The Paper Chase Read Free

Montague.”
    “I’m new too. Applegate.”
    They shook hands solemnly. “Transport all laid on to time, Daimler waiting no doubt,” Montague said. They came out of the station to an open space of muddy earth and stood there for several minutes. The day was grey. A keen wind blew. “Transport definitely not laid on to time. Bad show.”
    The sun had been shining when Applegate left London, and he was wearing a thin overcoat. He felt cold and slightly miserable. “Perhaps we can walk it. How far is Bramley Hall?” he asked the gnarled porter who appeared to be also the stationmaster.
    “Maybe three miles, little more, little less.”
    “Oh. Shall we split a taxi?”
    “Good idea, old boy,” said Montague enthusiastically. “Do things in style on our first day.”
    The porter had been listening with grim amusement.
    “No taxi in Bramley. You want to get Ebbetts from Murdstone, it’s four mile. Cost you a bit, I reckon, that’s if you can get hold of Ebbetts now. Generally has a sleep in the afternoon, Ebbetts.”
    “Oh, my God,” Applegate said.
    “Would you be waiting for the car from Bramley Hall now?” Applegate said with restraint that they would. “You’re the wrong side then,” the porter said with satisfaction. “Car for Bramley Hall’s the other side. Over the bridge.”
    They walked up the steps. When they had reached the top Montague whistled. “I say, old boy, do you see what I see? Transport and company laid on.”
    Looking down from the bridge Applegate saw a very old open car. A girl stood by its side looking at her wristwatch. Her hair was fair, and she was wearing a black jumper and red jeans.
    “Tally-ho,” said Montague. “Remember, I saw her first.”
    When they got to the car the girl said: “Eleven and a half minutes.”
    “What’s that?” Applegate asked.
    “The time it took you to realise that the car might be on the other side of the bridge. It’s the first applied intelligence test, and frankly you don’t come too well out of it.”
    “A damned silly test, if you ask me,” Applegate said moodily. He had been wondering whether he would be able to endure the strain of life at Bramley Hall, but consideration of the girl cheered him up a little. Her face had the unremarkable prettiness of many blondes who pattern their looks upon those of the fashionable film star of the moment, but her blue eyes had a vacant wildness that interested him. These eyes seemed to glow for a moment as though a light had been switched on inside them, as she looked at the two men. Then the light was switched off, and they were vacant again.
    “Let me see if I can tell which is which. You’re Charles Applegate.”
    “Right.”
    “Applied intelligence, you see. And Frank Montague. Put your bags in the boot and get in. You don’t mind having the top down?”
    “A spot of fresh air never hurt anybody,” Montague said.
    Applegate, who did mind having the top down, said: “Won’t you be rather cold?”
    “I’m burning.” She placed her hand on his for a moment. It was hot and dry. “You’d better get in front, it’s not so windy. There’s no point in putting the hood up anyway, it’s full of holes. Here we go.”
    The car started with a jerk that flung Applegate back in his seat. Immediately below him, as it seemed, there was a noise like the clattering of saucepans. “What’s that?”
    “What?”
    “That noise,” he shouted.
    “Just the engine. She doesn’t like standing idle. Better in a minute.” Like a rider urging her horse at a jump, she accelerated as they approached a gentle incline. A thunderous knock had developed by the time that they reached the brow of this slope. Then they were over. Applegate sighed with a relief that quickly changed to alarm as he saw a heavy lorry approaching them head on. The girl swerved to the left and missed it. “Pulls over to the right all the time. You have to be careful.”
    “I can see that. What’s your name?”
    “Hedda Pont.