The room’s walls were lined with dark oak panelling and the furniture was dominated by dark leather wing-backed chairs, a long sideboard, and a few occasional tables. It might have been the smoking room of a respectable London club, but there were no windows and the ceiling was oddly low – a moderately tall man walking into this room would have felt he was about to hit his head and been instinctively driven to stoop: but the master, who was not a tall man, was unfazed. A fire blazed in the grate: in an odd way the flickering of the flames seemed to dominate the light in the room. Although there were lamps burning on some of the tables the observer was inclined to think that there were more fires around the room somewhere, for shadows seemed to dance out from odd angles, and the oak panelling all around seemed lit from below – almost as if there were a ring of fire at the base of the walls.
Joe wore his usual satin smoking jacket with a high collar. Sometimes you thought there was some sort of insignia on the lapels; sometimes you thought the colour a dark military green and sometimes a deep red, like oxblood, as the light shifted. He stood in front of the fire, with his chin in his hand and a finger stroking his luxuriant moustache: his brow was knitted and his glance cast downwards to the fire, as he turned over in his mind the matter that worried him most right now.
“Here!” he suddenly roared.
A lackey entered and bowed obsequiously. Joe did not turn or pay him any apparent attention.
“I will speak to Schicklgruber,” he said. “Place a call.”
“Sir.”
“And I will invite him for dinner… tell the chef to prepare a special menu.”
“Sir.”
Another bow and the lackey left the room. Joe remained in thought.
“He would not dare,” he muttered under his breath. “That little…”
“Telephone, sir,” said the lackey, entering the room again and indicating the telephone which stood on a table by Joe’s elbow. Joe barely acknowledged him: the barest grunt showed he had heard. As the lackey bowed himself back out Joe turned and lifted the receiver.
“Schicklgruber! We need to talk. There are things I have heard that need to be cleared up.“
“…”
“Have you not heard these things? They say there are manoeuvres – that troops are gathering – that roads are being laid. That you – or your generals perhaps – make plots. Against me!”
“…”
“Ah, Schicklgruber – “
“…!”
“So… these stories I hear…”
“…”
“Well, I hope so. I hope so. This is what I told my people. Why would there be conflict between us, I said? We need to work together, you know! Maybe we started from different places but we want so many of the same things, do we not? Hmmm? And we are the strong ones! The great Leaders! Let the little ones get out of our way if they know what’s good for them, hmmm?”
“…”
“Yes! Them too, if you want. You do what you want on your side and I will deal with the problem people on my side. I have enough of them you know.”
“…”
“Now we need to take some time to sort things out between ourselves, hmm? Isn’t it so? Yes. Then you shall come here for a day or so, we shall put our heads together and clear up some things… some borders, some – mmm – jurisdictional issues, some policies, hmm? And I will feed you up on our hearty soups and cornbread – not your black bread! – and pork sausages and meatballs. And vodka. That will do you good.”
“…”
“What? Are you sure? No meat… no vodka.. why?”
“…”
“Well if my doctor told me something like that he would find himself in a much less comfortable position very quickly! A doctor… telling someone like me what to eat… huh! It would not do. But you think your man does you some good… maybe… no! Not for me. Well if you will not eat my meat when you come then at least you can drink soup. And Schicklgruber…”
“…”
“You know what they say, don’t you? When you come to sup with me - bring a long spoon. Bring a long spoon! Ha ha ha!”
Still laughing at his little joke, Joe carelessly tossed the telephone receiver over his shoulder. With a practiced action he caught it in a coil of his barbed tail and placed it back on the hook as he turned again to the fire. He ran his fingers through his hair and along his back-curling horns and stroked his moustache again.
“Schicklgruber! That little weasel, with his – his joke of a moustache. He wouldn’t dare… He – would – not – dare…”