Read Ebook: The Observers by Vandenburg G L

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Ebook has 248 lines and 11399 words, and 5 pages

THE PURPLE FERN

THE train to Crumel was late. Due at four o'clock, it failed to reach its destination, until ten minutes past the hour. This was not the fault of the branch-line authorities. The London express had been behind time at Werry Junction, whereby the local had been forced to wait. The delay mattered little to the majority of the passengers, as time in the wilds of Essex is of less value than a similar commodity in the metropolis. But Dr. Jerce, being a famous urban physician, felt annoyed, as he had come down hurriedly, in this unpleasant weather, to see a patient, and wished to be back in Harley Street by nine o'clock. Also Dr. Jerce was Napoleonic in his love for precision, and the failure of the Company to obey the time-table irritated his usually bland temper.

Jerce was not unlike the great Corsican in looks,--that is, he was short and stout, calm in his manner and impenetrable in expression. His clean-shaven face, classical in outline, save that the jaw was of the bull-dog order, did not betray his present feelings of exasperation at the pin-prick of delay. When the belated local finally steamed leisurely into the terminus, he buttoned his sable-lined coat, adjusted his shining silk hat, and dusted unnecessarily his smart patent leather boots, so unsuitable to the season. Finally, with the same imperturbable air, he collected the Christmas magazines he had been reading on the way down, and stepped on to the thronged platform. A man in a grey coat, grey gloves, grey trousers, and a grey Homburg hat, leaped from the adjoining carriage, and followed closely at the heels of the popular physician. Jerce did not turn his head, as no sixth sense told him that he was being watched.

It wanted only a week to Christmas, and the weather was quite of the traditional Dickens kind. Deep snow almost overwhelmed the quaint little Essex town, and this, hardened by many nights of frost, sparkled like jewels in the clear radiance of street-lamps and shop-lights. The short winter's day drew to a bitterly cold close, and although the pedestrians, crowding the narrow, twisted streets, were, for the most part, warmly clad, many of the more sensitive shivered in the cutting east wind. But Jerce, having a sufficiency of flesh to cover his bones, and a fur-lined overcoat to protect that same flesh, stepped out briskly and comfortably, without regard to the chills of the season. The man in grey followed him at a respectful distance, keenly observant.

The shops, already decked for Yule-tide, looked unusually lavish with their blaze of lights, their mistletoe, and red-berried holly branches, and their extra display of Santa Claus presents and Christmas provisions. But the doctor did not look at the glittering windows, nor did the man in grey. Jerce, who appeared to be well known, nodded smilingly, right and left, to respectful townspeople, and his follower took note of this popularity. Finally, the physician turned down a somewhat dark side-lane--for it was not yet an official street--and entered an iron gate on the left-hand side, some distance down. This admitted him into the grounds of a large, square Georgian mansion of mellow red brick, covered with ivy and snow, and looking like a house with a history. The watcher was compelled to remain outside the high iron railings, as he was unable to give any plausible reason for entering. When Jerce rang the bell and finally disappeared inside the mansion, the grey man muttered an impatient word or two, and resigned himself to sauntering up and down the lane, until such time as the doctor should emerge.

But the air was nipping, while the man in grey was thin and thinly clothed. Shortly he began to shiver and turn blue. Glancing down the semi-lane, where it led into the truly rural country, he noticed the brilliant lights of an ambitious inn. Measuring with his eye the distance from the Georgian mansion to this hostel, the man in grey saw that he could shelter therein, and yet keep an eye on the gate, out of which the doctor presumably would come. The opportunity was too tempting. Crossing the road, he entered the bar, which looked warm and cheery. Jerce would scarcely return to London for an hour or so, therefore the watcher thought that, with an occasional glance out of the bar-room door, he could very well keep guard over the doctor's comings and goings. But the first thing he did, when inside, was to demand a Bradshaw.

"Lor' now," prattled the lady behind the counter, in a thin mincing voice, the very ghost of speech and with restless volubility, "if I didn't see it only an hour ago. Yes, I did, say what you like. Mr. Ferdinand,--though to be sure you don't know him,--but Mr. Ferdinand came in for a Scotch and Polly, and asked to look up the London trains for this evening. He had that Bradshaw in the private bar, if I remember, which I can't be certain. Through that door, sir, if you please. I'm sure I'll be able to oblige, though I can't be positive."

