The Thousand Deaths of Mr Small (16 page)

He walked faster now, so that he was at home in ten minutes. Millie was in the shop, clinking disconsolately at the shelves full of white boot boxes. She said: “Oh, so there he is, Piccadilly
Johnny with his walking-stick. Where’s he been all the morning?”

“And what’s the matter with my walking-stick, what?”

“A bill came in for water-rates,” said Millie.

Then I. Small, who had the money clutched in his hand threw on to the counter a buff-coloured banker’s paper bag containing twenty five-pound notes and a hundred golden sovereigns, and said: “
Na,
Millie—two hundred pounds.”

She looked up with a twitch of the eyebrows that appeared to toss over her head the weight of a dozen years, and smiled as she said: “No!”

I. Small, happy to see her smiling, pinched her cheek and said, laughing: “No? Look and see.”

“But, Srul, where’d you get it?”

“From Solly Schwartz, and what do you think of that?” Then, having spoken, he uttered a sharp cry because he knew, to a word, what was coming.

Millie said, incredulously: “What, that little humpty-dumpty? I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, beggary!” shouted I. Small, “oh, oh, beggary!”

“A nice tale. Where could your humpty-dumpty get two hundred pence, let alone two hundred pounds?”

“Is it a man’s fault he’s born with a little hump?”

“Don’t change the subject, Srul. Make a clean breast of it——”

“—Aha! Breast!
Now
who’s using dirty talk? Two hundred pounds, two hundred pence—hah! In motor-cars Solly Schwartz is riding about—all your life you should be riding about in such motor-cars! And she’s here with her humps and her pence, already!”

“What did he want to give you two hundred pounds for?”

“For … for … a, a, a sausage, a glass ginger-beer,” said I. Small. Then, realising how incredible this must sound, he gesticulated limply and said: “Honest truth, Millie.”

“And where did humpty-dumpty get two hundred pounds?” asked Millie. “You liar!”

At that, I. Small struck the counter with his beautiful stick, knocking off the tip of the crocodile’s tail, and, roaring: “Enough of her humpty-dumpty,” went into battle.

T
HE
Monopol deal was the first of a dozen such adroit little manipulations. Solly Schwartz did conjuring tricks with surplus waistcoats, juggled with buttons, and disposed of misfit coats, taking profit with his left hand and commission with his right.

He went to his room only to sleep; was never at rest between half-past six in the morning and midnight, never still. He lived in a kind of cold fever, an intelligent delirium, a patient frenzy, a deliberate desperation, a calculated hurry. He could carry on two conversations and listen to two other conversations at the same time. In three years he wore out two of the steel surgical appliances called “iron feet”.

His great hooked nose poked itself into the inwardness of things as a parrot’s beak gets into a banana. He talked as if he were haunted by a fear that he might fall dead before the end of every sentence, gesticulating like a threshing-machine, stamping his iron foot like a trip-hammer, and banging the floor with his stick, hammering home his ideas, right or wrong. One grey morning two years after he tricked Monopol into buying the trousers, old Cohen, who was somewhat weary, and whose grip was loosening, said: “The prices, the prices they’re cutting till they bleed. They’re ruining me.”

Now he had been talking like this for thirty years, so that everyone who heard exchanged winks, nudges, and smiles—everyone but Solly Schwartz. He knew the difference between a grumble and a groan. Following his employer into the little back room he saw the old man pouring a second cup of coffee, while his rolls and butter were untouched, and he was certain that the business was in danger. Then he said: “Mr. Cohen, listen. An idea.”

“Another idea?”

“Yes. A West-End tailor-made suit, with two fittings, for thirty shillings.”

“
Meshuggene!
” said Cohen. “Let me at least drink a cup of coffee in peace in mein old age. You’re so clever you’re going mad. Get out! A West-End tailor-made suit, two fittings, for
thirty shillings he wants! And a bottle champagnier wine thrown in?”

