I frowned. The numbering systems for the files didn’t start with letters, did it? It always started with numbers proclaiming the years of the file’s origin. The 39 in the name probably stood for 1839, this very year, but 'S'? What did that stand for? Snoop? Saucy? Silly?
I went looking under 39 because I didn’t know what else to do. Ten minutes later, I had three open boxes standing before me and a volcano rumbling somewhere inside me.
Dear Mr Ambrose
There is no file S39XX300. I cannot find it.
Yours sincerely
Miss Lilly Linton
The reply came immediately.
Mr Linton,
There IS a file S39XX300 Have you looked in the safe?
Rikkard Ambrose.
What the heck?
Dearest Mr Ambrose,
I did not know there was a safe here. Might I inquire why you neglected to tell me this?
Yours always
Miss Lilly Linton
Angrily I shoved the message into the tube and waited. Only half a minute later, a plink announced the answer.
Mr Linton,
You might indeed enquire. It is because I expect my employees be capable of independent thought. The 'S' stands for safe. If that is too difficult for you to comprehend, then maybe you should look for another post. One more fitted to your limited intellectual capabilities.
Rikkard Ambrose
The arrogant… ‘limited intellectual capabilities’? Gah! I didn’t even know what names to call him! The newspaper articles about women’s insufficient brain size and all the other arguments against our working and voting came to mind. Oh how I would have loved to skin that man alive. And then maybe roast him slowly over an open fire…
Dear Mr Ambrose,
I will go looking for the safe directly. Do not fear - even my limited mental capacity should be sufficient to find a big metal box.
Yours always (Which means you’re not getting rid of me!)
Miss Lilly Linton
I stood up. I went looking. I found the safe. It took me only five minutes and then I was back at my desk - still without file S39XX300, for a very simple reason. Fuming, I grabbed a message slip from the bowl and scrawled four simple words on it.
The safe is locked!
Had he been waiting for me to write that? Because the reply came almost instantly.
Mr Linton,
It is locked to keep things safe. That is why it is called a safe.
Rikkard Ambrose
Gah! Was this man trying to drive me crazy? Well… probably. To hell with him!
Dear Mr Ambrose,
I know it what a safe is, thank you very much. And I know it is locked, because I have tried to open it and not succeeded, as mentioned before. WHERE IS THE KEY?
Yours Sincerely
Miss Lilly Linton
I pushed the message into the tube with maybe a bit more force than necessary and pulled the lever. His answer came as quick as ever.
Mr Linton,
Writing in capitals is not as quick or efficient as writing in normal letters. Please refrain from such time-wasting habits while in my employ. The key I have already pushed under the door, as any observant employee would have noticed.
Rikkard Ambrose
Muttering some not very polite things about Mr Ambrose, I went over to the door and fetched the key. Then I returned to the back of the room where, in a small niche I hadn’t noticed before today, a big, black metal door had been inserted into the wall, with the word 'Ambrose' written in simple steel letters at the top. I wondered for a moment why he would feel the need to write his name on his own safe. Did he have that bad a memory? Then I realized that it was probably the name of the manufacturer. So he made safes, did he? What else did he do?
Pushing the thought aside and the key into the lock, I turned it and opened the door. It went smoothly and without even squeaking. Sleek and impenetrable, just like its maker.
I had expected a metal container of maybe about three square feet to lie beyond. Instead I found myself facing the gloom of an enormous steel room, larger than my office, with scores of objects on the shelves that lined the walls.
There was everything from the mundane file box to strange rocks, painted wooden idols and large scrolls of parchment that looked as though they had already lived through several centuries. What the hell were these? If Mr Ambrose was an industrialist as the duchess had suggested, where had he gotten these from? They didn’t look like anything coming out of a factory.
On the contrary - they spoke of distance, danger, mystery.
Resisting my mighty urge to go and investigate, I turned towards the file boxes and examined their numbers, one by one. There was an S39XX299 and an S39XX301 - but no S39XX300. What was he playing at? Did he do that on purpose?
I marched back to my desk and composed a fitting message. I even managed not to put any swear words in.
Dear Mr Ambrose,
There is no box S39XX300.
Yours Sincerely
Miss Lilly Linton
The message container returned. Pulling it open, I read:
Mr Linton,
I told you to look in the safe.
Rikkard Ambrose
This was getting to be a bit too much!
Dear Mr Ambrose,
I did look in the safe. It is not there. If you cannot understand my written messages, I would offer you to read my lips. But unfortunately that is not possible since the door to your office is still locked. So let me say it in plain English once again: There is no box S39XX300 in the safe.
Yours Sincerely
Lilly Linton
When his reply came, the letters were a bit different. Not a hasty scrawl, no - they were as clear and legible as always. But one could be led to think that he had pressed the pen slightly harder on the paper as he scratched those words. Wait… He had the gall to be getting angry? He?
Mr Linton,
If by this subterfuge you think you can make me open my door so you can air your grievances, you are very much mistaken. Bring me file box S39XX300 or you can consider yourself dismissed.
Rikkard Ambrose
The thunderclouds of my temper began to gather, reading those words. But simultaneously I felt a tingling sensation run down my spine. This box seemed to be pretty important - and it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. What was going on?
Led by this strange feeling, my reply to Mr Ambrose was considerably more conciliatory than it ordinarily would have been.
Dear Mr Ambrose,
Whatever you may think of my intelligence, it is not so slight as to risk my future merely to get a look at your profile. You are not that nice-looking. The box in question is really not here.
Miss Lilly Linton
My heart rate picked up as I pushed the message container into the tube. Would he believe me or just fire me? Did the box he wanted even exist, or was it just an excuse to get rid of me?
I looked around the bare room and felt a lump rising in my throat. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I had already become accustomed to the stark surroundings, accustomed to the idea that this place was mine, my own way to freedom. What would I do if I lost it?
Slowly I pulled the lever, and my message disappeared into the tube.
The answer came not long after. I opened and unrolled it - and my eyes widened. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, the reply would have made me laugh!
Mr Linton,
Do you give me your word of honour as a gentlema-as a lad-as an honourable person that you are speaking the truth?
Rikkard Ambrose.
Somehow I couldn’t keep a slight grin from my face as I wrote the reply.
Dear Mr Ambrose,
I give you my word of honour as a lady who wears trousers that there is indeed no box of the aforementioned number/name in your safe.
Miss Lilly Linton
There was no reply. Nothing. For two entire minutes I sat there and waited, but nothing came. I had almost given up waiting and was chastising myself for my silly fancies. The box probably wasn’t important at all. It was probably some old box he had mistakenly thrown away. That had to be all.
I had almost convinced myself of that explanation.
Then I heard the rustle of keys from the other side of the room. My head snapped up just in time to see the connecting door to Mr Ambrose’s office swing open.
~~*~~*
The moment I saw him I knew I had been wrong. Wrong about two things, to be exact:
Firstly, the missing file box was important.