Mr. Pinkerton Grows a Beard

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3It was shortly after ten the next morning that Mr. Pinkerton left his lodgings in Bloomsbury Square and went to the British Museum. It took more courage than anyone seeing him walking timidly along Great Russell Street might have supposed. Having got safely past the two grizzled veterans in shiny hats and yellow-trimmed blue coachman’s coats (or so they looked to Mr. Pinkerton) talking to the uniformed policeman at the entrance to the cobbled yard, he breathed more freely. Not that he wasn’t perfectly aware that he had as much right there as any other of his Majesty’s subjects. In the courtyard, at least; he was not so sure about the Reading Room. But it was all so imposing, the great fluted classical pillars round the three-sided porch, the self-possession of every one else who was there—the group of German school boys, even the pigeons strutting about the cobbled yard—that he felt a distinct sense of his own unworthiness. He went on up the broad stone stairs.

Mr. Pinkerton knew that in order to secure a card that would admit him to the circular room under the great dome past the maze of late classical figures, polished benches, telephone kiosks and guards opposite the entrance, he had got first to explain to the satisfaction of somebody or other that he had a legitimate reason for wishing to read there. And it was clear to him that in some way it wouldn’t do for him just to say that he wanted to read about crime. He shook his head, turned to the left and to give himself a little more time examined the long gallery of Elgin Marbles. But his heart was not in nubbly-nosed youths of 700 B. C., and so eventually he found himself in front of the high polished doors behind which, so a sign said, application could be made for permission to use the Reading Room and the Manuscript Room. Mr. Pinkerton blinked his watery eyes behind his old-fashioned lozenge-shaped steel spectacles, straightened his narrow string tie, took a deep breath and opened the door.

He went down a small passage and into a small room, and instantly realized that he had not got to explain himself to the Director in person, but only to a young man who was sitting at a table drawing pictures on a blotter. It was not until he discovered that he not only had got to write down the subject of his investigation but also to give the names of two property holders who would vouch for him that he became alarmed again. The young man put finishing touches on what looked like a cow but could have been a horse, and glanced up at him patiently. Mr. Pinkerton hurriedly wrote down “The history of Wales” as the subject he wanted to pursue, and before he had entirely realized the enormity of it, wrote as his character witnesses not only the name of Inspector J. Humphrey Bull but also the name of Sir Charles Debenham, Assistant Commissioner of New Scotland Yard. Then, before Mr. Pinkerton had realized quite what was happening, the young man had taken the slip he had filled out and disappeared through closed doors at the end of the narrow room.

Mr. Pinkerton blinked very hard, wondering dismally what would happen if Inspector Bull happened to be out at the Yard and Sir Charles Debenham shouldn’t happen to remember who he was. And yet there was nothing else he could do, because, with the exception of Margaret Bull and Crissie, the Bull’s cook-general, they were literally the only people in London that he knew. He inserted a trembling finger between his scrawny little neck and his narrow celluloid collar so that he could swallow more easily, and wondered nervously what name could be given to that sort of thing. It wasn’t impersonating an officer, precisely.

“Oh, dear!” Mr. Pinkerton thought. It seemed hours before the young man came back.

“I’ll give you a temporary card for the time,” he said.

A minute later Mr. Pinkerton was standing in the foyer, holding his temporary card firmly in his hand. He looked about with a feeling of considerable security for a moment, and went boldly across the foyer, between the great staircase and the entrance to the King’s Library, past the telephone kiosks, between the polished benches where a young couple plainly from the country were sitting uncomfortably, staring about them, and handed his card to the attendant, who examined it very carefully. It was obvious from his manner that he tended to regard most of such things, on the whole, as impudent forgeries, and Mr. Pinkerton’s heart sank. But the attendant finally handed it back to him and nodded towards the doors. Mr. Pinkerton hurried along. Another guard stopped him, across from the wire rack where were deposited, it appeared, letters that were addressed to one at the Museum, but it was only to take his hat and overcoat. In another instant he had passed through the swinging glass doors into the Reading Room.

He was not quite sure what to do next. In the centre, directly under the great dome, was a circular desk raised above the floor level, where a great many quiet-looking men were being very busy indeed. Round the desk radiated rows of reading desks with lights above them, and people, mostly men though there were a good many middle-aged women, worked steadily away with heads bent under the green-shaded lamps.

