CHAPTER IX
THE MAN FROM BIRMINGHAM
The following day while walking to the hospital, I noticed a group ofpeople down a side street, apparently looking intently at somethingunusual. I turned aside to see what it was. About twenty persons, mostlyerrand boys, were standing round a sandwich-board man. At the outskirtsof the circle, I raised myself on tip-toe and peered over the heads ofthose in front. The sandwich-board man's back was towards me.
"What's the matter?" I asked of my neighbour.
"One of the blue freaks from Birmingham," was the reply.
My first impulse was to fly. Here I was in close proximity to myhandiwork. I turned and made off a few paces. But curiosity overmasteredme, and I came back. The man was now facing me, and I could see himdistinctly through a gap in the crowd. It was a thin, unshaven face withstraightened features and gaunt cheeks. The eyes were deeply sunken andat that moment turned downwards. His complexion was pale, but I couldsee a faint bluish tinge suffusing the skin, that gave it a strange,dead look. And then the man lifted his eyes and gazed straight at me. Icaught my breath, for under the black eye brows, the whites of the eyeswere stained a pure sparrow-egg blue.
"I came from Birmingham yesterday," I heard him saying. "There ain'tnothing the matter with me."
"You ought to go to a fever hospital," said someone.
"We don't want that blue stuff in London," added another.
"Perhaps it's catching," said the first speaker.
In a flash everyone had drawn back. The sandwich-board man stood in thecentre of the road alone looking sharply round him. Suddenly a wave ofrage seemed to possess him. He shook his fist in the air, and even as heshook it, his eyes caught the blue sheen of the tense skin over theknuckles. He stopped, staring stupidly, and the rage passed from hisface, leaving it blank and incredulous.
"Lor' lumme," he muttered. "If that ain't queer."
He held out his hand, palm downwards. And from the pavement I saw thatthe man's nails were as blue as pieces of turquoise.
The sun came out from behind a passing cloud and sent a sudden flame ofradiance over the scene in the side street--the sandwich-board man, hisface still blank and incredulous, staring stupidly at his hands; thecrowd standing well back in a wide semi-circle; I further forward,peering through my spectacles and clutching my umbrella convulsively.Then a tall man, in morning coat and top-hat, pushed his way through andtouched the man from Birmingham on the shoulder.
"Can you come to my house?" he asked in an undertone. "I am a doctor andwould like to examine you."
I shifted my gaze and recognized Dr. Symington-Tearle. The man pointedto his boards.
"How about them things?"
"Oh, you can get rid of them. I'll pay you. Here is my card with theaddress. I'll expect you in half-an-hour, and it will be well worthwhile your coming."
Symington-Tearle moved away, and a sudden spasm of jealousy affected meas I watched the well-shaped top-hat glittering down the street in thestrong sunlight. Why should Symington-Tearle be given an opportunity ofimpressing a credulous world with some fantastic rubbish of his owndevising? I stepped into the road.
"Do you want a five-pound note?" I asked. The man jumped with surprise."Very well. Come round to this address at once."
I handed him my card. My next move was to telephone to the hospital tosay I would be late, and retrace my footsteps homewards.
My visitor arrived in a very short time, after handing over his boardsto a comrade on the understanding of suitable compensation, and wasshown into my study. Sarakoff was present, and he pored over the man'snails and eyes and skin with rapt attention. At last he enquired how hefelt.
"Ain't never felt so well in me life," said the man. "I was saying to apal this morning 'ow well I felt."
"Do you feel as if you were drunk?" asked Sarakoff tentatively.
"Well, sir, now you put it that way, I feel as if I'd 'ad a good glassof beer. Not drunk, but 'appy."
"Are you naturally cheerful?"
"I carn't say as I am, sir. My profession ain't a very cheery one, notin all sorts and kinds of weather."
"But you are distinctly more cheerful this morning than usual?"
"I am, sir. I don't deny it. I lost my temper sudden like when thatcrowd drew away from me as if I'd got the leprosy, and I'm usually amild and forbearin' man."
"Sit down," said Sarakoff. The man obeyed, and Sarakoff began to examinehim carefully. He told him once or twice not to speak, but the manseemed in a loquacious mood and was incapable of silence for more than aminute of time.
"And I ain't felt so clear 'eaded not for years," he remarked. "I seemto see twice as many things to what I used to, and everything seems to'ave a new coat of paint. I was saying to a pal early this morning whata very fine place Trafalgar Square was and 'ow I'd never seemed tonotice it before, though I've known it all my life. And up Regent StreetI begun to notice all sort o' little things I'd never seen before,though it was my old beat 'afore I went to Birmingham. O' course it maybe because I been out o' London a spell. But blest if I ever seed somany fine shop windows in Regent Street before, or so many differentcolours."
"Headache?"
"Bless you, no, sir. Just the opposite, if you understand." He lookedround suddenly. "What's that noise?" he asked. "It's been worryin' mesince I came in here."
We listened intently, but neither I nor Sarakoff could hear anything.
"It comes from there." The man pointed to the laboratory door. I wentand opened it and stood listening. In a corner by the window aclock-work recording barometer was ticking with a faint rhythm.
"That's the noise," said the man from Birmingham. "I knew it wasn't noclock, 'cause it's too fast."
Sarakoff glanced significantly at me.
