Ultimatum by Antony Trew Page A

Morley, who took in lodgers – ‘guests’ she preferred to call them – provided they were what she thought of as ‘the right sort of people’.
    She was in the kitchen when she heard the clack of the letter-box lid and the postman’s double ring. The ring was her private arrangement with him. She liked to get to the letter-box before her guests. She put down the butter dish, wiped her hands, went to the box and cleared it. Among the mail was a buff-coloured envelope addressed to J. P. Leroux et Cie. The name of the sender was on the flap: Benallan Steamship Company Ltd, Fenchurch Street, London EC 3.
    Miss Morley looked at the letter with respect. She’d no idea the nice young Frenchman – Jean Paul Leroux – who’d come to her a week ago, was a ‘company’. But then he was a quiet, reserved sort of man. Not one to talk about himself or put on airs and graces. A girl with a French accent had telephoned to make the reservation some time before his arrival, saying that he was coming from Paris. Miss Morley asked him who’d recommended her. The wife of a business acquaintance in Paris, he’d said. She had stayed at number 43 some time ago. Unfortunately, he could not recall her maiden name. Miss Morley couldn’t either but since several young French women had stayed with her over the years – and Mr. Leroux, though French, was a charming well-spoken man and obviously a gentlemen – she’d had no hesitation in taking him in for the week or ten days he expected to be in London.
    Miss Morley placed the letters on the hall table, wentback to the kitchen and got on with preparing the breakfast.
     
    Later that morning Jean Paul Leroux took a taxi from Trafalgar Square where he’d arrived by underground.
    As was his custom he paid off the taxi shortly before it reached the Aldwych, walking the remainder of the way to 39 Spender Street.
    It was his third visit to the premises of the Middle Orient Consolidated Agencies Ltd since landing at Heathrow on October 20th. He rang the bell, went in through the front door, exchanged greetings with Hanna Nasour, Najib Hamadeh and Ibrahim Souref, hung up his raincoat and umbrella and accepted Hanna’s offer of coffee. She poured the coffee and passed him the mug. ‘Any news, Zeid?’
    ‘Yes. The letter came this morning.’ He felt more than heard the impact of his announcement.
    There was a long silence, broken by the girl. ‘When do you leave Fulham?’
    ‘It’ll be a few days yet. I told Miss Morley I’d be returning to Paris soon. I’ll have to move in with you then, Ibrahim. Okay?’
    The man with the mournful face sitting on the edge of the desk said, ‘Fine. If you don’t mind a stretcher.’
    Zeid looked round the office with dubious eyes. The premises were poorly lit, sparsely furnished. There was a musty smell of long ago, an atmosphere of decay and neglect. Where they were in the front office there was a monk’s bench, a table, some chairs, an old Royal typewriter , a stationery cabinet, two typists’ desks, two four-drawer steel filing cabinets, telephone directories – but no telephone – ‘in and out’ baskets with letters in them, a wall calendar from which gazed a breasty, sultry young lady, a number of newspapers and some periodicals. The shelves along one wall were stacked with pattern books, specimens of silks and damasks, brocades and other Oriental cloths. There were two doors at the back of the front office.One opened into a stockroom with modest stacks of Persian and Turkish rugs, and bundles of carpet samples on shelves along the back wall. The other gave on to an open passageway which led to an outside cloakroom, and a backyard with coal shed and garbage bins. There was a gas ring on a table, near it a corner cupboard.
    Zeid put down the empty mug. ‘I’ve some telephoning to do, Najib. Can’t be from a call-box. Can we go to Sandra’s?’
    ‘Of course. She’ll be at work now.’
     
    In the Strand they took a taxi to Rupert Street