Chapter 6: 06. The Attack of the Metal Monster

The very next morning I got a taste of what Mr Ambrose meant by 'game on'. The first hint I received that things might not be going as usual was when I entered my office and nearly ran face-first into a giant wooden crate blocking the entryway.

'Gah! What in God's name is that thing doing in my office?'

'Guv?' A bristly, bearded man in grey-brown work clothes popped his head around the corner of the massive crate. 'We was told to put this 'ere.'

'I see. So if I tell you to put it somewhere else—'

'No can do, guv. We've got orders from the top.'

'You don't perchance mean the top of Mount Vesuvius, do you?' Because that's where I wished both Mr Ambrose and his bloody crate were right now. Just before a nice, juicy explosion.

'Err...guv? Vesuwhat?'

'Forget it, forget it.' I waved to the man, trying to dispel his confused expression. 'Put it over there in the corner, will you?'

The bearded man scratched the back of his neck. 'Err...can't do that either, guv. Was told to put it on yer desk.'

'On my desk? Then how am I supposed to work?'

'Um...on the floor?'

'You can't work on the floor!'

'Sure ye can. I put stuff I work with on the floor all the time. Beds, commodes, cupboards...'

'You are a removal man! I'm a secretary!'

'Err...yes, guv?'

I decided that Bristly-Beard was probably not the right person to have this argument with. Whirling around, I marched towards the connecting door and slammed my fist against the wood.

'Mr Ambrose!'

No answer.

'Mr Ambrose? Open!'

Still no answer—except for a soft plink. My head whirled to stare down at the small capsule lying next to me on the desk. Quickly, I snatched it up, tore it open and unfolded the paper.

Mr Linton,

What?

Rikkard Ambrose

Short and precise. Just as I hoved and lated him.

Taking up my quill, I penned a love letter to my fiancé.

My dear Mr Ambrose,

Get that bloody crate out of my office!

Yours sincerely,

Miss Lillian Linton

P.S. I love you

Wasn't I a romantic?

Stuffing the missive into the tube, I pulled the lever. It whizzed off towards Mr Ambrose, and I leaned back against my desk, taking a deep breath.

'Careful, guv!'

I jerked away—just in time to not get my fingers squashed by a heavy wooden crate. It slammed down onto the desktop, completely covering about three quarters of the surface.

'Well, that's it then, guv.' The delivery man tipped his hat. 'I'll be going.'

'What? Wait! You can't leave me like this!'

'Sorry, guv. I got a dozen more deliveries to make today. See ye.'

And he was out the door.

From behind me came a soft plink, as another metal capsule bounced off the wooden crate and landed on what little of the desk was still accessible. Grabbing the thing, I tore it open.

Mr Linton,

No.

Mr Ambrose

P.S. I believe I already commented on the matter of amorous emotions. I refer to my statements made on the 14th of December, 3 pm, upon Marford Bridge, nine miles and twenty-seven yards southeast of Battlewood.

No?

No?

Calm down, Lilly. When one partner in a relationship says no to the other, that has to be respected under all circumstances. Even if you would like to take a big wooden crate and stuff it down the aforementioned other's throat.

Besides, this was part of the game. He was testing me. I wouldn't let him win! Not in a million years!

So, instead of kicking down the connecting door to his office and fulfilling one of my revenge fantasies, I did the next best thing. I marched over to the fireplace and grabbed the poker.

No, not to bash a certain person's stony head in. Resisting that mighty temptation, I instead marched straight towards the crate and jammed the sharp end of the poker between the boards of the crate and tugged.

Nothing happened.

I tugged harder. 'Nnnng! Rrrrg!'

Still nothing.

'Come on, Lilly! You can do this! You can do th—'

Crack!

'—iiiouch!'

I landed rather unceremoniously on my well-padded derrière. Scrambling to my feet, I approached the crate and peered into its shadowy innards through the gap left by the splintered board. There was something there...something metallic. A curve, and things that looked like miniature metal hammers attached to what seemed to be a psychopathic spider's piano keyboard.

What the...?

Grabbing the next scrap of paper, I penned a well-justified and polite enquiry to my employer.

My dearest & nearest Mr Ambrose,

Have you lost your bloody marbles?

Yours concerned and about to call for a doctor with a straightjacket,

Lillian Linton

P.S. Normal people do not object to saying 'I love you' more than once in their life, you know.

The reply wasn't long in coming.

Mr Linton,

I have never possessed marbles to begin with. I would never spend money on such frivolous toys.

Ah. That explained a few things.

Also, do not call a medical professional, unless you wish to foot the bill yourself. As to your question—the object on your desk is a chirographer. I acquired it for your use.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose

P.S. I fail to see the reasoning behind this practise. You have heard my statement on the matter. My romantic inclinations have not changed. Anything else is only superfluous chatter. Knowledge is Power is Time is Money, Mr Linton.

Really? Then why did you just use four sentences to evade a question that could have been answered in one?

Bloody son of a bachelor! And what the heck did he mean, he 'acquired it for my use'? Since when did Mr Rikkard Ambrose buy anything for me? Even if we were both about to die, he would probably refuse to buy the box. And what the heck did he think I needed a—what was it again?—chirothingy for?

