“Look,” said Peter. “Could I think about it and see you here tomorrow night?”
The salesman looked pleased. “Of course, sir,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to think of someone.”
The answer—the obvious answer—came to Peter as he was drifting off to sleep that night. He sat straight up in bed, fumbled the bedside light on, and wrote a name down on the back of an envelope, in case he forgot it. To tell the truth, he didn’t think that he could forget it, for it was painfully obvious, but you can never tell with these late-night thoughts.
The name that he had written down on the back of the envelope was this: Gwendolyn Thorpe.
He turned the light off, rolled over, and was soon asleep, dreaming peaceful and remarkably unmurderous dreams.
Kemble was waiting for him when he arrived in the Dirty Donkey on Sunday night. Peter bought a drink and sat down beside him.
“I’m taking you up on the special offer,” he said by way of greeting.
Kemble nodded vigorously. “A very wise decision, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
Peter Pinter smiled modestly, in the manner of one who read the Financial Times and made wise business decisions. “That will be four hundred and fifty pounds, I believe?”
“Did I say four hundred and fifty pounds, sir? Good gracious me, I do apologize. I beg your pardon, I was thinking of our bulk rate. It would be four hundred and seventy-five pounds for two people.”
Disappointment mingled with cupidity on Peter’s bland and youthful face. That was an extra £25. However, something that Kemble had said caught his attention.
“Bulk rate?”
“Of course, but I doubt that sir would be interested in that.”
“No, no, I am. Tell me about it.”
“Very well, sir. Bulk rate, four hundred and fifty pounds, would be for a large job. Ten people.”
Peter wondered if he had heard correctly. “Ten people? But that’s only forty-five pounds each.”
“Yes, sir. It’s the large order that makes it profitable.”
“I see,” said Peter, and “Hmm,” said Peter, and “Could you be here the same time tomorrow night?”
“Of course, sir.”
Upon arriving homes, Peter got out a scrap of paper and a pen. He wrote the numbers one to ten down one side and then filled it in as follows:
1 . . . Archie G.
2 . . . Gwennie.
3 . . .
and so forth.
Having filled in the first two, he sat sucking his pen, hunting for wrongs done to him and people the world would be better off without.
He smoked a cigarette. He strolled around the room.
Aha! There was a physics teacher at a school he had attended who had delighted in making his life a misery. What was the man’s name again? And for that matter, was he still alive? Peter wasn’t sure, but he wrote The Physics Teacher, Abbot Street Secondary School next to the number three. The next came more easily—his department head had refused to raise his salary a couple of months back; that the raise had eventually come was immaterial. Mr. Hunterson was number four.
When he was five, a boy named Simon Ellis had poured paint on his head while another boy named James somebody-or-other had held him down and a girl named Sharon Hartsharpe had laughed. They were numbers five through seven, respectively.
Who else?
There was the man on television with the annoying snicker who read the news. He went on the list. And what about the woman in the flat next door with the little yappy dog that shat in the hall? He put her and the dog down on nine. Ten was the hardest. He scratched his head and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, then dashed back and wrote My Great-Uncle Mervyn down in the tenth place. The old man was rumored to be quite affluent, and there was a possibility (albeit rather slim) that he could leave Peter some money.
With the satisfaction of an evening’s work well done, he went off to bed.
Monday at Clamages was routine; Peter was a senior sales assistant in the books department, a job that actually entailed very little. He clutched his list tightly in his hand, deep in his pocket, rejoicing in the feeling of power that it gave him. He spent a most enjoyable lunch hour in the canteen with young Gwendolyn (who did not know that he had seen her and Archie enter the stockroom together) and even smiled at the smooth young man from the accounting department when he passed him in the corridor.
He proudly displayed his list to Kemble that evening.
The little salesman’s face fell.
“I’m afraid this isn’t ten people, Mr. Pinter,” he explained.
“You’ve counted the woman in the next-door flat and her dog as one person. That brings it to eleven, which would be an extra”—his pocket calculator was rapidly deployed—“an extra seventy pounds. How about if we forget the dog?”
Peter shook his head. “The dog’s as bad as the woman. Or worse.”
“Then I’m afraid we have a slight problem. Unless . . . ”
“What?”
“Unless you’d like to take advantage of our wholesale rate. But of course sir wouldn’t be . . . ”
There are words that do things to people; words that make people’s faces flush with joy, excitement, or passion. Environmental can be one; occult is another. Wholesale was Peter’s. He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about it,” he said with the practiced assurance of an experienced shopper.
“Well, sir,” said Kemble, allowing himself a little chuckle, “we can, uh, get them for you wholesale, seventeen pounds fifty each, for every quarry after the first fifty, or a tenner each for every one over two hundred.”
“I suppose you’d go down to a fiver if I wanted a thousand people knocked off?”
“Oh no, sir,” Kemble looked shocked. “If you’re talking those sorts of figures, we can do them for a quid each.”
“One pound?”
“That’s right, sir. There’s not a big profit margin on it, but the high turnover and productivity more than justifies it.”
Kemble got up. “Same time tomorrow, sir?”
Peter nodded.
One thousand pounds. One thousand people. Peter Pinter didn’t even know a thousand people. Even so . . . there were the Houses of Parliament. He didn’t like politicians; they squabbled and argued and carried on so.
And for that matter . . .
An idea, shocking in its audacity. Bold. Daring. Still, the idea was there and it wouldn’t go away. A distant cousin of his had married the younger brother of an earl or a baron or something . . .