“A West-End tailor-made suit, two fittings, thirty shillings—that’s what I said.
West-End
Tailor-made.
It’s a name. Look at eau-de-Cologne. Does it comes from Cologne? They make it in Stepney. Look at Vienna sausages—do they come from Vienna? Brick Lane!
West-End
Tailor-made
—in nice gold letters on a big label, with a little white part on the bottom, so you can write in the customer’s name and the date, live in Savile Row. There’s a fortune in it. Take every penny you’ve got, borrow—your credit’s good—every farthing you can lay your hands on. Strike out! It’s as easy as ABC, Mr. Cohen, on my word of honour. Take shops, branches, anywhere, everywhere. Two or three to begin with, in good positions—the Strand, Oxford Street—never mind if it costs you the shirt off your back. Fit them, stock them, advertise in the papers—stick bills on the walls—
West-End
Tailor-made
suit,
Two
Fittings,
Thirty
Shillings!
In the meantime, bigger workshops, a factory, machines. Button-hole machines, cutting machines—these pasty-faced
scheisspots
stitching and stitching, they’re a thing of the past, Mr. Cohen. I’d put twenty of them on to a coat, not two or three. You can make five shillings on a suit, easy, if you play your cards clever…. Wait a minute, Mr. Cohen, let me speak, please! Machinery, premises, stock, advertising, all that will run you into thousands? Good, let it! The more you spend the more credit you can get. If you organise,” cried Solly Schwartz, slapping the table with his hand, “in two years, three years, four years, you can sell half a million suits a year and two hundred thousand overcoats. That would bring you in £175,000 a year. Are my figures wrong? Seven hundred thousand times five shillings is £175,000, isn’t it? Make allowances, say I put down profits too high. Call it a lousy half-crown on a suit of clothes. Even then you’ve got £87,500 a year profit. The thing to do is go in, hit hard, what can you lose?”

Old Cohen, spellbound, had let his coffee get cold. Now he sighed himself back to life and said: “No…. Thirty years ago, twenty years ago, ten years ago; yes. Now, no. When you’re my age …”

“—All right, Mr. Cohen, I understand,” said Solly Schwartz, with pity. “But look. Listen. The idea about the labels. What about this—make up some smashing samples and get orders for West-End tailor-made suits, to sell to the retailers. Alterations
guaranteed, eh? As good as made to measure. I’ll go on the road—what about that? Ten per cent commission. All right, Mr. Cohen?”

“That, I don’t mind,” said the old man.

“Right!” said Solly Schwartz, and went out. After he had banged the door behind him, Cohen smiled. The little hunchback had the power to inspire hope, and stimulate appetite. He drank his tepid coffee and ate his roll and butter, thinking:
I’ll make that
boy
a
partner
in
the
business,
so
help
me
God!

*

Now Solly Schwartz had followed the old man into his little sitting-room merely with the intention of persuading him to buy some fancy labels, because he knew a struggling label-
manufacturer
who had said to him: “You get out and about, don’t you? Well, if you come across anything in my line, put it in my way and I’ll give you four shillings in the pound commission.”

But suddenly, the devil knows how, he had stumbled upon this tremendous idea which, in an instant, had taken hold of him. It was as if he had sprung a wolf-trap. It had him in a painful, relentless grip. Writhing, agonising, raging at the senile stupidity of Cohen who could not see the pure splendour of his vision, he scornfully flicked from the astronomical reflector in his brain the wretched little dust-motes of two or three pounds of commission, and gave himself to the steady contemplation of the galaxy of millions. He wanted millions; millions and millions. Cohen, obviously, could not help him: he was too old, too tired, too timid. Solly Schwartz wanted a keen visionary with the heart and nerves of a good gambler who prefers to play neck or nothing to the last penny. At the same time this gambler, speculator, investor, capitalist—call him what you like—must have complete faith in Solly Schwartz. But he must not be too clever.

Tapping his iron foot with his heavy stick he tried to think of some man of substance whom he might approach. At last he snapped his fingers and said: “Monopol!” And this is how he reasoned:
He
knows
I
tricked
him
once
with
those
trousers.
Monopol
isn’t
an
easy
man
to
play
tricks
on.
He’s
one
of the
trickiest
tricksters
in
the
trade
—
I
tricked
him.
Therefore
he
respects
me
—
he
knows
I’m
no
fool.
He’s
a
good
businessman
and
a
bit
of
a
chancer,
or
he
couldn’t
have
got
where
he
is
to-day.
At
the
same
time,
he’s
not
quite
so
smart
as
me,
because
if
he
were
he
wouldn’t
have
bought
those
trousers,
the 
way
I
sold
them
to
him.
He’ll
be
suspicious
of
me,
naturally.
But
I’ll
talk
him
over,
I’ll manage
him.
Yes,
Monopol,
by
God!
Monopol,
that
swindler,
will
work
with
me
just
because
I
swindled
him.
Because
after
all
is
said
and
done
the
man
is
a
bit
of
a
fool.

He went to Monopol’s place in Clapham—the “Main Branch”, it was called now, for Monopol was opening shops in every busy street north of Camden Road. On his way he had another dazzling inspiration. He remembered a three-line notice in the morning paper concerning the bankruptcy of the aged Duke of London—an indescribably dissolute old nobleman who had squandered three fortunes and had nothing to live on but his name.
Now
here,
thought Solly Schwartz, making his iron foot ring with an impetuous stroke of his stick—
now
here
is
the
very
thing.
The
Duke
of
London!
The
Duke
of
London!
For
a
couple
of
thousand
pounds
and
a
few
shares
in
the
company,
my
word,
what
wouldn’t
he do?
“
Duke of London
”.
What more could anybody want of a
suit
of
clothes?
Recommended
by
the
Duke
of
London
…

Solly Schwartz had a morbid craving for news, news of any sort. He read the newspapers ravenously, to the last crumb, so he knew all about the Duke of London, and the knowledge made him stronger. He had not the least doubt that now he could mould Monopol like wax.

