Читать книгу The Curious Quest - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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Bliss stood before the window of his attic, gazing down upon one of the busy streets in the neighbourhood of St. Pancras. Behind him, his landlady was busy clearing away his meagre breakfast. Below, the rain-soaked streets were thronged with an ever increasing stream of people and a tangled chaos of uninspiring-looking vehicles. A stunted row of smoke-blackened trees stood like dreary sentinels before a medley of dejected-looking tenement houses. The horizon was grey and murky. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, Bliss realised the intense depression that comes from the contemplation of sheer ugliness.

"You'll excuse my reminding you, sir, but it's gone eight o'clock."

Bliss turned suddenly round. His landlady was standing with the tray in her hands, preparing to leave the room. She was a small, thin woman. Her face was sharpened with the stress of many anxieties. Her grey hair was brushed uncompromisingly back from her forehead. Nevertheless, there was kindliness in her tone, kindliness even in her sad eyes and tired mouth. She looked at her lodger as though she almost dreaded to hear his reply.

"No hurry for me this morning, Mrs. Heath," Bliss said. "I have had to leave that first job of mine."

She sighed as she rested the tray for a moment on the edge of the table.

"It's bad luck, sir," she said simply.

"Rotten," Bliss agreed.

"It's a wretched morning to go out looking for work," she went on. "You haven't any idea of a post, I suppose?"

Bliss shook his head grimly.

"To tell you the truth, Mrs. Heath," he said, "it isn't very often I've found myself in this position, and I am not sure that I go about the business the right way. What do your lodgers do as a rule when they want a job?"

"They try either a Labour Bureau or a Registry Office," Mrs. Heath told him, "according to their means and the sort of job they want."

"I've a week's salary in my pocket, and I don't owe you anything, do I, Mrs. Heath?"

"You know I'm not thinking about that, sir," she declared reproachfully.

"Anyway, I think it will run to a Registry Office," he decided. "Tell me a good one, Mrs. Heath."

She paused for a moment to reflect.

"It depends a little on the sort of post you're looking for," she said. "Now, what you want, sir, is something light and gentlemanly; any one can see you weren't made for hard work. Besides, there is something about your appearance. Why, when your clothes are brushed up, and you've got a clean collar on, any one might take you for a gentleman. I should try for something light, sir."

"If it comes," Bliss remarked thoughtfully, "to a contest between brain and muscle, I am not really sure, in my case, which would win. Let me give myself the benefit of the doubt and say brain."

"Then you try Smithson's, corner of Endell Street," Mrs. Heath advised. "I know a young fellow got a job there, twenty-four shillings a week, and kept it for two years."

Bliss took up his hat.

"Smithson's it shall be," he declared, "and here's luck, Mrs. Heath."

The luck came slowly. For four successive mornings Bliss spent the greater part of his day either waiting about Smithson's, or making long and purposeless tramps in search of a situation. On the fifth day the crush at the office was greater than usual. He stood for half an hour in a queue of men of all ages and conditions. Every now and then he moved a few steps forward. In the end his turn came. He leaned across the counter of the enquiry office and was confronted by an anaemic-looking young man who wore spectacles and a general air of distraction.

"You back again?" he exclaimed, as he recognised Bliss. "Why, I have given you a dozen names in the last four days."

"Done my best," Bliss answered promptly. "I was five minutes too late for the last job."

The young man scribbled a name on a piece of paper, and handed it across the counter.

"Look here," he said. "If you can't bring that off, you'd better try another office. You've had your value out of this one."

"I've tried for every job you've given me," Bliss protested. "I've good references, and I'm not particular about wages. It isn't my fault if they are all filled up before I get there."

"Well, hop it now," the young man advised. "Don't show yourself here unless you're prepared to plank down another fee."

Bliss marched out into the street, glanced at the piece of paper in his hand, and set off steadily westwards. In something less than half an hour he arrived at his destination. He paused outside a block of buildings in King Street, and entering, mounted steadily to the topmost flight of stairs. From the luxury of the first three floors he passed by slow stages to a bare simplicity. The final stairs were uncarpeted, the walls unpapered. The lift itself reached its terminus on the floor below. A small brass plate adorned the panel of the only door upon the landing, a brass plate upon which was inscribed the name which Bliss bore upon the slip of paper he was carrying:

MR. W. COCKERILL

Bliss paused for a moment to recover his breath, then knocked at the door. He turned the handle and entered. A shrill voice greeted him.

"Oh, you bad young man! Bad young man!"

