The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [227]
“A fact I pointed out to the agent at the time, who countered by reminding me that it was my house which published Dickens originally.”
“I suggest,” said Edward Shrimpton, “that you remind him that the end result turned out to be successful for all concerned.”
“I did, but I fear this agent is more interested in ‘up front’ than posterity.”
“As a banker that’s a sentiment of which I could hardly disapprove, as the one thing we have in common with publishers is that our clients are always trying to tell us a good tale.”
“Perhaps you should sit down and write one of them for me?” I said politely.
“Heaven forbid, you must be sick of being told that there’s a book in every one of us, so I hasten to assure you that there isn’t one in me.”
I laughed, as I found it refreshing not to be informed by a new acquaintance that his memoirs, if only he could find the time to write them, would overnight be one of the world’s best sellers.
“Perhaps there’s a story in you, but you’re just not aware of it,” I suggested.
“If that’s the case, I’m afraid it’s passed me by.”
Mr. Shrimpton reemerged from behind the row of little tin cubicles and handed me back my towel. He was now fully dressed and stood, I would have guessed, a shade under six feet. He wore a Wall Street banker’s pinstripe suit and, although he was nearly bald, he had a remarkable physique for a man who must have been well into his sixties. Only his thick white mustache gave away his true age, and would have been more in keeping with a retired English colonel than a New York banker.
“Are you going to be in New York long?” he inquired, as he took a small leather case from his inside pocket and removed a pair of half-moon glasses and placed them on the end of his nose.
“Just for the week.”
“I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch tomorrow, by any chance?” he inquired, peering over the top of his glasses.
“Yes, I am. I certainly can’t face another meal with that agent.”
“Good, good, then why don’t you join me and I can follow the continuing drama of capturing the elusive American author?”
“And perhaps I’ll discover there is a story in you after all.”
“Not a hope,” he said, “you would be backing a loser if you depend on that,” and once again he offered his hand. “One o’clock, members’ dining room suit you?”
“One o’clock, members’ dining room,” I repeated.
As he left the locker room I walked over to the mirror and. straightened my tie. I was dining that night with Eric McKenzie, a publishing friend, who had originally proposed me for membership of the club. To be accurate, Eric McKenzie was a friend of my father rather than myself. They had met just before the war while on vacation in Portugal and when I was elected to the club, soon after my father’s retirement, Eric took it upon himself to have dinner with me whenever I was in New York. One’s parents’ generation never see one as anything but a child who will always be in need of constant care and attention. As he was a contemporary of my father, Eric must have been nearly seventy and, although hard of hearing and slightly bent, he was always amusing and good company, even if he did continually ask me if I was aware that his grandfather was Scottish.
As I strapped on my watch, I checked that he was due to arrive in a few minutes. I put on my jacket and strolled out into the hall to find that he was already there, waiting for me. Eric was killing time by reading the out-of-date club notices. Americans, I have observed, can always be relied upon to arrive early or late; never on time. I stood staring at the stooping man, whose hair but for a few strands had now turned silver. His three-piece suit had a button missing on the jacket, which reminded me that his wife had died last year. After another thrust-out hand and exchange of welcomes, we took the elevator to the second floor and walked to the dining room.
The members’ dining room at the Metropolitan differs little from any other men’s club. It has a fair sprinkling of old leather