That Will Do Nicely Read Online Free PDF Page B

you at your word. Tomorrow evening, 8 o'clock, at J.V's restaurant in the city. It's... "
    "I know it well, Ms. Lynx.", he interjected, "I'll reserve a table for 8.00p.m.," he said, replacing the receiver.
    He was both excited at the prospect at solving his problem and nervous of meeting the formidable Ms. Lynx. Although he was in favor of equal rights, he had mixed feelings on women's lib and the thought of meeting a possible ardent feminist daunted him.
    Next evening, he deliberately arrived in good time at the restaurant, not wanting to risk adding unpunctuality to the MCP tag, he was sure she had awarded him. At the mention of his reservation, the maître d'hôtel escorted him downstairs to the corner table he had requested. He ordered a Pernod to keep him company until the lady arrived.
    Each time new customers descended the staircase, he looked up expectantly, but they were always couples. He hadn't a clue what the woman would look like or what her age would turn out to be, although the velvet smooth, confident voice suggested she was past the first flush of youth. He pictured her as a librarian or company secretary type, severe looking with a frumpish figure and salt and pepper hair swept into a bun, perched on top of a podgy face, with steel rimmed spectacles dangling from a chain around the neck.
    He was still daydreaming, when the maître d' appeared in front of him, announcing his guest. He looked up, prepared for the worst. The vision in front of him couldn't have been more remote from the image he had conjured; medium height and figure; fashionably dressed in an immaculate three-piece, pin-striped suit, which was a shame as he'd always been a sucker for women dressed in men's fashions as they somehow always looked better on women. He'd been right about the hair being swept back from her face, except it was of a lustrous auburn sheen and was gathered in a chignon rather than a bun. As for the face, it was almost symmetrical, with the superb cheekbones of a fashion model. He would have had no trouble booking her as a model and should she ever want to borrow one of his shirts….He was aware that every male eye being fixed on her, and stood and shook her hand.
    "You seem surprised, Mr. Pascoe."
    “I am, Ms. Lynx. You're not at all like I expected. May I get you a drink?"
    They dined exceedingly well on 'truite meuniere', 'chateaubriand' steak and a grapefruit mousse and by the end of the meal they had discussed everything except the research for his book. It was his guest who finally turned the conversation back to computers.
    "Tell me exactly what you need to know for this book, Mr. Pascoe."
    It was a question he had thought long and hard about answering, and upon which many things rested. He had decided to be as open as possible, but nevertheless took a deep breath before speaking.
    "What I really need to know is how the various and numbers are printed onto the bottom of travelers' che ques, Ms. Lynx... Do they use magnetic inks; are the numbers of standard size... in other words, I need to know exactly how the system works." The woman listened attentively, her chin resting on folded hands, her piercing blue eyes probing his thoughts.
    "Let's be clear about this Mr. Pascoe. What you need to know is how the che ques are numbered to enable them to be automatically sorted at the clearing banks?"
    "Yes."
    "And it's for a book?"
    "That's right."
    "Are you an author I should know?" she asked in a way which made lying difficult if not impossible.
    "I wouldn't have thought so." Pascoe replied feebly. "I haven't actually had anything published yet." His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
    "I see. So you've enticed me here under false pretenses."
    "Not exactly. I mean, it may be my first book, but everyone has to start somewhere and as far as I am aware, it's not a crime not to have been published." She held him in a penetrating gaze, her eyes endlessly searching his face.
    "Actually, Mr. Pascoe, they use a system