Читать книгу The Curious Quest - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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For three weeks Bliss held his post to his own content and to the apparent satisfaction of his employer. He made friends with the birds, and on rare occasions, Tommy, the itinerant bullfinch, would consent to come and sit on the arm of his chair and share his luncheon. All the time his curiosity concerning Mr. Cockerill's avocation, awakened on the first day, became greater and greater. He summoned up his courage at last and asked him a question.

"If it's not taking a liberty, sir, might I ask what your profession is?"

There was a moment's silence. Mr. Cockerill, who seemed in no way offended, was, nevertheless, regarding his employé with a new expression on his face.

"Curious, eh, Bliss?"

"I'm afraid I am, sir. Bad habit, I know."

"Bad habit!" the parrot screamed, looking round from the bottom of the waste-paper basket, where it was engaged in destroying some envelopes.

"Curiosity is one of the failings," Mr. Cockerill said benignly, "from which you, Bliss, or any one who serves me, must be free. Nevertheless, since you have asked me this question like a man, and have abstained from all prying about and endeavours to satisfy your thirst for information by illicit means, I will pander to some extent to your weakness. Look here."

He touched with his forefinger a pile of typewritten sheets.

"I am writing a book connected with various phases of ornithology," Mr. Cockerill continued. "I advertise in the papers for any original anecdotes regarding certain species of birds. All manner of men and women bring me their stories. If they are of value, I pay for them. If they are not, I don't."

"If your visitors here all come upon such harmless errands, why are you so afraid, then, of being assaulted, or of burglars?" Bliss asked.

Mr. Cockerill smiled. He took off his spectacles and rubbed the glasses with his silk handkerchief.

"Most of the people who come here want money," he explained, "and no person who wants money is altogether harmless. Besides, I'm afraid I must confess I am a man of nervous temperament. Have I satisfied your curiosity, Bliss?"

"Quite, sir, thank you."

For two days after that there were no visitors. On the third evening, Bliss, on his way out, was accosted by a cheerful, red-faced little man, who was standing on the ground floor, smoking a big cigar and studying the register on the wall.

"Good evening," he said.

"Good evening," Bliss replied.

The little man produced a cigar case.

"Have one," he invited.

Bliss, who, a few months ago, had smoked nothing less expensive than Murias or Coronas at a hundred and eighty shillings a hundred, accepted a very dubious-looking cigar with gratitude. He paused to light it, standing in the doorway.

"Queer fish, your guv'nor."

Bliss blew out the match and threw it away.

"Queerest I ever met," he admitted. "Good night."

The little man strolled along with him.

"What might his profession be?" he asked curiously. Bliss hesitated for a moment.

"No secret about it that I know of. He's a bird fancier."

"A what?"

"A bird fancier," Bliss repeated. "He's got a parrot, several canaries, and three bullfinches in his room, and he's writing a book on birds."

The little man looked sideways at his companion.

Bliss, however, was walking along quite unconsciously. "Gets a good many visitors at times, doesn't he?"

"He pays for stories about birds," Bliss explained.

"People are all the time bringing him anecdotes. If he can make use of them in his book, he pays for them."

The little man's lips twitched. He laughed softly to himself for some moments, then he drew closer to his companion.

"I'm not blaming you," he declared. "I should do the same in your place, only probably not so well. What about a ten-pound note?"

"Well, what about it?" Bliss repeated, a little bewildered.

His companion thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket, produced a ten-pound note which he displayed a little ostentatiously, and thrust it back again.

"Have a drink?" he suggested, stopping short upon the pavement opposite a public house.

"My turn!" Bliss answered, pushing open the swing door. "You stood the cigar."

"On this occasion, I am in the chair," the little man persisted. "Mine's whisky and soda. What's yours? We'll sit at this table."

"Mine's the same," Bliss replied. "You were saying something about a ten-pound note."

The little man leaned across the table.

"My name's Johnson," he announced.

