Ernest Bramah - Max Carrados

Carrados’s sightless eyes had the one quality of concealing emotion supremely. “Oh,” he commented softly, “always; and it was quite a saying, was it? And why was it always so on Thursday?”

“It had to do with the early closing, I’m told. The suburban traffic was a bit different. By rights we ought to have been set back two minutes for that day, but I suppose it wasn’t thought worth while to alter us in the time-table, so we most always had to wait outside Three Deep tunnel for a west-bound electric to make good.”

“You were prepared for it then?”

“Yes, sir, I was,” said Hutchins, reddening at some recollection, “and very down about it was one of the jury over that. But, mayhap once in three months, I did get through even on a Thursday, and it’s not for me to question whether things are right or wrong just because they are not what I may expect. The signals are my orders, sir – stop! go on! and it’s for me to obey, as you would a general on the field of battle. What would happen otherwise! It was nonsense what they said about going cautious; and the man who started it was a barber who didn’t know the difference between a ‘distance’ and a ‘stop’ signal down to the minute they gave their verdict. My orders, sir, given me by that signal, was ‘Go right ahead and keep to your running time!’”

Carrados nodded a soothing assent. “That is all, I think,” he remarked.

“All!” exclaimed Hutchins in surprise. “Why, sir, you can’t have got much idea of it yet.”

“Quite enough. And I know it isn’t pleasant for you to be taken along the same ground over and over again.”

The man moved awkwardly in his chair and pulled nervously at his grizzled beard.

“You mustn’t take any notice of what I said just now, sir,” he apologized. “You somehow make me feel that something may come of it; but I’ve been badgered about and accused and cross-examined from one to another of them these weeks till it’s fairly made me bitter against everything. And now they talk of putting me in a lavatory – me that has been with the company for five and forty years and on the foot-plate thirty-two – a man suspected of running past a danger signal.”

“You have had a rough time, Hutchins; you will have to exercise your patience a little longer yet,” said Carrados sympathetically.

“You think something may come of it, sir? You think you will be able to clear me? Believe me, sir, if you could give me something to look forward to it might save me from – ” He pulled himself up and shook his head sorrowfully. “I’ve been near it,” he added simply.

Carrados reflected and took his resolution.

“To-day is Wednesday. I think you may hope to hear something from your general manager towards the middle of next week.”

“Good God, sir! You really mean that?”

“In the interval show your good sense by behaving reasonably. Keep civilly to yourself and don’t talk. Above all” – he nodded towards a quart jug that stood on the table between them, an incident that filled the simple-minded engineer with boundless wonder when he recalled it afterwards – “above all, leave that alone.”

Hutchins snatched up the vessel and brought it crashing down on the hearthstone, his face shining with a set resolution.

“I’ve done with it, sir. It was the bitterness and despair that drove me to that. Now I can do without it.”

The door was hastily opened and Miss Hutchins looked anxiously from her father to the visitors and back again.

“Oh, whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed. “I heard a great crash.”

“This gentleman is going to clear me, Meg, my dear,” blurted out the old man irrepressibly. “And I’ve done with the drink for ever.”

“Hutchins! Hutchins!” said Carrados warningly.

“My daughter, sir; you wouldn’t have her not know?” pleaded Hutchins, rather crest-fallen. “It won’t go any further.”

Carrados laughed quietly to himself as he felt Margaret Hutchins’s startled and questioning eyes attempting to read his mind. He shook hands with the engine-driver without further comment, however, and walked out into the commonplace little street under Parkinson’s unobtrusive guidance.

“Very nice of Miss Hutchins to go into half-mourning, Parkinson,” he remarked as they went along. “Thoughtful, and yet not ostentatious.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Parkinson, who had long ceased to wonder at his master’s perceptions.

“The Romans, Parkinson, had a saying to the effect that gold carries no smell. That is a pity sometimes. What jewellery did Miss Hutchins wear?”

“Very little, sir. A plain gold brooch representing a merry-thought – the merry-thought of a sparrow, I should say, sir. The only other article was a smooth-backed gun-metal watch, suspended from a gun-metal bow.”

“Nothing showy or expensive, eh?”

“Oh dear no, sir. Quite appropriate for a young person of her position.”

“Just what I should have expected.” He slackened his pace. “We are passing a hoarding, are we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We will stand here a moment. Read me the letterpress of the poster before us.”

“This ‘Oxo’ one, sir?”

“Yes.”

“‘Oxo,’ sir.”

Carrados was convulsed with silent laughter. Parkinson had infinitely more dignity and conceded merely a tolerant recognition of the ludicrous.

“That was a bad shot, Parkinson,” remarked his master when he could speak. “We will try another.”

For three minutes, with scrupulous conscientiousness on the part of the reader and every appearance of keen interest on the part of the hearer, there were set forth the particulars of a sale by auction of superfluous timber and builders’ material.

“That will do,” said Carrados, when the last detail had been reached. “We can be seen from the door of No. 107 still?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No indication of anyone coming to us from there?”

“No, sir.”

Carrados walked thoughtfully on again. In the Holloway Road they rejoined the waiting motor car. “Lambeth Bridge Station,” was the order the driver received.

From the station the car was sent on home and Parkinson was instructed to take two first-class singles for Richmond, which could be reached by changing at Stafford Road. The “evening rush” had not yet commenced and they had no difficulty in finding an empty carriage when the train came in.

Parkinson was kept busy that journey describing what he saw at various points between Lambeth Bridge and Knight’s Cross. For a quarter of a mile Carrados’s demands on the eyes and the memory of his remarkable servant were wide and incessant. Then his questions ceased. They had passed the “stop” signal, east of Knight’s Cross Station.

The following afternoon they made the return journey as far as Knight’s Cross. This time, however, the surroundings failed to interest Carrados. “We are going to look at some rooms,” was the information he offered on the subject, and an imperturbable “Yes, sir” had been the extent of Parkinson’s comment on the unusual proceeding. After leaving the station they turned sharply along a road that ran parallel with the line, a dull thoroughfare of substantial, elderly houses that were beginning to sink into decrepitude. Here and there a corner residence displayed the brass plate of a professional occupant, but for the most part they were given up to the various branches of second-rate apartment letting.

“The third house after the one with the flagstaff,” said Carrados.

Parkinson rang the bell, which was answered by a young servant, who took an early opportunity of assuring them that she was not tidy as it was rather early in the afternoon. She informed Carrados, in reply to his inquiry, that Miss Chubb was at home, and showed them into a melancholy little sitting-room to await her appearance.