Джон Пристли - The Doomsday Men

“Yes.”

“Thought you were,” continued Hooker, as they went out. “I was over in England this summer. Had a nice time-mostly.”

After leaving the hotel, they turned away from the town, and strolled towards the bridge where Malcolm had watched the sunset. The night was cool, almost cold after the heat of the day, and very clear, with a fine show of stars, among which Malcolm noticed several familiar constellations at odd angles in unusual parts of the sky. That made him feel a long way from home. He could feel too a sense of immense distance, remoteness, in the velvety blackness of the country all round him. Meanwhile, he and Hooker had exchanged a few confidences about their respective

jobs.

“But you’re taking a holiday out here, I suppose,” said Malcolm.

“I’ve just been back to the Institute, since I was in Europe,” replied Hooker. “Research is my job, not teaching, so I can come and go more than most of others. But I wouldn’t quite call it a holiday-I had my holiday this summer-in fact, I don’t know what I’d call this particular trip-a piece of foolishness, I guess.”

Malcolm’s heart suddenly warmed to the chap. Could there be two of them here behaving like chumps?

Hooker changed the subject. “I suppose you’re on your way to have a look at Death Valley or Boulder Dam, aren’t you?”

“No,” replied Malcolm. “I’d like to have a look at them, of course

– though I haven’t a car and I imagine it’s a bit difficult without one-but actually I’ve come out here-I mean here, to Barstow-to make some enquiries about some people-anyhow, one person-I know, who are supposed to live somewhere round here. Haven’t asked anybody yet about them. I was wondering if you knew-though of course you’re a stranger too, so I don’t suppose you would. Their name’s MacMichael.”

Hooker stopped. They were now at the near end of the long bridge. “Did you say MacMichael?”

“Yes, MacMichael.”

“Boy-oh boy-oh boy!” chanted the young scientist, to Malcolm’s astonishment. “Now can you beat that?”

“What’s the matter? Do you know them?”

“Never mind for a minute,” cried Hooker excitedly. “Just tell me some more.” He leaned against the parapet, looking down at the river that wasn’t there, and Malcolm followed his example. “I’ll tell you this much-I’m looking for MacMichaels too-and if you like you can come along-and I have a car, not much to look at but it can travel. But tell me some more.”

They were interrupted for a moment by the passing of a large car, travelling slowly away from the town, over the bridge. Malcolm was glad of it. He did not know how to begin, yet he felt that here was a possible ally of great value.

“Well,” he began hesitantly, “I met a girl-playing tennis on the French Riviera, last February-and-well-I’ve come to find her-and that’s about all. Sounds silly, I know, but I simply have to find that girl.”

“Want to marry her, I suppose?” said Hooker, with a calm detachment from all this fuss of mating.

“I would marry her-yes, like a shot,” Malcolm admitted, “though the chances are pretty thin. But there’s more than that in it. You see-”

“Just a minute. Who is this girl?”

“She was competing under a false name-a lot of tennis players do, for various reasons-but I was told afterwards that her name was really Andrea MacMichael, and that she’s the daughter of a copper millionaire called Henry MacMichael, who has a place-though that seems unlikely to me-somewhere round

here.”

“Fine! Go on.”

“Well, there isn’t a lot more to say. But-there was something funny about this girl-she was very unhappy, I think-strange-repressed-secretive-and-well, I want to see her again to find out what’s wrong. I know there’s something wrong.”

“What’s the matter with those people, anyway?” cried Hooker. “I didn’t know anything about a girl-didn’t know there was one-but I ran into the father-”

“What’s he like?” enquired Malcolm anxiously.

“A pain in the neck, and a good big pain too. Now what’s the matter with ’em? I don’t care what Engelfield may be doing, it doesn’t explain the way they go on.”

“Who’s Engelfield?”

“He’s a physicist, like me, only older and better known, and he disappeared and I went looking for him, and now he turns out to be Henry MacMichael’s brother-as a matter of fact, I checked up on that-and, like your tennis girl, he changed his name-well, he left out the MacMichael-his real name’s Paul Engelfield MacMichael-”

“I’m sorry,” said Malcolm, “but I’m not following all this.”

Hooker laughed. “My fault. I’ll have to tell you the whole story

– hey, what’s that?”

It was the sound of a shot, very sharp in the immense night, and it seemed to come from the road just beyond the bridge. They could see the lights of a car along there. Then there was a second shot. Then the sound of somebody running, over the bridge, towards them. A figure appeared, pounding along their way. The next moment, a heavy man came up, gasping. It was the man who had asked them the question about the clock in the dining-room. He had another question this time.

“Got a gun, you fellows?” he gasped, and when he found they hadn’t, he continued, fighting for breath: “All right. I’ll take a chance. Can’t run much farther-thought I might-hide under the bridge. Any water down there?”

The headlights were turned in their direction now, and moved slowly forward.

“Cover me up, boys. Say you saw me go down the road. I’m clean out o’ breath.” And the man crouched down behind them, wheezing and groaning a little, as the headlights came nearer. The two young men stood close together, not feeling too comfortable about this hide-and-seek game that included revolver shots. The car came up slowly, invisible behind its big lights, but then, when it was very close, suddenly gathered speed and swept past them and was soon out of sight.

“That’s better,” said the stranger, getting up again, “and thanks a lot, you two. I know I might have got you both tangled up in a very nasty piece of business, and I apologise for it, but I was in a tough spot. Not a mile outside the town too. And I’ll tell you this-if I hadn’t run for it then, within these next two or three hours I’d have been laid out stiff somewhere among those hills, with a couple o’ vultures pecking my guts out of me to-morrow morning. What an escape! And I’m no coward, boys, believe me-but that’s just a bit too thick. Ugh!”

“And what time,” asked Hooker calmly, “ does the clock strike?”

“Yes, of course,” said the other, “you’re the two I asked first-in the dining-room. You must think I’m clean off my nut-don’t blame you if you do-but I’m not. I’m just crazy enough to go and let myself in for something when I might be having a nice quiet life-but that’s all. I think I’d better tell you something about it-I’ve got to tell somebody-can’t go on like this-and I owe you two something. Here, are you staying at the Harvey House? So am I. Well, let’s get back there-can’t talk here-and I’m cold. I was nearly cold for ever that time.”

On the way back they gave him their names and he told them his-Jimmy Edlin, late of Shanghai and Honolulu, more recently still of the Clay-Adams Hotel, Los Angeles. He seemed an amusing and adventurous sort of chap, and Malcolm was curious to know what had been happening to him and why he should go about asking a question about a clock striking, yet he could not help regretting this interruption in the talk between him and Hooker about the mysterious MacMichael family. Also, he was anxious to hear Hooker’s story, which might closely concern Andrea. Nevertheless, he asked both his companions to join him in his room at the hotel, for it turned out that he was one floor lower down than Hooker and nearer the stairs than Edlin, whose room, Number Twenty-two, was round the corner of the long corridor.