I reached for the next scrap of paper.

My dearest and most marvellously beloved Mr Ambrose,

I don't need your mechanical doctor in a box. My bones are perfectly fine, thank you for asking.

Yours truly,

Lillian Linton

P.S. Be a little superfluously talkative now and again, please. For me.

The reply arrived with the usual promptness.

Mr Linton,

You are confusing something. A chirographer, not chiropractor.

Mr Ambrose

There was really only one possible answer. Well, except for a poker up the derrière, that is.

Dearest most beloved Mr Ambrose,

Pity. A chiropractor could have shown me how to efficiently twist your arm. Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the difference between the two. What the bloody hell is a chirographer?!

Yours lovingly forever,

(A still completely and utterly female) Miss Lillian Linton

P.S. Please. Just once.

The reply arrived so fast I was pretty sure he had already prepared it before I'd sent my question. If there was one thing you could know about Mr Rikkard Ambrose, it was that he'd always be prepared.

Mr Linton,

The difference between a chiropractor and a chirographer is that the one costs money, whereas the other saves time. Learn how to use it. I shall expect you to be ready to take dictation in a quarter of an hour.

Mr Ambrose

P.S. I love you, too.

For a few seconds, I just stared at the last four words. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. He did. He really did. And no matter what else happened between us, that would never change. Not even if I won this little game and showed him once and for all that my place was by his side.

My eyes flicked to the rest of the message. Wait a moment...

I frowned. Dictation? What the heck did he mean?

For one moment, I had a mental image of a chiropractor in a white coat approaching me and saying, 'Well now, let's get those bones set, shall we? And then we'll engrave a business letter into them.'

No. Not even Mr Rikkard Ambrose would use human bone as writing material. After all, paper was much cheaper. Besides....I had a niggling suspicion that, whatever a chirographer was, it didn't have very much to do with any bone, except the one Mr Ambrose would work me to.

I can take it! I can take whatever he throws at me and more!

Determined, I grabbed the poker and marched towards the crate. Shortly afterwards, the sound of cracking and splintering wood filled the office.

'Damnit! Give way, you bloody thing! Give way!'

Crack!

'Finally!'

One side of the crate split open and fell away. Wiping the sweat from my face, I threw an anxious glance at the clock in the corner. Only five minutes left to Mr Ambrose's deadline.

Pulling the wooden debris aside, I peered into the shadowy crate. The sight that greeted me was like nothing I had ever seen before.

'What the heck...?'

Reaching inside, I pulled out the metal contraption that looked like a mixture between a church organ and torture instrument. A ring of tiny, glinting metallic hammers rose from the centre of the contraption. Each hammer was connected by a string to a single wooden disk. I noticed that letters were engraved on the disks. Frowning, I leaned forward to read.

'Q-W-E-R-T-Y,' I deciphered. 'What the...?'

Grabbing another piece of paper, I scribbled a message and shoved it into the tube.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

Who the heck is Qwerty? And why does he send you nonsensical machinery?

Yours truly,

Miss Lillian Linton

The answer arrived in under half a minute.

Mr Linton,

You have exactly two minutes and thirty-two seconds to make sense of the nonsensical machinery.

Rikkard Ambrose

Well, I didn't really expect it to be that easy, did I? Striding back to the machine, I checked for Qwerty's last name. When I found it, my eyes widened, and I double-checked, just to be sure. But I'd been correct. So next, I went and checked Mr Ambrose's calendar and contact book for any mention of a Mr Uiop. Nothing. Nix. Zilch.

It was only when I went back to studying the machine and reached the names of Mr Uiop's partners, Mr Asdfgh Jkl and Mrs Zxcv Bnm that I began to develop some doubts in regard to whether I was dealing with a manufacturer's name.

At least I hope that's not what it is. Because if it is, I'll have to hunt down the parents of poor Zxcv and hold them responsible for their crime.

Cautiously, I reached out across the machine to touch one of the engraved wooden disks. It moved under my finger. I pressed down, and—

Thwack!

'Aaah!'

Jumping back, I just barely avoided getting my nose sheared off. Something metallic had flashed past my face, missing me by inches. Skittering back, I cautiously circumvented the table until I stood directly in front of the engraved wooden disks. No...the keys, I realized, for that was what they were. Keys like on a piano. Only...a piano made music. This thing, on the other hand...

I reached for one of the keys again, and pressed down.

Twack!

This time, I caught the movement of the hammer. It whizzed out from the ring of metal and slammed against a dark thing that looked like a black rolling pin, stuck in the middle of the machinery. I pressed again, and this time saw how the string attached to the key pulled on the hammer and made it move.

All right. These hammers obviously were supposed to do something. Something that I made them do by pressing on the keys. Leaning across the machine, I inspected one of the hammers more closely—and for the first time noticed the tiny, inverse shape of a letter engraved on the end. My eyes flitted back to the letter on the wooden disk connected to it. It was the same one. K.

I shall expect you to be ready to take dictation in a quarter of an hour.

