Nor did he betray any of the known symptoms of a man about to spend five thousand dollars on his appearance. He wasn’t nervous, he wasn’t cast down by insecurity or hesitation, he wasn’t brash or garrulous or over-familiar. He wasn’t guilty, but then guilt in Panama is rare. Even if you bring some with you when you come, it runs out pretty fast. He was disturbingly composed.
And what he did was, he propped himself on his drip-ping umbrella, with one foot forward and the other parked squarely on the doormat, which explained why the bell was still ringing in the rear corridor. But Osnard didn’t hear the bell. Or he heard it and was impervious to embarrassment. Because while it went on ringing he peered around him with a sunny expression on his face. Smiling in a recognising kind of way as if he had stumbled on a long lost friend:
The curved mahogany staircase leading to the gents’ boutique on the upper gallery: my goodness me, the dear old staircase… The foulards, the dressing gowns, monogrammed house slippers: yes, yes, I remember you well… The library steps artfully converted to a tie-rack: who’d have thought that’s what they’d do with it? The wooden punkahs swinging lazily from the moulded ceiling, the bolts of cloth, the counter with its turn-of-the-century shears and brass rule set along one edge: old chums every one… And finally the scuffed leather porter’s chair, authenticated by local legend as Braithwaite’s very own. And Pendel himself sitting in it, beaming with benign authority upon his new account.
And Osnard looking back at him – a searching, unabashed up-and-down look, beginning with Pendel’s face, then descending by way of his fly-fronted waistcoat to his dark blue trousers, silk socks and black town shoes by Ducker’s of Oxford, sizes six to ten available from stock upstairs. Then up again, taking all the time in the world for a second scrutiny of the face before darting away to the recesses of the shop. And the doorbell ringing on and on because of his thick hind leg planted on Pendel’s coconut doormat.
‘Marvellous,’ he declared. ‘Perfectly marvellous. Don’t alter it by a brushstroke.’
‘Take a seat, sir,’ Pendel urged hospitably. ‘Make yourself at home, Mr Osnard. Everyone’s at home here or we hope they are. We get more people dropping in for a chat than what we do for suits. There’s an umbrella stand beside you. Pop it in there.’
But far from popping his brolly anywhere Osnard was pointing it like a wand at a framed photograph that hung centre-stage on the back wall, showing a Socratic, bespectacled gentleman in rounded collars and black jacket frowning on a younger world.
‘And that’s him, is it?’
‘What’s who, sir? Where?’
‘Over there. The Great One. Arthur Braithwaite.’
‘It is indeed, sir. You have a sharp eye, if I may say so. The Great One himself, as you rightly describe him. Pictured in his prime, at the request of his highly admiring employees, and presented to him on the occasion of his sixtieth.’
Osnard leapt forward to have a closer look, and the bell at last stopped ringing. ‘ “Arthur G.,”‘ he read aloud from the brass plate mounted on the base of the frame. ‘”1908-1981. Founder.” Well I’m damned. Wouldn’t have recognised him. Hell did the G stand for?’
‘George,’ said Pendel, wondering why Osnard thought he should have recognised him in the first place but not going so far as to enquire.
‘Where d’he come from?’
‘Pinner,’ said Pendel.
‘I meant the picture. Did you bring it with you? Where was it?’
Pendel allowed himself a sad smile and a sigh.
‘A gift from his dear widow, Mr Osnard, shortly before she followed him. A beautiful thought that she could ill afford considering the cost of shipping all the way from England, but she would do it, irregardless. “It’s where he’d like to be,” she said, and nobody could talk her out of it. Not that they wanted to. Not if she’d set her heart on it. Who would?’
‘What was her name?’
‘Doris.’
‘Any kids?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘Mrs Braithwaite. Did she have children? Heirs. Descendants.’
‘No, alas, their union was not blessed.’