Bliss dropped his hat and forgot to pick it up. Exactly opposite to him, perched upon the mantelpiece, was a grey parrot, with its head on one side and a knob of sugar in its claw. Five canaries shared a cage which hung before one window, and two bullfinches a smaller one suspended from the ceiling. A third bullfinch was hopping about the top of a Derby desk, at which was seated an elderly gentleman, grey-haired, with pink and white complexion, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a type of countenance almost Cheeryblelike in its benevolence.

"Come in, sir, come in," Mr. Cockerill invited. "Don't mind my birds. They're a little noisy, but they're very companionable."

"Now what can I do for you to-day?"

Bliss recovered his composure to some extent. He picked up his hat and stood before the desk.

"I had your name from Smithson's Registry Office," he announced. "I called about the situation of light porter."

Mr. Cockerill shook his head at once.

"Not a bit of good, my young friend," he declared, pleasantly but firmly.

"Not a bit of good," the parrot screeched from the mantelpiece.

Bliss turned towards the door.

"Well, of course, if you both think so—" he began, with an angry glance towards the bird.

"Stop a moment," Mr. Cockerill exclaimed. "A sense of humour, I perceive. Most unusual. Come here and let me look at you—round this side of the desk."

Bliss obeyed promptly. His blue serge suit was now showing considerable signs of wear. His Bond Street socks were no longer in evidence. His patent shoes, the triumph of a fashionable maker, had been replaced by heavy ready-made boots. His cheeks were a little sunken, although his eyes were bright. He wore a flannel collar, and his tie was still neat. Mr. Cockerill looked him up and down and shook his head again slowly.

"No physique," he declared. "No physique at all. Not what I am looking for, young man. Very sorry. Here's a shilling for your trouble."

"It isn't a shilling I want," Bliss replied desperately; "it's a job. Why won't I do? They told me at the office you wanted a light porter. Is there any heavy work?"

Mr. Cockerill stroked his chin.

"Not exactly heavy work," he admitted. "The duties would be to clean out and feed the birds every morning—Tommy, by-the-by, is very particular about his cold bath," he added, pointing to the bullfinch, which was still hopping about on the top of the desk—"announce the visitors to me, and go on errands."

"Well, you don't want a Sandow for that job," Bliss protested.

Mr. Cockerill sighed.

"My young friend," he said, "I will make a confession. I am an exceedingly nervous person. As you may perceive from my surroundings, I am a man of peace. I have never been trained in the art of self-defence. My muscles are flabby. I have absolutely no physical strength. I am a nervous man. Up here, I am, as it were, cut off from the rest of the world. I sit here at my labours, and I am at the mercy of any chance caller who might enter these rooms with burglarious or personally vindictive feelings."

"I don't quite understand," Bliss confessed, a little puzzled. "Do you get many visitors?"

"Not many," Mr. Cockerill replied. "But still, visitors do find their way here. I have business which brings me callers, and I am reputed to be wealthy. Another confession, young man," he added, dropping his voice a little, "I read the Police News, and it always seems to me that I am an ideal subject for a brutal assault. That is one reason why I desire the services of a light porter. He sits outside, and if I have an undesirable visitor, I summon him. He enters and protects me. There you are."

"Why, I could do that," Bliss insisted. "I may not be very strong, but I am no coward."

Mr. Cockerill rose to his feet. He was exceedingly well dressed in a morning coat and dark grey trousers, broad-toed shoes wonderfully polished, with white linen gaiters. A black ribbon fob hung from his waist-coat, and from his neat tie sparkled a diamond pin.

"Even I," he remarked regretfully, "am taller than you. How could you stop me if I tried to rush from the room?"

"Would you like me to show you?" Bliss asked. "You couldn't do it."

Bliss stretched out his arm, twisted a little on one side, and bent his left knee. Mr. Cockerill struggled up from the carpet to a sitting posture, and readjusted his spectacles. He was not in the least angry, but he seemed very much impressed.

"How the devil did you do that?" he demanded. "Jujitsu," Bliss answered.

"Jujitsu," the parrot screamed, thrusting its head forward. "Oh, lord!"

"I know several more," Bliss continued. "Had some lessons once from a Jap. There's one—"

"Never mind about the others," Mr. Cockerill interrupted, hastily brushing the dust from his coat sleeve. "You are engaged. I'll give you twenty-five shillings a week, half a dozen linen collars to start with, and a respectable hat. Here's a book on birds. Go and sit outside and read it. If I want anything, I'll call you. You understand?"

"Perfectly, sir, thank you."

"Read the article on bullfinches' diet," Mr. Cockerill concluded. "You'll then be able to look out for the oddments they like."

