Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 15

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Leaning against the front wing of a secondhand car exposed for sale in an open-fronted shop in Great Rutland Street, Sherring watched the world go by. It paused quite often to speak to him, for there was a shortage of cars and the world was car-mad, and had made much money. These secondhand cars daubed with new paint, and exposed to view like poor, elderly harlots, were not Sherring’s property. He had been engaged by a certain Mr. Bliss on a commission basis to foist these vehicles upon a feverish public. He had a good appearance, reassuring manners, and if the secondhand car market flourished upon mendacity, well—what of it?

Sherring wore no hat and no overcoat. He was dressed in dark trousers with a faint white line in them, black vest, black coat. He might have been somebody’s private secretary or a shopwalker. His boots needed resoling, but the soles were not exposed to the public. The shop was draughty and cold. The particular car against which he was leaning had had its body painted a pale and sickly puce. The new black enamel on the wings had a smeary look, and the brass radiator, carefully polished, seemed to grin at the world like some cynical face full of gold teeth.

A couple paused to look at the cars. The lad, pleasant of face, with sanguine blue eyes, had the appearance of a young country doctor. The girl was obviously his wife, and a recent acquisition.

Sherring smiled upon them. The young man reminded him of Archie Steel.

“How much for that ‘Merlin’?”

“Four hundred and fifty pounds, sir,” and he wanted to add—“it’s a sanguinary swindle.”

“I say that’s rather steep!”

“There is a serious shortage of cars, as you know, sir.”

The two entered the shop. There were some six other cars for sale, two-and four-seaters, and a vast and clumsy old limousine. The young man climbed into the “Merlin,” tried the gear-lever and the steering-wheel, and spoke to his wife.

“Get in—Marjorie.”

Marjorie joined him. The car had been a good one in its day, and its upholstery and seat springs had been renewed at some period.

“Jolly comfortable, what?”

“Yes, really quite comfortable.”

Sherring, listening to the chatter of these two nice children knew in his heart that he was the worst possible business man. Moreover, he happened to know that the Merlin’s interior was not what it should be. Their trade driver and mechanic who had collected it had uttered sceptical brevities.

“Regular old bag of bones. Her back axle won’t last another hundred.”

The young things got out of the car and walked round it. The young man examined the tyres.

“Rather badly worn. What about her gear-box?”

Sherring blew two gentle notes on the car’s bulb horn. Mr. Bliss was not within earshot.

“To be perfectly frank—I don’t think she is worth the money.”

The young man stared at him.

“You mean——?”

And Sherring nodded.

Ten minutes later an overblown person walked into the shop. He had a face like a round of beef. He was abrupt and arrogant. He wanted a large car; he was determined to have a large car. He looked at the limousine.

“What price that old bus?”

“Six hundred and seventy-five pounds.”

“Tell me another. What’s ‘er year?”

“Nineteen thirteen.”

“Six years old—and she looks it. What’s your guarantee?”

“A test drive, sir.”

The overblown person got into the car and sat in it.

“Not so bad. She’d look quite lux-oorious with a little new leather and a coat of paint. I’ll give you six hundred for ‘er—if I like the way she rides.”

“We can send you round Regent’s Park, sir. We have a driver on the premises.”

At 10.50 a.m. Sherring had sold the overblown person that car, nor did he regret it. Why pity a man like that, or attempt to prevent him from wasting his money? The limousine was to be delivered that afternoon at an address in Highgate, and the office held the overblown person’s cheque.

Sherring leaned gently against the left wing of the car the young things had failed to buy. The fingers of his left hand seemed to caress the brass radiator cap. He was glad that he had not lied to those youngsters.

But what a life! He looked what he would always be in these days after the war, whimsical, aloof, like a man who had lost something and dreamed of the thing he had lost. Peace, prosperity, business, an infernal restlessness gnawing at your vitals!

The voice of Mr. Bliss scolding the young woman in the office. Clocks striking—an explosion, sudden silence, traffic at a standstill, human figures motionless upon the pavements.

Sherring stood rigid beside the puce and black car, and all through that silence his face wore a look of sad and whimsical surprise.