Dictation. Was I supposed to use the machine for that? But how to get the letter from the hammer onto the paper? Had Mr Ambrose found a way to mechanically create embossed business letters in order to save ink? But no. Embossed letters without ink would be hardly legible. That wouldn't do for a man who complained if the dots on top of the i's in my dictated letters happened to be not perfectly round. There had to be some other explanation. But what?

From beyond the connecting door, there came a creak. Was Mr Ambrose coming? Was my time already up?

Think, Lilly, think! You're smarter than this damn machine! And you're definitely smarter than him!

If only I had a hint! Anything that could tell me how...

My eyes flew towards the box. Jumping forward, I grabbed the thing and stuck my head inside.

'Yes! Eureka!'

I resurfaced, holding a thick bundle of paper. It was the strangest paper I had ever seen. Almost as thick as cardboard, and odd to the touch. Mr Ambrose wouldn't pay for paper as thick and expensive as this. Not unless...

I inserted a fingernail into the edge of the paper, and—voilà!—it came apart, revealing a black sheet beneath.

Footsteps from the other side of the door sent me hurrying towards the machine. By the time the door swung open, I was sitting primly at my desk, the sheet of paper wound around the black rolling pin, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Mr Ambrose stepped into the room, cool eyes surveying the scene in front of him. When he saw me sitting at the machine, a muscle in his jaw twitched. I raised an eyebrow.

'Where were you, Sir? I have been waiting for ages.'

'Indeed?'

'Indeed.'

'Commendable.'

Wait a moment...had Mr Rikkard Ambrose just given me a compliment?

'Do you think you can keep up such quick work?'

I preened. 'Certainly, Sir!'

Striding to the window, he positioned himself with his back to me, arms behind his back, spine ramrod-straight. He stood there, gazing out over the city of London as if he owned it. Which, come to think about it, was probably mostly true.

'I'm gratified to hear that, Mr Linton. Then I won't have to hold back.'

Oh crap. He didn't intend to...

'Mr Arbuthnot,

PursuantourconversationonthethirdofnovemberoflastyearIherebyinformyouthatourleaseagreementisterminatedforthwithandthatallbusinessrelationsbetweenmyselfandyouareherebysevered. Shouldyouhaveanyfurtherenquiriesregardingthe—'

He did.

Curse him! Curse him into the seventh circle of hell!

'—saleofthematerialstillinsidethewarehousesinquestion,IsuggestyouapproachmyagentMrFillingonthematter.Allfurtherletterssentomeshallbereturnedtosenderwithout—'

On second thought, no cursing. I didn't have the time to curse right now! I had to move!

My fingers flew over the keys like the feet of a mad tap-dancing goblin. Row after row of letters appeared on the blank sheet of paper, accompanied by a racket that was bad enough to split my head in two. Were they the right letters? I had no idea! I didn't even have the time to check. But if I had thought this was the worst Mr Ambrose had in store for me, I was sorely mistaken. He kept the insane pace up for about ten minutes, until I was nicely exhausted and my fingers were aching all over—then cranked it up a notch! I had no idea how any human being could talk this fast without swallowing his own tongue.

But then, no one has ever assumed that Mr Rikkard Ambrose is human, have they?

He kept this up for half an hour. When he was finally finished, he had a stack of perfectly typed letters at least an inch thick, and I had a collection of malfunctioning twigs attached to my hands where, formerly, I had possessed fingers.

Flicking through the stack of letters, he gave a nod.

'Adequate.'

'I'm so glad you think so,' I groaned, pressing my hands against the cold stone of the wall in the hope they'd stop throbbing.

'I will give those to Mr Stone to have them dispatched immediately.'

The door of the office closed with a click behind him. When, after a minute or two, he hadn't returned, I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't coming back! Groaning, I closed my eyes, stretched my arms and leaned back. Finally! He was granting me a break.

Just then, the sound of doom reached my ear.

Plink!

...

Crap!

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

I may have taken a slight historical liberty in this chapter. The QWERTY-keyboard layout was actually designed a few decades after this story takes place, by the American newspaper editor Christopher Latham Sholes. Let's just say Mr Ambrose got his hands on a very early prototype. As for why Latham Sholes decided to assemble his letters in the unforgettable words Qwerty Uiop—the reason for this had to do with the inner mechanisms of typewriters at the time.

On a typewriter, if you press a key, a hammer slams forward, pressing colour onto the paper in the shape of a letter. If two of those hammers collide because their keys were pressed simultaneously or too closely after one another, they get stuck together. So Latham Sholes arranged the keys on his keyboard in an order in which the letters that most often occurred after one another (such as "t" and "h" in "th") were as far away from each other as possible. Today, of course, this order is completely redundant because computer keyboards don't get stuck, but we still stick with it and teach it to hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people each year for no particular reason other than it's a charming historical anachronism.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob, happily buried under typewriter research

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GLOSSARY:

Mount Vesuvius: The volcano in Italy famous for burying the ancient city of Pompeii under ashes.

To buy the box - To "buy the box" (meaning coffin) is an English expression that means to die or be near death.