When this incoherent speech terminated, the thin stranger passed through a narrow door in a partition, plastered with gaudy almanacks and sober advertisement sheets, to enter a small cupboard cut off from the bar by the aforesaid partition. It contained two deal chairs, a deal table covered with a red cloth and strewn with newspapers and guide books, and nothing else. Dimly lighted by a smelling swing lamp dangling over the table, and better illuminated by a bright fire, it looked comfortable enough, when contrasted with the snowy world outside. The lady who talked so much, suddenly appeared from somewhere like a jack-in-the-box, and after turning up the lamp, poked the fire vigorously and unnecessarily, chattering all the time.

"You see, sir, only the gentry come to this private bar," she said, in her high-pitched voice, and taking stock of the stranger all the time, "and there's no gentry hereabouts to-night. Mr. Ferdinand,--but you don't know him, of course, but Mr. Ferdinand, and a pleasant young gentleman he is, was the last to look at that Bradshaw. Oh, yes, you were asking for it, sir,--of course, you were, though where it can be, I can't say, happy as I'd be to oblige you. But the table is so very untidy, sir,--" making it worse by tossing about papers and books and pamphlets,--"people won't leave things where they ought to, and this Bradshaw, which is a new one,--oh, here you are, sir. You'll be sure to find the train you want, or perhaps the local time-table," she snatched up a pink sheet, "which is published as an advertisement by my uncle, who keeps the baker's shop on the left hand side of our High Street, going towards the station. Oh, you prefer Bradshaw, sir. Well, sir, some likes this and some that, but I never, never could understand Bradshaw myself, my head for figures not being like my brother, who is truly wonderful, and quite a phenomenon. Figures is child's bricks to him, and--oh, there's someone asking for beer. You'll excuse me, sir, won't you," with a winning smile. "I'll attend to this customer and return, when I set Lydia to watch the others."

With these highly unnecessary remarks to a wearied listener, the brisk landlady, who was thin and small, tight-laced, and highly-coloured, disappeared as suddenly as she had presented herself, and was heard a moment later exchanging interminable greetings with the last person who had entered to toast the Season. The man in grey shrugged his lean shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief, when Mrs. Talkative departed. Shortly he nodded contentedly over the Bradshaw. The next London train did not leave Crumel until seven o'clock, so if Dr. Jerce intended to go to town on this night, he would have to be at the station at that hour. Of course, there was a chance that the doctor might remain, but the grey man did not think that this was likely, as he had observed the absence of a bag. Still, it was as well to provide against emergencies, and, when the landlady returned, the stranger asked a question in a deep, grave voice, which suggested, in some uncanny way, cemeteries and funerals.

"I may have to remain here to-night," said he, surveying the brightly-dressed, would-be fashionable lady, "can I have a bed, please?"

With all her frivolous exterior, the little woman had a head for business, and first glanced round the room to see if the visitor had brought a bag. He guessed the meaning of her hesitation.

"I shall pay for a bed and for two meals in advance," he remarked, solemnly, "that is, if I find it necessary to remain, Miss--Miss--"

"There, now," giggled the hotel fairy, pleasantly confused, "if I ain't always saying to Lydia--who is the housemaid--that strangers will call me Miss, though I should look married, having heard the wedding service three times, and the funeral words as often. My last name was Dumps, if you please, sir,--John Dumps, and a dear man he was, though not extraordinarily handsome. He left me this hotel--the Savoy Hotel," added the landlady, with emphasis, "and you can call me Mrs. Dumps."

The grave man listened impassively, with his keen eyes on the airy female, so gorgeously arrayed. He might have been of bronze for all the impression this speech seemed to make. Yet it conveyed to him the idea that Mrs. Dumps was a confirmed gossip, and sufficiently free with her tongue to tell him everything he wished to know concerning Crumel and its inhabitants. Making a mental note of this, the grey man reverted to his first statement. "I shall pay in advance, Mrs. Dumps," he remarked, "and the price."

"Seven shillings for supper and bed and breakfast. I can't say fairer than that, look as you like, Mr.--Mr.--lor, now, I don't know your--"

"Osip is my name," interrupted the man, and tendered two halfcrowns and a single florin.

