Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Wodehouse

Author:P. G. Wodehouse [Wodehouse, P. G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

IN THE HEART of the city of London’s bustle and din, some fifty yards to the east of Leadenhall Market, there stands a small and dingy place of refreshment bearing over its door the name of Pirandello. In addition to alluring the public with a rich smell of mixed foods, the restaurant keeps permanently in its window a dish containing a saintly looking pig’s head flanked by two tomatoes and a discouraged lettuce. There are also cakes of dubious aspect scattered here and there. Through the glass you can see sad-eyed members of the Borgia family in stained dress suits busily engaged in keeping up the ancient traditions of the clan.

In the narrow doorway of this establishment, about three hours after Pilbeam had left Sir George Pyke’s office in Tilbury House, Bill West was standing with his young friend Judson Coker. They were looking up and down the street with an air of expectancy.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” asked Judson in a voice of melancholy. The Gioconda smile of that placid pig had begun to weigh upon his spirits.

“It’s what she said in her telegram — Pirandello’s in Leadenhall Street.”

“Very mysterious, the whole thing,” said Judson, frowning at the pig.

“Ah!” said Bill, stepping from the doorway. He had observed Flick threading her way through the traffic from the other side of the street.

Flick, in marked contrast to Judson, seemed in the highest spirits. She waved cheerily as she eluded a passing van. She sprang onto the pavement with a gay leap.

“So you got my wire? That’s splendid. Come in; I’m hungry.”

“You aren’t going to lunch here?” said Judson incredulously.

“Certainly. It’s a very good place. Henry recommended it strongly. He always lunches here. He said he would have treated me today, only he’s in conference with another man at Blake’s Chophouse.”

“Henry?” said Bill, perplexed. “Who’s Henry?”

“The office boy where I work.”

Bill and Judson exchanged a bewildered glance.

“Where you work?” said Judson.

“Where you work?” said Bill.

“Yes; that’s what I’ve come to tell you about. That’s why I wired to you to meet me here. I’ve got a job as stenographer at the London branch of the Paradene Pulp and Paper Company.”

“What?”

“I can’t explain till I’ve had something to eat. You idle rich don’t realize it, but working gives one an appetite.”

They followed her dazedly into the restaurant. A warm, sweet-scented blast of air smote them as they entered. Flick sniffed. “Smell the cocoa!” she said to Judson. “Doesn’t it tantalize you?” She sat down at one of the marble-topped tables. “Mr. Cocoa likes coker,” she said to Bill. “I mean Mr. Coker likes cocoa.”

Bill, staring in astonishment at Judson, found the latter eying Flick with the reproachful look of one who has been disappointed in a friend. The light-hearted girl appeared unaware of his penetrating gaze. She was busy with a waiter, who accepted her order dejectedly and wrote it down on a grubby pad with a noncommittal air, as if disclaiming all responsibility.

“There,” said Flick, when the lethal provender was on the table and they were alone once more.

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