Free Doppelgangers by H. F. Heard Page B

with your mouth?” was also just the same formula of forthrightness.
    He replied, “I was getting a new set and found the changes were more expensive than I had thought. You see, I was changing my job and so my pay had run down. I have to wait till I can earn enough for them.”
    There was no further question as to why he was out of work and where he had last been at work. Of course these big employment agencies took that task of inquiry and references off the hands of the employers now. Still he might have asked, and, though it was a relief that he had not, still a mind trained to suspect clues in everything asked itself, Was this an oversight? Was the man really as roughly bland as he seemed? Or was it a deliberate avoidance, because this new employer of his was himself still rather new to the niceties of dissimulation? A practiced hand would never first play the part of the bluff, open-hearted downrighter and then avoid an obvious question which, playing his part, he ought to ask. The “Well, be here sharp at four; I like to get my dinners well under way by six,” was well enough done to seem possibly the real thing.
    â€œYour name is Anwerp, but that’s too fancy for this level. All my underlings have a series of names—the last in the job you’re taking over was José so you’ll be José. You’re good at pastry and you’ll have plenty of that work—the tables I serve like that—but you’ll have to turn your hand to anything. I’m often rushed, and my orders may come at any time for very varying amounts; be sure I’ll work you hard and take nothing from you but hard and willing work.”
    He turned in again that evening. He had bought his cook’s clothes when he went out. He was kept till after midnight. The dinners that were being served evidently weren’t for many people. The cook apparently worked for a clientele who lived in houses not far away but not in this stack of buildings. The meals were put in insulated containers, sealed up, and fetched away by housemen who came for them. He made, of course, no inquiries as to who the cook’s employers were. The cook was in fair spirits and had plenty of assistance. Beside himself there were three others. They paid absolutely no attention to him. For all they cared, evidently, he might be the José who had been there before. He was simply a name for a pair of hands.
    But over one dinner the old chef became anxious, then irritable, and finally explosive. He thought it must be because perhaps they were behind schedule with it. Certainly there must have been some hitch. The actual supplies were delivered late, a delivery man rushing down and depositing a series of sealed cartons while on his heels marched in the two men who were to fetch it. They looked over the still unpacked food but didn’t make any remark about unpunctuality or, indeed, say anything. They were dressed in plain uniforms which might have been those of chauffeurs, their only concession to the public rule of color in everything being that the tint was lemon yellow. They stood about with their hands behind them watching with a patient interest the cook’s efforts to get on with his job. One propped himself by the stoves and looked on at every action the cook was taking, evidently making the master nervous. The other stood by the big table where the food was being prepared. They seemed to be the type of well-trained servant who is so bored with his own job—and does it so perfectly on schedule—that he has time to watch with a detached interest the incompetent way other men carry on their tasks. Their eyes flitted over every activity of the five men with a faint impression of superiority. Nothing seemed to escape them and yet nothing seemed worth more than a moment’s cursory glance. At last the things were ready, for this meal wasn’t an elaborate one. The two lemon-colored onlookers took possession, saw