Читать книгу The Factory on the Cliff - A. G. Macdonell - Страница 3

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Chapter I. The Golfing Holiday

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GEORGE TEMPLETON'S car refused to start on the self-starter. He jumped out impatiently and gave the handle a mighty twist. The engine back-fired and dislocated his thumb and he found himself unable to play golf for the remainder of his holiday.

He had taken rooms in a small hotel in the North-East of Scotland, intending to play golf twice or even three times a day throughout the three weeks of his leave. The accident happened at the end of the first week, and left him in a very bad temper, with a fortnight to spend as best he could. Like so many men who are prepared to walk seven or ten miles so long as they are hitting a golf ball, Templeton intensely disliked walking even one mile along a country road. However, there was no other available exercise, and he therefore set out every morning for a daily plod of several miles in order to pass the time.

On the third morning after the unfortunate back-fire, Templeton chanced to stroll northwards along the sea-coast, a part of the country which he had hitherto not explored. He was in a sulky frame of mind as he reflected on the wonderful golf which he might have been playing at that moment, and on the callous cheerfulness of his friends in the hotel who had set off for the first tee as he was finishing his breakfast.

It was a beautiful, sunny morning, but the good weather only annoyed him. If it had been pouring with rain, things would not have been so bad, but it was just like his luck that the weather should improve as soon as he was out of action. He was, in fact, in a nasty temper.

He had gone some three or four miles along the lonely stretch of rocky coast when he was aroused from his meditations by the approach of a large motor-lorry which almost blocked the entire width of the narrow country road, so that Templeton had to shrink back against the stone wall in order to avoid being hit. This only served to increase his annoyance, and he pursued his walk, grumbling about the inconsiderateness of motor-drivers and cursing in general the men who had invented motor-cars.

A little further on, he came to the top of a long, gradual hill, and could see the road sloping away to the north for a considerable distance. He sat down and began to fill a pipe when the same lorry came back up the hill and clattered past him at a much faster rate than it had previously been going. Templeton growled at it as it went past but the driver paid no attention and Templeton had a glimpse of a man who looked distinctly frightened; the next minute it had disappeared out of sight in the direction from which it had originally come.

When the pipe was lit, George Templeton proceeded at a leisurely pace. On reaching the bend at the foot of the hill, he saw, a few hundred yards away, three or four men walking slowly towards him and obviously searching for something in the long grass at each side of the road. The lorry was standing a little distance beyond them. As the searchers came nearer, he saw to his surprise that he knew one of them by sight. It was one Griffin, who had been at Cambridge with him. Although he had been merely a bowing acquaintance in undergraduate days nevertheless he stepped up to him and said cordially, "Hullo, Griffin! Whoever would have thought of seeing you here?"

The other started and replied, "My name is not Griffin and I don't know who you are." Templeton looked at him for a second, and then said stiffly, "I beg your pardon. A stupid mistake."

The other pushed past him and resumed his search.

Templeton was puzzled, as he knew perfectly well that the man was Griffin, and he was fairly certain that Griffin had recognized him. He decided not to be put off by rudeness.

"Lost something, I observe," he said, more in order to annoy the other man than to prolong the conversation. "Can I help you?"

Griffin paid no attention, and at last one of the other men looked up and said, "No, thanks," and accompanied his words with such a scowl that Templeton began to feel amused.

"Do tell me what you are looking for," he went on. "I have spent so many years of my life looking for golf balls that I am quite certain I could help you."

None of the four replied and Templeton's spirits began to rise. He ostentatiously took up a position behind the searchers and began to prod in the grass with his stick. The man who had refused his offer of help turned and said, "What are you doing there? We don't want your help."

"Nor do I want yours," said Templeton blandly. "This is a public road and I am looking for a collar-stud which I dropped here last Tuesday week."

The man who had denied that his name was Griffin interposed sharply and said, "Come on, Tom! Don't hang about here;" and without another word the party made their way up the hill, with bent backs and slow steps. Templeton followed them for a minute or two and then, quickening his steps, he passed the searchers and began to search on his own in front of them.

In less than a minute he had found what they were looking for. Templeton, who had been an infantry officer in the war, instantly recognized that the small dark object lying in a thick bed of nettles was first cousin to a Mills bomb. The pattern was different and the shape different, but the pin was there and it was obviously the same kind of weapon.

"Here you are, Griffin!" he shouted. "What prize do I get for finding the thimble?"

He took up the bomb and was surprised to find how light it was. The four men ran forward and Griffin made a snatch at it.

"Manners, manners," said Templeton reprovingly. "On trust, there's a good dog. When I say 'Paid for,' out comes the pin and you get the doughnut." He made a motion as if to pull out the pin. The other started back and his face went white. "Good God, man," he exclaimed. "Don't do that. It'll go off."

Templeton started. "Is it charged?" he asked.

"Yes," said Griffin.

"Then it's yours," was the prompt reply. "Free, gratis and for nothing."

Griffin seized it eagerly from him, and then the four men turned without a word of thanks and ran down the hill and round the corner.

"Well, I'm blowed," said Templeton aloud. "There's manners for you," and he sat down on the dyke and watched the proceedings.

In a short time the lorry once more appeared and began to climb the hill. The driver was alone on the front seat and there was no room for anyone to sit among the closely packed wooden boxes which formed the cargo. Templeton, therefore, assumed that the three others were still on the road or near it, and he set off at a swinging pace down the hill in pursuit. On rounding the corner, he saw no sign of his quarry and he concluded that they had taken a side road which led down towards the cliffs.

At first he thought that the cart-track, for it was little more, was simply a path used by fishermen going down to their nets, when his eye happened to notice that it emerged again from under cover of the rocks some little distance up the coast, and appeared to end at a cluster of buildings situated almost on the edge of the cliffs.

As he stood speculating on the nature of these buildings and wondering what sort of person chose to live in a place so exposed to all the winds of heaven, he saw a large motor-car moving slowly from the cluster of buildings along the cart track. He watched while it disappeared below the level of the cliffs and emerged again to join the road on which he was standing. As it passed him, he saw that the only occupant besides the driver was a man of exceptionally swarthy complexion. He was quite clearly not a citizen of the British Isles, and Templeton judged that he must be an Arab or something akin to an Arab. The car rapidly accelerated when it reached the better road, and vanished over the top of the hill.

Greatly puzzled by the curious happenings of the morning, Templeton retraced his steps to the hotel and arrived just in time to see the golfers trooping back from their morning round. At lunch he was compelled to listen to innumerable stories of how one had holed a long putt at the crucial moment, and how another would have won if it had not been for some unparalleled stroke of misfortune.