my dead body.’”

“That
comes as rather a blow,” said the colonel.

“Not
at all,” said Charlie. “No one can expect to go through life without facing a
moment of crisis. The secret will be spotting Wrexall’s when it comes and then
moving in quickly. But it does mean for the time being that I’m occasionally
going to have to pay over the odds if a shop owner decides the time has come to
sell.”

“Not
a lot we can do about that I suspect,” said the colonel.

“Except
call their bluff from time to time,” said Charlie.

“Call
their bluff? I’m not sure I catch your drift. “

“Well,
we’ve had an approach from two shops recently with an interest in disposing of their
freehold and I turnd them both down out of hand.”

“Why?”

“Simply
because they were demanding such outrageous prices, not to mention Becky
nagging me about our present overdraft.”

“And
have they reconsidered their position?”

“Yes
and no,” said Charlie. “One has already come back with a far more realistic
demand, while the other is still holding out for his original price.”

“Who
is holding out?”

“Cuthbert’s,
Number 101, the wine and spirits merchant. But there’s no need to make any sort
of move in that direction for the time being, because Crowther says that Mr.
Cuthbert has recently been looking at several properties in Pimlico, and he’ll
be able to keep us informed of any progress on that front. We can then make a
sensible offer the moment Cuthbert commits himself.”

“Well
done, Crowther, I say. By the way, where do you pick up all your information?”
the colonel asked.

“Mr.
Bales the newsagent, and Syd Wrexall himself.”

“But
I thought you said Wrexall wasn’t proving that helpful.”

“He
isn’t,” said Charlie, “but he’ll still offer his opinion on any subject for the
price of a pint, so Bob Makins has become a regular and reamed never to
complain about being short-measured. I even get a copy of the Shops Committee
minutes before they do.”

The
colonel laughed. “And what about the auctioneers at Number 1? Have we still got
our eye on them?”

“We
most certainly have, Colonel. Mr. Fothergill, the proprietor, continues to go
deeper and deeper into debt, having had another bad year. But somehow he
manages to keep his head above water, if only just, but I anticipate he will
finally go under some time next year, at the latest the year after, when I will
be standing on the quayside waiting to throw him a lifeline. Especially if
Becky feels she is ready to leave Sotheby’s by then.”

“I’m
still learning so much,” confessed Becky. “I’d rather like to stay put for as
long as I can. I’ve completed a year in Old Masters,” she added, “and now I’m
trying to get myself moved to Modern, or Impressionist as they’ve started
calling that department. You see, I still feel I need to gain as much
experience as possible before they work out what I’m up to. I attend every
auction I can, from silverware to old books, but I’d be far happier if we could
leave Number 1 until the last possible moment.”

“But
if Fothergill does go under for a third time, Becky, you’re our lifeboat. So
what if the shop were suddenly to come on the market?”

“I
could just about handle it, I suppose. I’ve already got my eye on the man who
ought to be our general manager. Simon Matthews. He’s been with Sotheby’s for
the past twelve years and is disenchanted at being passed over once too often.
There’s also a bright young trainee who’s been around for about three years who
I think will be the pick of the next generation of auctioneers. He’s only two
years younger than the chairman’s son so he might be only too happy to join us
if we were able to make him an attractive offer.”

“On
the other hand, it may well suit us for Becky to remain at Sotheby’s for as
long as possible,” said Charlie. “Because Mr. Crowther has identified a further
problem we’re going to have to face in the near future.”