"Innes, Hammond - The Strode Venturer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Innes Hammond)

Strode isn't in to-day,' he snapped at me like a dog that's not sure of himself. The dark panelled walls were full of pictures of ships and the portrait of a heavily-built, vital old man hung over the fireplace. 'You haven't an appointment, have you? He never makes appointments for Thursdays.'

'No,' I said. 'I haven't an appointment. But I wrote to him.'

'He didn't mention it.' He was frowning nervously, 'Mr. Geoffrey Bailey you said? I haven't seen any letter.'

'I wrote from Singapore. But perhaps it went to his brother.' And I explained about not knowing his Christian name and how we'd met in the Persian Gulf.

He shook his head. 'Mr. Strode has never been in the Persian Gulf.'

'Then it must be his brother.'

'I don't think so.' He was puzzled now. 'I'm quite certain Mr. Henry Strode hasn't been in the Persian Gulf either.'

'If I could have a word with Henry Strode then . . .'

'I'm sorry. He's never in on Thursdays. Neither of them are. It's their day for hunting.' He said it almost with malice as though he disliked him employer. 'You could see John Strode, if you like. He's Mr. Henry's son.'

But that was no good. 'I'll come back to-morrow, then.'

He shook his head firmly. 'To-morrow's the annual general meeting. He couldn't possibly see you to-morrow.' He bit his lip, strangely agitated. 'Would Monday do? I think Monday would be all right,' He glanced at a diary. 'Three o'clock. It's a personal matter, presumably?'

'Yes, personal,' I said and left it at that, unwilling to explain the purpose of my visit to this terrified little clerk. 'Just find the letter I wrote from Singapore, will you, and let Mr. Strode see it. That explains everything.' And I added as I went to the door, 'The secretary probably has it since he acknowledged it.'

'The secretary,' He seemed suddenly confused. 'If it's Mr. Whimbrill you want, then I'm sure . . .'

'No, no,' I said. 'I'll come back on Monday.' And I went out and closed the door, wondering what sort of man George Strode was that his assistant should appear to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Remembering what Billings had said about the portraits in the boardroom I walked past the head of the stairs and opened the first door I came to. A young man sat alone at a big desk, smoking and staring out of the window. I asked him where the boardroom was and he told me in a bored voice that it was the second door on the right. It proved to be no bigger than the office I had just left, but the pictures on the panelling were all portraits. The same face looked down from the position of honour over the big stone fireplace - a head and shoulders this time, the hair grizzled instead of white, the eyes more vital, the mouth less sour, but still the same heavy, fleshy face, the sense of thrust and power. The pictures I had come to see were on the right and left of this portrait. Underneath were the names Henry Strode and George Strode. The faces had something of the same heaviness, but that was all; they had inherited none of the ebullient vitality, the strength, the personality of their father. And neither of them was the man I had met in the Persian Gulf clad like the nakauda of the dhow on which he was travelling.

I went back to the central portrait, trying to see in it a resemblance to the Strode I knew. But he had been small and wiry, his face thin, almost drawn, and burned black by the sun, the hair black, too, and the ears very pointed so that he had an almost faunlike quality. This had been accentuated when he smiled, which he had done often, causing little lines to run away from the corners of eyes and mouth. My memory of him was blurred by time, but I thought, looking up at that portrait, that the only thing he shared with his father was the same powerful impression of vitality, that and something in his eyes, a sort of zest. Or rather it had been zest in the case of the man I knew - zest for life and a strange excitement; here I thought it looked more like greed.

I was thinking of my father again as I went down the stairs, of what he must have gone through, everything he had worked for smashed by that ruthless man whose face I had now seen for the first time. He had died shortly afterwards. It hadn't meant anything much to me at the time for I was at Dartmouth busy coping with the problem of fitting myself into a new life. It was only when I got home and saw my mother suddenly turned grey in a matter of months that I felt the impact of it. She had moved to Sheilhaugh, a little farmhouse on the Scottish border that had originally belonged to her family, and was busying herself keeping chickens . . . 'Everything all right, sir?' It was the commissionaire, polite and friendly.

'Yes. Yes, thanks.' And then on the spur of the moment, not thinking what I planned to do, I asked him where the annual general meeting would be held.

'Right here, sir.' He nodded to the bronze door on the right of the entrance.

'What time?'

'Noon to-morrow. You're a shareholder, are you, sir?'

'Yes, I am.' I hesitated. 'You've been here some time I take it?'

'Over ten years.'

'Then perhaps you could tell me whether there's another son - a son of the founder who doesn't work here.'

For a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer. But then he said, 'Well, it's not for me to discuss the family's affairs, but I believe there was a son by the Old Man's second marriage. It's just gossip, you know. I've never met him and I don't think anybody else has. Was he the one you wanted to see?'