"All the senses very acute," he said. "At least, hearing and seeing." Hetook a bottle from the laboratory and uncorked it in one corner of thestudy. "Can you smell what this is?"
The man, sitting ten feet away, gave one sniff.
"Ammonia," he said promptly, and sneezed. "This 'ere Blue Disease," saidthe man after a long pause, "is it dangerous?"
He spread out his fingers, squeezing the turquoise nails to see if thecolour faded. He frowned to find it fixed. I was standing at the window,my back to the room and my hands twisting nervously with each otherbehind me.
"No, it is not dangerous," said Sarakoff. He sat on the edge of thewriting-table, swinging his legs and staring meditatively at the floor."It is not dangerous, is it, Harden?"
I replied only with a jerky, impatient movement.
"What I mean," persisted the man, "is this--supposin' the police arrestme, when I go back to my job. 'Ave they a right? 'Ave people a right togive me the shove--to put me in a 'orspital? That crowd round me in thestreet--it confused me, like--as if I was a leper." He paused and lookedup at Sarakoff enquiringly. "What's the cause of it?"
"A germ--a bacillus."
"Same as what gives consumption?"
Sarakoff nodded. "But this germ is harmless," he added.
"Then I ain't going to die?"
"No. That's just the point. You aren't going to die," said the Russianslowly. "That's what is so strange."
I jumped round from the window.
"How do you know?" I said fiercely. "There's no proof. It's all theoryso far. The calculations may be wrong."
The man stared at me wonderingly. He saw me as a man fighting with somestrange anxiety, with his forehead damp and shining, his spectaclesaslant on his nose and the heavy folds of his frock-coat shaken with asudden impetuosity.
"How do you know?" I repeated, shaking my fist in the air. "How do youknow he isn't going to die?"
Sarakoff fingered his beard in silence, but his eyes shone with a quietcertainty. To the man from Birmingham it must have seemed suddenlystrange that we should behave in this manner. His mind was sharpened toperceive things. Yesterday, had he been present at a similar scene, hewould probably have sat dully, finding nothing curious in my passionateatti
tude and the calm, almost insolent, inscrutability of Sarakoff. Heforgot his turquoise finger nails, and stared, open-mouthed.
"Ain't going to die?" he said. "What do yer mean?"
"Simply that you aren't going to die," was Sarakoff's soft answer.
"Yer mean, not die of the Blue Disease?"
"Not die at all."
"Garn! Not die at all." He looked at me. "What's he mean, Mister?" Helooked almost surprised with himself at catching the drift of Sarakoff'ssentence. Inwardly he felt something insistent and imperious, forcinghim to grasp words, to blunder into new meanings. Some new force wasalive in him and he was carried on by it in spite of himself. He feltstrung up to a pitch of nervous irritation. He got up from his chair andcame forward, pointing at Sarakoff. "What's this?" he demanded. "Whydon't you speak out? Yer cawn't hide it from me." He stopped. His brain,working at unwonted speed, had discovered a fresh suspicion. "Look 'ere,you two know something about this blue disease." He came a step closer,and looking cunningly in my face, said: "That's why you offered me afive-pound note, ain't it?"
I avoided the scrutiny of the sparrow-egg blue orbs close before me.
"I offered you the money because I wished to examine you," I saidshortly. "Here it is. You can go now."
I took a note from a safe in the corner of the room, and held it out.The man took it, felt its crispness and stowed it away in a securepocket. His thoughts were temporarily diverted by the prospect of animmediate future with plenty of money, and he picked up his hat and wentto the door. But his turquoise finger nails lying against the rustyblack of the hat brought him back to his suspicions. He paused andturned.
"My name's Wain," he said. "I'm telling you, in case you might 'ear ofme again. 'Erbert Wain. I know what yours is, remember, because I seedit on the door." He twisted his hat round several times in his hands anddrew his brows together, puzzled at the speed of his ideas. Then heremembered the card that Symington-Tearle had given him.
He pulled it out and examined it. "I'm going across to see this gent,"he announced. "It's convenient, 'im living so close. Perhaps he'll 'avea word to say about this 'ere disease. Fair spread over Birmingham, sothey say. It would be nasty if any bloke was responsible for it. Goodday to yer." He opened the door slowly, and glanced back at us standingin the middle of the room watching him. "Look 'ere," he said swiftly,"what did 'e mean, saying I was never going to die and----" The lightfrom the window was against his eyes, and he could not see the featuresof Sarakoff's face, but there was something in the outline of his bodythat checked him. "Guv'ner, it ain't true." The words came hoarsely fromhis lips. "I ain't never not going to die."
Sarakoff spoke.
"You are never going to die, Mr. Herbert Wain ... you understand?..._Never_ going to die, unless you get killed in an accident--or starve."
I jerked up my hand to stop my friend.
Wain stared incredulously. Then he burst into a roar of laughter andsmacked his thigh.
"Gor lumme!" he exclaimed, "if that ain't rich. Never going to die! Livefor ever! Strike me, if that ain't a notion!" The tears ran down hischeeks and he paused to wipe them away. "If I was to believe what yousay," he went on, "it would fair drive me crazy. Live for ever--s'elpme, if that wouldn't be just 'ell. Good-day to yer, gents. I'm obligedto yer."
He went out into the sunlit street still roaring with laughter, a thin,ragged, tattered figure, with the shadow of immortality upon him.