Now, Monopol had a secretary who politely asked Solly Schwartz his name, begged him to be seated, and went into Mr. Monopol’s office. Then Solly Schwartz heard Monopol’s voice shouting: “That twicer? Kick him out, throw him downstairs! He wants to see me again, does he? What a nerve! Pick him up by the scruff of his neck and chuck him out—
him!
What sauce!”

There was a noise, which Solly Schwartz recognised as the sound of a paperweight hurled against a wall. Then the secretary, a frail little old lady, returned, trembling, and said: “I’m afraid Mr. Monopol is out at present, but——”

“—There isn’t any but,” said Solly Schwartz. “Excuse me, miss,” and, putting her aside with a gentle push of his powerful arm he limped past her, opened Monopol’s Private Office door, went in, slammed it behind him, and, wildly excited, struck his iron foot with his stick so that it seemed to toll like an alarum bell while he shouted: “Monopol, keep calm! I’m not here to sell you anything. Nothing! Calm, Monopol—I’ve come to do you a favour.”

“You? You——”

“—Ssh! Ladies present. I’ve come to make you a millionaire, Monopol.”

“What
you?
You make
me
——”

Solly Schwartz said: “Monopol, why don’t you wipe your face? You’re sweating.”

Monopol stopped, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, and Solly Schwartz knew that he had beaten him to his knees. “What is it?” asked Monopol.

Then Solly Schwartz, drawing a breath that seemed to suck the very papers on the desk into his great mouth, began to talk. His idea about the Duke of London within ten minutes engendered a hundred fresh ideas in his fecund brain. He made it sound like a poem. Spraying words left and right, with eloquence so
compelling
that Monopol was unable to move from his chair, Solly Schwartz described his scheme. As he talked the face of Monopol, which had been purple with anger, became pleasantly pink, and he began to smile. His smile started with a slight upward flicker of the eyes. After that his eyebrows, as if he were trying to hide his eyes, while his mouth came down as if to snuff out a smile of the mouth and he nodded agreeably, saying: “Ha! That’s good, that’s clever!”

Then Solly Schwartz knew that he had won the man. He ejaculated another thousand words between four lungfuls of air and arrived at his peroration. By which time Monopol was smiling broadly and rubbing his hands. Something in his manner made Solly Schwartz stop and ask:

“What’s the joke?”

“It’s funny, that’s all. It’s funny. If it’s funny, why shouldn’t I laugh?”

“What’s funny?”

“All you’ve been saying to me.”

“What’s funny about it, tell me.”

“Well, Mr. Schwartz,” said Monopol, grinning like a fiend, “what you’ve been telling me is the best idea I ever heard of. But the fact of the matter is, I thought of it myself yesterday morning.”

Solly Schwartz looked at Monopol, let out the rest of his breath in a tremendous hiss through his nose, and compelled himself to smile.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” said Mr. Monopol. “Or perhaps you want to sell me a few pairs of trousers? Eh?”

“All right, Monopol,” said Solly Schwartz, still smiling, “it’s quite all right, Monopol. Wait and see.”

“Well, so good-bye, eh? I would gladly have considered your suggestion if I had not already thought of it already myself.”

“Yes, you’re quite right,” said Solly Schwartz, holding out his hand. “More fool me. Serves me right. Shake hands.”

Monopol said, with a chuckle: “Live and learn, live and learn. Good-bye, good-bye—— Hey! Let go! What are you doing?”

“You’ll remember me when we meet again, eh, Monopol?”

“For God’s sake, let go my hand!”

Solly Schwartz released Monopol’s hand and said: “You bloody crook, one of these days this hand will choke you. Good-bye till we meet again, Monopol. God help you when we do.” Then he left the office.

It had never occurred to him that anyone like Monopol could outwit him. The rest of the world, yes; naturally. Monopol was welcome to the rest of the world. Not to Solly Schwartz. He was not angry with Monopol, but with himself. He was ashamed; he could have wept. In the foullest terms he cursed, insulted, and upbraided himself for having let himself make a fool of himself, as he stamped and clanked away, pushing himself forward with his walking-stick like a resolute skier on a dangerous slope, who must at all costs rush down fast before he can rise and soar like a bird.