The Doomsday Men

by J. B. Priestley

  “No. I—I——” and now what? Why was he there?

  What was the line now? Out it came: “You see, I’ve a very important message for Father John.”

  “You can give it to me, brother. I will see that Father John receives it.”

  That would get him nowhere, and, besides, what on earth was the message? “Sorry, Brother Kaydick. I know what a big—that is, I know what your position is here—we all know that, of course—but I was told to give this message to Father John himself. So I want to know where he is.”

  Brother Kaydick did not look pleased. The other four merely stared. “It would be better,” said Kaydick slowly, “to let me have the message so that I can send it to our leader.”

  “I dare say, brother. But—well, those were my orders.”

  “I shall be communicating with Father John to-night,” Kaydick continued. “And I will tell him you are here. No doubt one of our Servers will be instructed to meet you at Barstow, and then will either take you to Father John or will accept the message. You will probably have to leave the message there with him.”

  “At Barstow?”

  “Yes. On the Mohave Desert. There!” And Brother Kaydick pointed to it on the large map. “Be there to-morrow evening—you may go either by road or on the railway—and wait at the Harvey House there. You will know the Server who is sent, of course, by asking or answering the question about the clock striking.”

  “There’s just another thing,” said Jimmy, rather desperately. “In London—I wasn’t given Father John’s name among—er—unbelievers—his ordinary—I mean, his—er—worldly name. And I was told that you would give it to me here—y’know, in case I might need it up there on the desert.”

  To Jimmy’s instant relief, this did not surprise Brother Kaydick, who nodded gravely, then scribbled something and handed the folded slip of paper over to Jimmy, who felt it would be better to read it outside. So now, after repeating that he would be at the Harvey House, Barstow, the following evening, to meet the messenger, he withdrew at once, telling them that he was tired and must rest before his trip. Then, conscious of the pleasant task before him of telephoning Mrs. Atwood that he was all right so far, in the light of a lamp outside he read the name of the mysterious Father John, leader of these grim fanatics.

  It was John MacMichael.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THEY MEET AT BARSTOW

  The little town of Barstow does not cut much of a figure on the map—there it is, a dot on the Mohave Desert—but once there, or even if you are only on the way there, you realise it has its own importance. It may now have several hotels, gasoline stations, drug stores, bars, pool rooms, and a motion picture theatre, all bravely picked out in neon lights, but it remains what it has always been—an oasis in a desert. And its situation is important. Two main roads enter it from the West: one coming down from Bakersfield and Central California; one coming up from San Bernardino and Los Angeles. Two equally good roads leave it eastwards: one wandering over the barren hills until it reaches Needles and enters Northern Arizona; the other going forward into Nevada and taking the tourist to the new magnificence of Boulder Dam. Moreover, the little town is on the main line of the Santa Fe railroad, and now it sees the silver-gleaming, stream-lined coaches of the Chief and Super-Chief, caravans to and from the Arabian Nights of Hollywood. There is a new hotel now, facing the main street, but the older hotel, operated by the Fred Harvey Company, a building in the Harvey tradition of compromise between Spanish-Indian and Chicago styles, still does a brisk trade down by the railroad tracks.

  On this October evening, however, there was only one guest in the dining-room of the Harvey House. Over in the lunch room, where you eat at the circular counter, there were plenty of customers, chiefly railroad workers, washing down slabs of pie with hot coffee. But the bright lights in the astonishing floral candelabra of the dining-room shone extravagantly in this desert only to illuminate one guest and a solitary waitress. The guest was dubiously examining one of those hard lumps of lettuce decorated with bits of pineapple and grapefruit and cheese and smeared all over with a thick pink paste, which are considered by all American caterers to be salads. The waitress, a severely virtuous young woman in spite of her musical comedy uniform and musical comedy make-up, was examining the guest. He was a very handsome young man and was wearing a brown tweed coat, a pretty blue shirt and tie, and neat grey flannel trousers. His hair was fair and rather wavy; he was nicely tanned; he had a charming shy smile and an English accent; and the waitress, who noticed all these things and fifty more, hoped that he was one of those young Englishmen who were now finding their way to Hollywood. Here she was both right and wrong, for the young man, Malcolm Darbyshire, had just come from Hollywood, but he was no film actor but an architect, who had been fortunate enough to wangle the job of conferring with an impatient client of his firm who wanted to build a house near the English studios. And Malcolm, pulling every possible string, had not wangled the job simply because he liked the idea of a nice long trip from London to Los Angeles (though he did not despise it), but because for the last six months he had found himself a dreamy, a haunted, a lunatic young architect, desperately in love with a mysterious girl, a sad sleeping beauty of a girl, a bewitched princess of a girl, with whom he had played tennis and exchanged a kiss. And he was here, poking at a fantastic salad, in Barstow, when he ought to have been returning home, because he had been told that Andrea MacMichael might possibly be found somewhere in this desolate region.