No one paid the slightest attention to him. He looked about him timidly. The nearest empty chair that he could see was between a tall young man with a luxuriant curly brown beard and dreamy dark eyes and a white-haired n***o in horn-rimmed spectacles. The young man with the brown beard was resting his head on the back of his chair gazing up at the dome, the n***o had his head bent forward on his breast, fast asleep. Mr. Pinkerton crept in between them and sat down, waiting to see what he should do next. It was all very perplexing. Eventually he got up and boldly walked around the room. Then he came bade and sat down again.

It was twelve o’clock when his colored neighbor suddenly awoke, stacked his books neatly, placed-a sign that said “Do Not Disturb” on top of them, put on his shoes and went out Ten minutes later the young man with the beard did the same, except that his shoes were already on. Mr. Pinkerton, who still had no idea whatsoever of how one got books, glanced timidly about him and got up. He was no sooner out of his chair than a man promptly sat down in it, took a great many books out of a bag and began work. The man had a bald head and a very black beard.

Mr. Pinkerton looked at him a little enviously. “I wonder what I should look like with a beard,” he said to himself and looked around quickly to see if he had been overheard, it was so quiet under the big dome.

The next morning, when Mr. Pinkerton passed the two guards at the entrance to the Reading Room, and one of them looked at his card and handed it back with a perfunctory nod, he was a little disappointed. He had not been sure that they would recognize him. For that morning Mr. Pinkerton had failed to shave, for the first time in his life since he had come to the necessary years; and while on the whole his chief feeling was as if he had not had a wash, he also felt a sort of furtive content that only comes with having successfully evaded constituted authority.

He checked his hat and coat, looked at the post on the rack against the wall opposite—not that he expected a letter, as he almost never got one even at his own home in Golders Green—went on into the Reading Room, and found the same place that he had had the day before, next to the old n***o, who was already there and already fast asleep. By a few moments’ observation, based on an idea he had had the night before, he discovered that one could get the books that lined the circular wall of the room by the simple expedient of going and taking them. He further discovered that several histories of Wales were available there, and took two of them to his desk. By watching his other neighbour he soon found out that if you left books on your desk nobody would take either it or them. So he was emboldened to venture down stairs to the wash room to see how his beard was getting on, and possibly to take a wash. He knew it could not be an elaborate one, in spite of the fact that the water the chambermaid had brought him that morning was quite cold and not really enough to do anything with if it had been hot, for he had a vague recollection of hearing not so long ago that there had been a sign up over the grey marble wash basins saying “For Casual Ablutions Only.”

But the only sign he could see down there now was simply one forbidding him to smoke. He ran a discreet amount of hot water into the basin and stole a glance at the uniformed attendant with his chair tilted back against the wall. He would have liked to wash his face too, but he wasn’t sure if that would be regarded as sufficiently casual. It certainly looked most untidy. He had just pulled his celluloid cuffs up a little above his wrists and was leaning over the bowl, looking uncertainly at the very unattractive piece of soap there, when he was suddenly aware that the man washing his hands at the next bowl was acting in what appeared to him to be a most peculiar fashion.

The man was talking quite rapidly out of the side of his mouth, and although Mr. Pinkerton could not make out a word that he was saying, it seemed that the man was talking to him. He stared a moment, and then involuntarily edged away from the basin. The man followed, still not looking at him, and still talking at a very lively rate. Mr. Pinkerton glanced apprehensively round to see if the attendant was still there, in case of need, and edged over to the towel. The man followed. With his back to the attendant he looked at Mr. Pinkerton for the first time, and jerked his head back.

“He’s quite deaf,” he said.

Mr. Pinkerton blinked at him in alarm. The man was tall and blond, with bold features and intelligent eyes, and in spite of his queer behaviour there was something attractive and friendly about him.

Mr. Pinkerton edged away another step. The man looked at him sharply, a frown gathering on his face. Then he started to speak again, stopped short and stared hard at Mr. Pinkerton. Suddenly his face cleared and he broke into a hearty laugh.

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were my brother-in-law. Astonishing resemblance. You must have thought I was crazy.”

Mr. Pinkerton gulped.

“Oh, no, not at all!” he said hastily. He was rather pleased, when he had recovered from the shock. The man was handsome, well-proportioned and had a definite air of distinction, and no doubt his sister would not have married anyone so unprepossessing as Mr. Pinkerton had believed himself to be. However, it was due either to the inferior lighting or to Mr. Pinkerton’s not having shaved. It was the first time he had ever been mistaken for someone else.

He tried to think of something else to say, but before he could manage anything the man had dried his hands, picked up his despatch case and departed.