Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ watched M. J. Franklin trying to catch a porter’s eye and not succeeding. No, decidedly he wasn’t a city-dweller. A farmer, perhaps? No, that wasn’t right. A surveyor, then, or an engineer. Most probably something like that, with his sundowner complexion. And what was he doing in England? Any one of a thousand perfectly ordinary things – Inspector Griffin chided himself to remember that men came and went with startling speed from the ends of the earth nowadays, on all sorts of errands; the old conventions that tied a man to his place were going, and it was becoming one world indeed. Bloody Frogs flying the Channel, for example.

      “He got on the London train, second class, his name’s Kruger, and he travels for a New Jersey typewriter manufacturer.” Constable Murphy was back, reporting with every sign of self-satisfaction. “An’ he’ll be staying at Peterson’s Hotel, Baker Street.”

      “Very good, Constable Murphy,” said Griffin, and since it would never do for Murphy to think he was impressed, he added: “And the little Yankee charmer with the blonde curls, then? Where was she going?”

      “Maidstone, to visit her aunt,” said Murphy, grinning. “Well, she was having trouble finding a seat, and a policeman’s meant to be helpful, isn’t he?”

      “She must be uncommon helpless if she can’t find a seat on a train that’s never half-full,” said Griffin drily. He was still observing Mr Franklin’s unavailing attempts to summon a porter. On impulse the Inspector whistled, short and sharp, half a dozen porters looked round, and a jerk of his head directed their attention to Franklin’s trunk. In a moment it was on a barrow and being rolled out of the shed; Franklin, who had heard the whistle, raised an acknowledging finger to the Inspector.

      “Much obliged to you, sir,” he said, and strode off after his trunk, valise in hand, open cape flapping. Griffin watched the rangy figure out of sight, and sighed. So much for his romantic imagination, he decided. Still …

      “Duck out o’ water,” said Murphy carelessly, following his chief’s glance.

      “Yes,” said Inspector Griffin, turning away. “Yes, constable, you’re probably right.”

      Once outside the Customs shed, Mr Franklin paused to examine the railway timetable board; there were, he saw, five companies competing to carry him to London on Monday. After some deliberation, he decided on the London and North-western, which undertook to convey him to Euston in something over four hours, via Crewe and Rugby, for 29 shillings first-class. Just under six dollars, in fact. It was the fastest train, not that that could matter to a man who had not taken the special vestibuled boat-train for Atlantic passengers which was even now pulling out of Riverside Station with a shrilling of steam.

      His porter was waiting at the cab rank, and on his inquiring whether the gentleman wished to travel by taxi or horse cab, Mr Franklin fixed him with a thoughtful grey eye and asked what the fare might be.

      “Cab’s a shillin’ a mile, taxi’s sixpence a half-mile an’ twopence every sixth of a mile after that,” replied the porter.

      “And how far is the Adelphi Hotel?” asked Mr Franklin.

      This innocent question caused some consternation among the taxi-men and cab drivers; some thought it would be about a mile, if not slightly more, but there was a school of thought that held it was a bare mile by the shortest route. No one knew for certain, and finally the porter, a practical man who wanted to get back to the Customs shed for another client, settled the matter by spitting and declaring emphatically:

      “It’ll cost you a shillin’, anyways.”

      Mr Franklin nodded judiciously, indicated a horse-cab, and then paid the porter. He seemed to be having some difficulty with the massive British copper coins, to which he was plainly unaccustomed, and the tiny silver “doll’s-eye” threepence which he eventually bestowed; the porter sighed and reflected that this was a damned queer Yank; most of them scattered their money like water.

      This was not lost on the cabby, who mentally abandoned the notion of suggesting that he take his passenger by way of Rodney Street – which would have added at least sixpence to the fare – there to gaze on Number 62, the birthplace of the late Mr Gladstone. Americans, in his experience, loved to see the sights, and would exclaim at the Grand Old Man’s childhood home and add as much as a shilling to the tip. An even better bet was the house in Brunswick Street where Nathaniel Hawthorne had kept his office as U.S. Consul in the middle of the previous century, but somehow, the cabby reflected morosely, this particular American didn’t look as though he’d be interested in the author of Tanglewood and The Scarlet Letter either.

      The cab drew out of the quayside gates and up the long pier to the main street at the top, where the electric trams clanged and rumbled and a slow-moving stream of traffic, most of it horse-drawn, but with the occasional motor here and there, slowed the cab to a walk. The cabby noted that his fare was sitting forward, surveying the scene with the air of a man who is intent on drinking everything in, but giving no sign of whether he found it pleasing or otherwise. For the cabby’s money, central Liverpool was not an inspiring sight in any weather, with its bustling pavements and dirty over-crowded streets, and he was genuinely startled when after some little distance his passenger called out sharply to him to hold on. He was staring intently down the street which they were crossing, a long, grimy thoroughfare of chandlers” shops and warehouses; he was smiling, the wondering cabby noticed, in a strange, faraway fashion, as though seeing something that wasn’t there at all. He was humming, too, gently under his breath, as he surveyed the long seedy stretch of ugly buildings and cobbles on which the rain was beginning to fall.

      “You want to go down there, sir?” the cabby inquired. “Takes us oot o’ the road to the Adelphi, like.”

      “No,” said Mr Franklin. “Just looking.” He nodded at the street-sign, a plaque fixed high on the corner building. “Paradise Street.” And then to the cabby’s astonishment he laughed and sat back, quoting to himself in an absent-minded way:

      As I was walking down Paradise Street,

      Way-hay, blow the man down.

      Thirty miles out from Liverpool town,

      Gimme some time to blow the man down.

      That had been Tracy’s song, Tracy the Irishman who had been a sailor. And there was Paradise Street itself, come on all unexpected, and nothing like the picture the song had conjured up when Tracy sang it, far from the sea. What had he imagined? Waving palms, blue water, sandy shores – and here were the cold grey stones of Liverpool’s sailortown. Very unexpected – but then England was sure to be full of unexpected, unimagined things. He became aware that the cabby, twisted round on his box, was viewing him with some concern; Mr Franklin nodded and gestured him to drive on.

      A funny monkey, the driver decided; American interest in things English was, he knew from experience, liable to be eccentric, but Paradise Street …? Was this bloke one of those who might be enthused by a view of St George’s Hall, that startling showpiece of Liverpudlian architecture which they would see towards the end of their journey? Or if he didn’t care for mock Graeco-Roman temples five hundred feet long, would he respond to some useful information on the subject of the Walker Fine Art Gallery, with its striking sketch by Tintoretto and its portrait of Margaret de Valois, possibly by Holbein but more probably school of J. Clouet? The cabby, who had done his homework carefully for the benefit of tourists, stole another look at his fare’s impassive bronzed face and decided regretfully that he wouldn’t. Putting all hope of a substantial tip out of his head, he drove on to the Adelphi Hotel.

      Here, he was rewarded with his shilling fare and another carefully-selected СКАЧАТЬ