  The waitress did not know all this, of course, but perhaps some mysterious intuition of the handsome young man’s state of mind, at once idiotic and wonderful, reached her, so that there was a certain sympathetic tenderness in the way in which she now placed before him two dishes of vegetables and a plate of lamb chops. She was rewarded with another charming smile, though it seemed a trifle absent-minded. And well it might be, for Malcolm found himself now, after six months’ haunted lunacy, living in a fantastic dream. He could not come to any sort of sensible terms with this vast continent, with its dusty plains and great mountains and hundreds of enormous rivers, its immense darknesses and sudden glare and glitter, its railway trains like small towns on the move, its incomprehensible mixture of cruelty and kindness, cleverness and stupidity, daring and cowardice, its equally mysterious politics, jokes, drinks, salads: and the whole monstrous thing had been crammed down his throat with one colossal shove. And now here he was, at the end of a dusty day, miles from anywhere that made any sense at all, in the middle of a desert that looked like a scrubby Sahara, looking for a girl who probably never wanted to set eyes on him again. He was, he knew, behaving like a complete and hopeless chump, unfit to be a member—and only a recent young member too—of the Royal Institute of British Architects. Yet he could not help feeling that he was also a glorious chump. He could not be certain if Andrea was really in this part of the world at all, yet already these barren hills, the roads he had seen running out to nowhere, this little town, were invested with glamour, as if they existed in a fairy-tale world. Before coming in to dinner, he had stood on the bridge, stretching its white length over a river that wasn’t there, and had stared at a sunset, immense, fiery, startling, that had ended the day as if it had been an epic; and though it was all so remote and strange, and at last the mountains had turned black and were like a savage silhouette against the pale-green receding sky, and the very first stars seemed to tell him he was in another world, he had been oddly comforted in his folly. Anything, it seemed, might happen here, even the reappearance of Andrea, and possibly an Andrea he could understand.

  Malcolm looked up from his lamb chops, which were not so tender as the waitress had been, to observe that that young woman was now pouring ice-water into the glass of another guest, who was accepting that solemn ritual, which almost appeared to be the new American substitute for grace, with the grave calm of a fellow-citizen. He had seen this chap once or twice
before: a tall untidy chap with shocking clothes flapping about him, but a pleasant, thoughtful-looking fellow, perhaps a year or two older than himself. They had, in fact, exchanged a nod and a word. Malcolm wished now he had suggested that they shared a table, for this American, though he was not dressed in the semi-cowboy rig of these parts, might know the district and the people in it. So far Malcolm had not asked anybody about the MacMichaels. He had only arrived from the Coast that afternoon, and he shrank from enquiring about his beloved at the hotel desk. Obviously Andrea and her millionaire father didn’t live here in this little town, and now Malcolm could not imagine where on earth they could live. The large map hanging in the little entrance hall had been anything but a comfort, for it simply showed him hundreds of miles of desert, sprinkled with grim names like Granite Wells, Dry Silver Lake, Devil’s Playground, Death Valley. Talk about a needle in a haystack! This was like looking for one wisp of hay in twenty thousand mountainous acres of needles.

  As Malcolm lit a cigarette and wondered how to open a conversation with the tall young man in the other corner, another man arrived. But this newcomer waved away the waitress, and stood in the middle of the room, looking at the two who were seated there. Then Malcolm saw him go to the other corner, say something to the tall young man, who looked up, frowning his surprise. In half a minute the interview was over. Now the newcomer came to Malcolm. He was a broad, plump, middle-aged fellow with a wide mouth and a snub nose and a general air of cheerful impudence, though at the moment he was looking rather solemn and mysterious.

  “Say,” he began, in a rich conspiratorial whisper, coming so close that Malcolm could see a bright green stripe in his rich brown suit, “when does the clock strike?”

  “What clock?” asked Malcolm. “I’m afraid I haven’t noticed a clock. But if you want to know the time——”

  “No, no, that’s all right,” replied the broad, green-striped man apologetically. “Just forget I spoke. It’s a gag—just a gag.” And out he went.