"Mine's Bliss. Pleased to meet you."

"We'll cut preliminaries and get to business," Mr. Johnson continued. "I am in the employ of a private detective office. We are paying for information as to the doings of Mr. Cockerill."

Bliss pushed away his tumbler.

"The whisky and soda cost you sixpence," he said, "and the cigar, I should think, not more than threepence. You have made a bad debt of ninepence. Good evening."

Bliss marched out of the place and made his way homewards. He saw no more of the little man, but the affair, however, spoilt his night's rest. The next morning he went to Mr. Cockerill.

"Can you spare a moment, sir?"

Mr. Cockerill looked up quickly. His first glance was towards the birds.

"Anything wrong with Tommy?" he demanded. "He seemed languid all yesterday."

"The birds are quite all right," Bliss replied. "Tommy is on my chair outside."

"What is it, then?"

"Fellow stopped me last night," Bliss went on. "Stood me a whisky and soda, and a rotten bad cigar. Turned out he was a private detective, and he wanted to know what your business was. Offered me a ten-pound note for information."

Mr. Cockerill nodded benevolently. Nevertheless, from the corners of his eyes and lips, little straight lines appeared which altered his expression in a marvellous manner. He no longer resembled Mr. Cheeryble.

"What did you say?"

"I told him about the birds."

"Well?"

"He thought I was kidding. It was after that he offered me the ten-pound note."

"And you?"

"I wished him good evening and came away."

Mr. Cockerill sat for several minutes without moving. He was surrounded by sheets of manuscript, and a volume of "The Birds' Encyclopaedia" was propped up before him. He leaned back in his chair.

"Thank you, Bliss," he said at last. "Anything else?"

"Nothing, sir."

"You're the servant I've been looking for," Mr. Cockerill declared. "I shall raise your wages five shillings a week. Get along outside now, please. I want to finish this chapter."

Mr. Cockerill was doomed that morning, however, to interruptions. In half an hour, the first one arrived. A tall, rather good-looking man came hastening up the steps two at a time. Bliss rose from his seat. There was something rather ominous about the appearance of this visitor.

"Mr. Cockerill in?" the young man demanded.

"He is, sir," Bliss admitted. "What name?"

"Mr. Verner—Harry Verner. I want to see him at once," was the impetuous reply.

Bliss opened the door and announced the young man by name. Mr. Cockerill rose from his chair with his fingers still upon the keys of his typewriter.

"I will not see Mr. Verner," he decided.

"Won't you?" the young man exclaimed fiercely.

He strode past Bliss into the room. Mr. Cockerill regarded him through his gold-rimmed spectacles with mild indignation.

"Bliss," he said, "you heard my orders? I do not wish to see this young man. Turn him out."

Bliss did his best. He picked himself up, a moment or two later, from a spot on the landing about four yards from the door, and returned valiantly to the charge. Mr. Cockerill, however, held up his hand. He was sitting in his accustomed attitude, and the young man, although he seemed to be angry, was silent.

"Never mind, Bliss," his employer said resignedly. "Since this young man is here, I will listen to what he has to say. You can wait outside."

"Shall I fetch a policeman, sir?" Bliss suggested. Mr. Cockerill shook his head.

"Thank you, Bliss, it will not be necessary. I have decided to grant this young man an interview."

Bliss retired at once and closed the door. It was about a quarter of an hour before the unwelcome visitor reappeared. He walked by Bliss with unseeing eyes, like a man in a dream. All the truculence had gone out of his manner. He had not in the least the look of a man who has been telling anecdotes about birds. From inside the room came the slow ticking of Mr. Cockerill's typewriter as he continued his chapter. Bliss began to feel uncomfortable. He was more than ever conscious that there was something mysterious, sinister, even, about his surroundings. The appearance of this last visitor had altogether disturbed him.

"Anyhow, the money's good," he muttered to himself, "and I'm in my third month."