Джон Пристли - The Doomsday Men

“I’m Dr. Hooker of the Weinberger Institute of Technology,” he began, giving the assistant the works in a vain hope of impressing him. “I’ve been here before.” He paused, to let this sink in.

If the assistant was impressed, he gave no sign of it. He merely made a polite sound towards the back of his throat.

“Now wasn’t that Professor Engelfield who just went out?”

“No, sir.”

Hooker stared at him. The stare was returned, and there was the faint dawn of an outraged look on the assistant’s pale fair face. This kind of thing, it was beginning to say, simply was Not Done.

“You sure?” Hooker sounded incredulous.

The assistant raised his pale fine eyebrows. Bad Form, they proclaimed, Very Bad Form. “That is not the name, sir. Evidently you’ve made a mistake.”

“Well, what is his name then?” Hooker demanded.

The assistant did not say “Mind your own business!” He merely looked it. The effect was the same.

“Look here,” said Hooker desperately. “Didn’t I overhear him tell you to deliver some stuff to Barstow, California?”

“We are delivering an order there,” replied the assistant distantly.

“Then he must be an American. And he looked like Engelfield, except for the beard and the spectacles, and talked like him too-at first. I don’t understand this. And I might as well tell you, I’ve been looking for Engelfield all over the place. Now-come on-I’m a customer here just as much as that chap is. Tell me the truth.”

“I can only assure you, sir,” said the assistant, wincing a little at all this crude Americanism, but quite firmly, “that the gentleman who just left, so far as I know, is not your Professor Engelfield. I am sorry I can’t give you his name, but as I saw you address him yourself and he did not choose to give it, I really don’t feel at liberty to do so myself. That would amount to a breach of confidence.”

“I see. And I suppose it would be another breach of confidence if you told me what it is he wants over there at Barstow?”

“Naturally, sir. This company regards all its commissions as being strictly confidential. You would expect that yourself, I imagine, sir.”

“I might-at that,” said Hooker gloomily. He hesitated a moment, then added: “Tell Mr. Morrison I called but couldn’t stop. And tell him the Cavendish crowd agrees with me about the evacuated tubes.” And out he marched, feeling defeated.

What next? Had he made an ass of himself, or was that really Engelfield, plus a beard and spectacles? If Engelfield, for some reason best known to himself, wanted to disappear, perhaps so that he could experiment in secret, he might easily have grown a beard-the spectacles were probably necessary to him now-and have changed his name. It was not, Hooker reminded himself as he walked moodily away, as if he had seen the man anywhere, in an hotel, at a theatre, having a drink; then he might have understood that he could have been mistaken. But this fellow not only looked and talked like Engelfield, but he had actually been giving an order-and Hooker had a notion that it was no small order-at one of the most famous firms of laboratory instrument makers in the world. As a coincidence, that was a bit thick. Then again, his manner, if that of a total stranger, was all a mistake. Why be so gruff, peremptory, and hurry out like that? To be mistaken for Professor Engelfield was no insult to a man who could give an order to the Camford Instrument Company. Whichever way Hooker looked at it, something was wrong. Well, what next? Did he give in and tamely take the next boat home? If he did, he concluded, he would be spending the next six months calling himself names instead of getting on with his work.

So the tall young man who strolled into the Savoy Hotel, an hour later, did not announce himself at the desk. He looked about him in the big busy entrance hall, where so many of his fellow-countrymen and women were asking questions about boats and baggage, buying theatre tickets and copies of the New Yorker , or waiting for Father, Mother, Sis or Junior; and then he went upstairs to find suite Seven A. After several walks along warm corridors, he found the door he wanted and knocked sharply on it. Actually it was not properly closed, and he heard a voice inside roaring “Come in.” Once inside, he felt the fool he had anticipated feeling, for the man sitting in there was not the man he had spoken to earlier that afternoon.

No, this was a heavily-built, clean-shaven man, about sixty or so, with a square jaw and a permanent slight scowl; and he had that indefinable look of wealth and power and successful bullying which suggests big and not too scrupulous business. Yet-and Hooker saw it in a flash before they had exchanged a single word-he too reminded him of Engelfield, a rather older, richer, big business Engelfield.

“Well?” asked this big man sharply. “What do you want?” His tone suggested that people were always wanting things from him-and generally not getting them.

And what did he want? Hooker asked himself this, desperately, and decided that what he chiefly wanted was to be safely outside.

“I seem to have made a mistake,” he stammered. “I used to know a Professor Engelfield, and I’ve been looking for him-”

“Why?” This was as sharp as it was unexpected.

“Well-we happen to be doing-roughly-the same sort of research. I’m a physicist, you see-and-well-I had an idea Professor Engelfield was staying here-”

“Where did you get that idea from?”

“I thought I saw him-and overheard him giving this address-”

The other grunted, and stared hard at Hooker, as if to discover what his little game was. “You didn’t send your name up, did you?” he said, finally, with an unpleasant intonation. “Just came charging in, eh?”

“Yes. But I only wanted to make sure-”

“Well, now you have-because I can tell you right now I’m not Professor Engelfield or whatever his name is-you’d better charge out again, eh?”

“All right. Sorry I made a mistake.”

And Hooker turned and opened the door, only to find himself face-to-face again with the bearded man who had been at the Instrument Company. And the bearded man, startled, muttered something very rude. But that was not all. This time Hooker noticed a little old scar above the left eyebrow of this bearded man, and the last time he had noticed that scar was at the Cleveland Conference. Yes, this was Engelfield all right, whatever he might say. Triumphantly, Hooker stepped back and let him enter the room.

“How did you get in here?”

“I wanted a word with you, Professor Engelfield.”

“I told you before-”

“Yes, and you needn’t tell me again,” cried Hooker in triumph, “because now I know . That little scar. I remember it. You’re Professor Engelfield all right-and it’s useless denying it.”

“And what if I am?”

This was not easy to answer politely. Hooker longed to say, “Well, what in the name of science and decency is the idea of pretending you’re not, growing that beard, changing your name, trying to disappear? What are you after , man?” But all he did was to mutter: “I wanted to find you, that’s all.”

The other two exchanged a quick glance, neither of them looking very pleased. Then Engelfield hung up his hat, and sat down. Hooker remained standing, near the door.

“Who is this?” the older man asked irritably.

“He’s what he looks like, Henry,” replied Engelfield with a grin. “A young American scientist-and not a bad one as they go-called-let’s see-Bunker-?”

“Hooker,” said that young man sharply. Engelfield was as arrogant as ever, it seemed. This other fellow, Henry, might possibly be his brother. A nice family.