Working as a courier is not particularly difficult, especially when all the work is confined to a single office building. Deliver documents and small parcels from the reception desk to their recipients, collect letters when employees call, and deliver them to the registry.
Richie was assigned a spot on the third floor near the kitchen—a small nook equipped with a coffee machine, an electric kettle, a refrigerator, and a microwave. Each of the four floors had a similar kitchenette. Office workers stored food they brought from home in the refrigerator and stopped by to pour themselves tea or coffee. The main rush came during lunch, when everyone flocked en masse to reheat their meals. By that time, however, Richie's workday was already drawing to a close.
Nearby was an registry run by a young-looking, slender woman with chestnut hair, gray eyes, and a delicate face. Her name was Helen. She favored bright, floor-length dresses, and though she was in her early thirties, she looked no older than twenty-five.
Richie's workplace consisted of a chair at the end of Helen's desk. He was issued a radio phone—black, bulky, and fitted with a retractable antenna.
The phone rang. Richie reached out, picked up the receiver, and answered:
"Courier here."
"Hee-hee!" came a woman's giggle from the speaker. "Ahem… Mr. Courier, a package has arrived for the contract department. The delivery courier is waiting on the first floor."
"I understand, Miss Meyer," Richard replied calmly. "I'll be right down."
Helen, hiding a smile, glanced at the important-looking boy as he rose slowly and with dignity from his chair, straightened his jacket, and headed for the elevator.
Soon, Richie reached the turnstile in front of the reception desk on the first floor. The security guard immediately opened it for him.
The courier who had delivered the package turned out to be a young man of about twenty. He was thin as a rail, dressed in a dark blue tracksuit, with bright red hair. A marsh-colored canvas messenger bag hung from his belt.
"Did you bring a package for the contract department?" Richard asked.
"What?!"
The red-haired courier stared at the boy in shock, his large green eyes wide.
"Kid, who are you?" he demanded.
Richie demonstratively adjusted the badge on his chest, which read:
Richard
Courier
Grosvenor Group
The redhead's eyes bulged even farther. Nearly shouting, he exclaimed:
"That can't be right! I went through hell to get a courier job at a prestigious company. How is this even possible? Boy! How old are you, and how did you get hired?"
Richie replied, deliberately drawing out his words in an affected manner:
"I'm eight, and I got this job through connections."
The secretary, observing the new courier who had already become the subject of office gossip, snorted softly. The corners of her lips curved upward. She knew very well whose relative Richard was. And if you thought about it, the kid really had gotten the job through connections. But if you knew his last name, you would also understand that Richie didn't need this job at all.
The security guard remained stone-faced, paying no attention to what was happening. It seemed that even if Richie stood on his hands and started wiggling his ears, the guard would still helpfully open the turnstile without comment.
Elsewhere, in the smoking room or over cups of coffee, Grosvenor Group employees spun various theories as to why they had acquired such an unusual courier. The most popular was that Richie had done something wrong and was being punished by being made to work. The second most common theory was that his father had decided to teach his son the value of labor, so the boy would grow up to be a respectable member of society rather than turn into yet another irresponsible and amoral rich kid squandering his parents' fortune. here were also other, less popular explanations — the most intriguing of which suggested that the Duke of Westminster had devised the scheme as a publicity stunt: look, my son is working.
"Um…" the red-haired courier finally came to his senses. "I was instructed to deliver the package personally to the head of the contract department."
"Who knows what you were told," Richard replied calmly. "We have our own rules here. How do you imagine that would work? They won't let you into the office. And it would be absurd to make a respected department head come down to collect a package from a courier. That's what I'm here for. Young man, if you wish, I can take your document to Mr. Summers for his signature. Or," he added casually, "I can sign it myself."
"Uh…" the red-haired courier hesitated. "I need to call my office and confirm."
"No problem!" Richie grinned. "There's a phone on the wall behind you. Go ahead."
The courier turned, walked over to the phone, and began dialing. After a short while, he returned and handed the boy the package, then passed him a tablet with a form clipped to it.
"Sign here," he said.
Richie signed his name with a sweeping flourish, deftly took the small package, nodded to the security guard—who immediately opened the turnstile—and headed for the elevator.
At that moment, the red-haired courier froze, as if the operating system installed on a faulty hard drive had crashed. Without taking his eyes off the signature, he muttered angrily:
"That little shit! Damn joker! Where did he drop onto my head from?"
The whole point was that in the line opposite the note "Delivery to Grosvenor Group, Grosvenor Street, 70" there was a sweeping signature:
Grosvenor
(End of Chapter)
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