Bliss sat down in his chair, laid his hat on the floor at his side, and opened the book on birds. He was feeling a little dazed. On the other side of the closed door he could hear the slow ticking of the typewriter which stood on Mr. Cockerill's desk. The canaries were singing vigorously, but the parrot had relapsed into silence. Every now and then he could hear the rattle of the lift, and the hum of traffic from Piccadilly was just audible. So passed the first half-hour in his new situation. At one o'clock precisely a neatly dressed waiter climbed the stone stairs, bearing luncheon on a tray. He stared at Bliss, and Bliss stared at him.

"Who's that for?" Bliss asked.

"Your guv'nor," the waiter replied. "Is he there?" Bliss knocked at the door and thrust in his head. "A waiter is here with luncheon, sir," he announced. "He can enter," Mr. Cockerill directed.

The man arranged the tray upon a table at the side of the desk with the air of one accustomed to the task.

"You can order from this young man," Mr. Cockerill said, "a chop or steak or cut from the joint, with cheese and half a pint of beer, not more. You must eat it in your chair outside, and you may not smoke."

Bliss gave his order promptly, ate his luncheon with astounding appetite, and sat back in his chair afterwards with folded arms. He was beginning to realise that this task of doing nothing was not, after all, so easy. He read the chapter on the peculiar habits and dietetic predilections of bullfinches with great care. He also laid in a store of knowledge as to the domestic habits of canaries and the ailments likely to attack a parrot. After which he became a little bored. He heard with positive relief, at about four o'clock, the stoppage of the lift on the floor below, and the sound of light footsteps ascending the final flight of stairs.

The visitor was a lady, young, slim, and as far as one could tell under her unusually thick veil, good-looking.

"You wish to see Mr. Cockerill, Madam?" Bliss enquired in his best manner.

"At once, please," she assented.

"What name shall I say, Madam?"

"Mr. Cockerill is expecting me," she replied hastily.

Bliss knocked at the door and announced the visitor. Afterwards he relapsed into his chair and dozed. It was, perhaps, twenty minutes before the door reopened and the young lady passed out. He rose to his feet. It was in his mind to precede her down the stairs and ring for the lift. But she gave him no chance of carrying out his intention. For one thing, she passed out far too quickly, and for another, he caught a gleam of something in her eyes which held him for the moment spellbound. She had seemed nervous when she had arrived; she seemed to depart in a dream of terror. Bliss sank slowly back into his chair and pinched himself to make sure that he was really awake. At half-past five precisely Mr. Cockerill opened the door.

"I shall now," he said, "show you exactly how I like the cages cleaned. Tommy, as you will discover, is very particular about sand, and my little canary there, Jenny I call her, absolutely refuses to sleep in the dark. We have to leave the curtain just a little open. Bring in some water from the tap there."

For a quarter of an hour, Bliss was instructed in the art of looking after the birds. At the end of that time, Mr. Cockerill took up an immaculately brushed silk hat, and closing his desk, came out and locked the door of his room.

"To-morrow morning," he announced, "we meet here at nine o'clock. If I choose to be a little late, you will sit in your chair and wait for me. You will find The Times on the mat, which you will kindly not touch, as I prefer to open it myself. Here is a sovereign. Buy yourself some linen collars and a respectable hat, and account to me for the change, or if it is any convenience to you, you can deduct it from your first week's salary. I wish you good evening."

Bliss followed his employer down the stairs, a little bewildered. He purchased the collars and the hat, and, after some hesitation, he treated himself to a packet of cigarettes. Then he made his way homewards. Mrs. Heath, whom he passed climbing the many stairs that led to his room, looked at him a little anxiously.

"Any luck, sir?" she asked.

"It's all right, Mrs. Heath," he declared cheerily. "I've got a job again. Light porter at twenty-five shillings a week. Smithson's came out all right in the long run. I shall be able to pay my rent on Saturday."

"You know it wasn't the money I was thinking of so much, Mr. Bliss," she said, with a pathetic smile, "but any one can see you have not been used to these privations, and the breakfasts you've eaten these last few mornings haven't been enough to keep a child alive, much less a young man who is tramping about looking for work all day."

"Never was much of a breakfast eater," Bliss declared. "Don't you worry about me, Mrs. Heath. I've had a jolly good dinner in the middle of the day given in with the job. If you would send me up some tea, I'm going to bed early."

"Tea you shall have this moment," Mrs. Heath promised.

Bliss climbed up to his attic and, almost against his will, found himself drawn towards the window. The roar of the city was in his ears. There was a dull red glow in the smoke-stained sky where the sun had gone down. Already the lights were throwing their strange, artificial halo over the western part of the city. In the streets below the people still moved by in a ceaseless stream on their way from work, white-faced, with shoulders a little bent, each with the air of having some destination to reach in the shortest possible way and in the shortest possible manner. He looked down at them and away again westwards towards his own land. Already he was beginning to wonder.