Mrs. Dumps' claw-like fingers closed on the money in a way which suggested the miser. "Osip. Really! Osip! A strange name, Osip."

"I am a strange man," replied the other curtly, "would you mind getting me a glass of ginger beer, Mrs. Dumps?"

"Oh, Mr. Osip, really, Mr. Osip. Surely, port or whiskey at Christmas, let alone the freezing weather, and the frost causing thirst."

"I never drink alcohol, Mrs. Dumps."

"Lor now," said the landlady, confidentially, "if you aren't exactly like me on the mother's side, as I come of a full-blooded family given to choking and apoplexy. I don't believe in strong drink myself, Mr. Osip, say what you like."

"Then why sell it?" was the not unnatural question.

"I must live," said Mrs. Dumps, plaintively; then to avoid further remarks, she hopped into the bar like a wren, although her plumage was less sober. Presently she returned with the ginger beer. "And won't you take something to eat, Mr. Osip?" she asked, with her fashionable head on one side, more like a bird than ever.

"No, thank you," Osip paused, then faced her abruptly. "I am a stranger in Crumel and I think of taking a house here. Do you know of any to let, Mrs. Dumps?"

Osip cut Mrs. Dumps short in her description, which was evidently culled from the local guide-book, or from one of Mr. Grinder's pamphlets. "I shall see him to-morrow, if I stay," said he, hurriedly.

"But, surely, Mr. Osip, you'll stay, seeing you have paid?"

"Circumstances may arise which may make it necessary for me to return to London to-night. But I can afford the loss."

This speech made the landlady sweeter than ever. Apparently the stranger was rich, so she prepared to make herself aggressively agreeable. "If you become one of us," chirped Mrs. Dumps, more like a roguish bird than ever. "I dare say you'll like to know about the town."

Osip sOh, yes." He glanced at the written information. "I see you went to the University."

"Yes, sir. My practical experience is documented on the second sheet."

What was it about this guy? He was overly polite but that could hardly be considered strange. His answers were brief, to the point, even curt. That was just a personality trait, Harry supposed. Couldn't condemn a man for that.

"How long did you live in Chicago?"

"Twenty-one years, sir."

"Are you married?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Thompson. I'll submit your papers to Colonel Waters. If he has any further interest in you, don't be surprised if you receive a visit from a couple of Intelligence agents. That's routine for this job. I just tell you in advance so you won't worry."

"I understand," he said, rising and checking his toupee once more. "Many thanks to you, sir." He shook Harry's hand and left the room.

Harry glanced at the papers again. Mr. Thompson's background was impressive indeed. There didn't seem to be much question as to his ability. But what a queer duck he was!

The second applicant was a short, wiry man named Chase. Like his predecessor, he was brief and to the point with his answers. He let his qualification papers speak for themselves. He was formal and polite.

Midway through the interview Harry noticed that he too was wearing a toupee. If that wasn't the damnedest coincidence! Fortunately Mr. Chase didn't have the annoying habit of patting his head every thirty seconds. Harry guessed he either had a more expensive one or was just endowed with more confidence that it would not slip off.

The interview over, Mr. Chase offered his thanks and strolled out.

Harry had a few moments to himself before Paula's third client arrived. He thought about the first two men. Funny thing about toupees ... even the most expensive ones could always be detected. He couldn't quite understand why the two men wore them. They were often used by playboys, actors, self-styled over-age Romeos, people whose niche in society depends upon their looks. But not scientists or technicians. In fact Harry couldn't remember ever having known one such person who shunned his baldness in this manner. That didn't mean they had no right. But it did seem peculiar as hell.

He flipped the intercom button for Miss Conway. She might be able to tell him ... indirectly.

"You wanted me, Mr. Payne?"

"Yes, Miss Conway. The three men who've already been in here ... have you noticed anything strange about them?"

Her eyebrows merged and spelled perplexity. She pursed her lips and gave the matter the gravest consideration. Then she concluded, "Yes, something very strange."

Harry was hopeful. "What was it?"

"None of them did very much talking. Strictly anti-social types."

Harry groaned, realizing he should have known better. "Thank you, Miss Conway. That's all."

"The fourth guy is waiting outside."

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