Short Stories 1927-1956 Read Free Page B

protestations – so insistent that he began stuttering – I made my way out of the room.
    Daylight was failing now, and the spectacle of that hoard of furniture in the gloaming was oddly depressing. Mr Bloom had followed me out, cooing , as he came on, his apologies and regrets that I could spare him no more time – ‘The upper rooms … the garden … my china.’ I persisted, nevertheless , and myself opened the outer door. And there in the twilight, with as disconsolate an appearance as a cocker-spaniel that has wearied of waiting for its mistress, sat my car.
    I had actually taken my seat in it – having omitted to shake hands with Mr Bloom – when I noticed not only that in a moment of absent-mindedness I must have locked the gears but that the Yale gear-key which usually lay in the little recess to the left of the dash-board was missing. Accidents of this kind may be absurdly disconcerting. I searched my pockets; leapt out and searched them again; and not only in vain, but without the faintest recollection in my mind of having even touched the key. It was a ridiculous, a mortifying situation. With eyes fixed, in an effort to recall my every movement , I gazed out over the wide green turf beneath the motionless chestnut trees, and then at last turned again, and looked at Mr Bloom.
    With plump hands held loosely and helplessly a little in front of him, and head on one side, he was watching my efforts with an almost paternal concern .
    ‘I have mislaid the key,’ I almost shouted at him, as if he were hard of hearing.
    ‘Is it anything of importance? Can I get you anything? Water? A little grease?’
    That one word, grease, was accompanied with so ridiculous a trill that I lost patience.
    ‘It’s the gear-key,’ I snapped at him. ‘She’s fixed, immovable, useless! I wish to heaven I …’ I stopped aimlessly, fretfully searching the porch and the turf beyond it. Mr Bloom watched me with the solicitude of a mother. ‘I ought to have been home an hour ago,’ I stuttered over my shoulder.
    ‘Most vexatious! Dear me! I am distressed. But my memory too … ASlough of Despond. Do you think by any chance, Mr Dash, you can have put the key into your pocket ?’
    I stared at him. The suggestion was little short of imbecile; and yet he had evidently had the sagacity to look for my name on my licence! ‘What is the nearest town?’ I all but shouted.
    ‘The nearest,’ he echoed; ‘ah, the nearest! Now, let me see! The nearest town –garage, of course. A nice question. Come in again. We must get a map; yes, a map, don’t you think? That will be our best course; an excellent plan.’
    I thrust my hand into the leather pocket of the car, and produced my own. But only the eyes of an owl could have read its lettering in that light, and somehow it did not occur to me in this tranquil dusky scene to switch on the lamps. There was no alternative. I followed Mr Bloom into the house again, and on into his study. He lit a couple of candles and we sat down together at the writing-table and examined the map. It was the closest I ever got to him.
    The position was ludicrous. Montrésor was a good four miles from the nearest village of any size and seven from the nearest railway station – and that on a branch line. And here was this recluse peppering me with futile advice and offers of assistance, and yet obviously beaming with satisfaction at the dilemma I was in. There was not even a servant in the house to take a telegram to the village – if a telegram had been of the slightest use. I hastily folded up my map – folded it up wrong, of course – and sat glooming. He was breathing a little rapidly after this exercise of intelligence.
    ‘But why be disturbed?’ he entreated me. ‘Why? A misadventure; but of no importance. Indeed not. You will give me the pleasure of being my guest for the night – nothing but a happiness, I assure you. Say no more. It won’t incommode me in the slightest degree. This old house …