  Malcolm took his cigarette over to the other table. “Hope you don’t mind my coming over——?”

  “Surely not! Sit down.”

  “Thanks! Have a cigarette? I was wondering if that fellow who’s just gone out asked you about a clock too.”

  “He did,” replied the tall young man, grinning. “Then said it was a gag.”

  “Yes. What did he mean—a gag? A joke?”

  “That’s it. He looked the type too.” And the tall young man finished his coffee.

  “There doesn’t seem anywhere to sit in this hotel—no bar or anything.”

  “No. Some bars up town, if you want a drink.”

  “I don’t particularly,” replied Malcolm, “at least, just now. I suppose you wouldn’t care for a stroll?”

  “Certainly.” He stood up, then looked solemnly at Malcolm, who knew at once that he was now about to introduce himself. “My name’s Hooker.”

  “Mine’s Darbyshire.”

  “English?” asked Hooker.

  “Yes.”

  “Thought you were,” continued Hooker, as they went out. “I was over in England this summer. Had a nice time—mostly.”

  After leaving the hotel, they turned away from the town, and strolled towards the bridge where Malcolm had watched the sunset. The night was cool, almost cold after the heat of the day, and very clear, with a fine show of stars, among which Malcolm noticed several familiar constellations at odd angles in unusual parts of the sky. That made him feel a long way from home. He could feel too a sense of immense distance, remoteness, in the velvety blackness of the country all round him. Meanwhile, he and Hooker had exchanged a few confidences about their respective

  jobs.

  “But you’re taking a holiday out here, I suppose,” said Malcolm.

  “I’ve just been back to the Institute, since I was in Europe,” replied Hooker. “Research is my job, not teaching, so I can come and go more than most of others. But I wouldn’t quite call it a holiday—I had my holiday this summer—in fact, I don’t know what I’d call this particular trip—a piece of foolishness, I guess.”

  Malcolm’s heart suddenly warmed to the chap. Could there be two of them here behaving like chumps?

  Hooker changed the subject. “I suppose you’re on your way to have a look at Death Valley or Boulder Dam, aren’t you?”

  “No,” replied Malcolm. “I’d like to have a look at them, of course

  —though I haven’t a car and I imagine it’s a bit difficult without one—but actually I’ve come out here—I mean here, to Barstow—to make some enquiries about some people—anyhow, one person—I know, who are supposed to live somewhere round here. Haven’t asked anybody yet about them. I was wondering if you knew—though of course you’re a stranger too, so I don’t suppose you would. Their name’s MacMichael.”

  Hooker stopped. They were now at the near end of the long bridge. “Did you say MacMichael?”

  “Yes, MacMichael.”

  “Boy—oh boy—oh boy!” chanted the young scientist, to Malcolm’s astonishment. “Now can you beat that?”

  “What’s the matter? Do you know them?”

  “Never mind for a minute,” cried Hooker excitedly. “Just tell me some more.” He leaned against the parapet, looking down at the river that wasn’t there, and Malcolm followed his example. “I’ll tell you this much—I’m looking for MacMichaels too—and if you like you can come along—and I have a car, not much to look at but it can travel. But tell me some more.”

  They were interrupted for a moment by the passing of a large car, travelling slowly away from the town, over the bridge. Malcolm was glad of it. He did not know how to begin, yet he felt that here was a possible ally of great value.

  “Well,” he began hesitantly, “I met a girl—playing tennis on the French Riviera, last February—and—well—I’ve come to find her—and that’s about all. Sounds silly, I know, but I simply have to find that girl.”

  “Want to marry her, I suppose?” said Hooker, with a calm detachment from all this fuss of mating.

  “I would marry her—yes, like a shot,” Malcolm admitted, “though the chances are pretty thin. But there’s more than that in it. You see——”

  “Just a minute. Who is this girl?”

  “She was competing under a false name—a lot of tennis players do, for various reasons—but I was told afterwards that her name was really Andrea MacMichael, and that she’s the daughter of a copper millionaire called Henry MacMichael, who has a place—though that seems unlikely to me—somewhere round

  here.”

  “Fine! Go on.”

  “Well, there isn’t a lot more to say. But—there was something funny about this girl—she was very unhappy, I think—strange—repressed—secretive—and—well, I want to see her again to find out what’s wrong. I know there’s something wrong.”

  “What’s the matter with those people, anyway?” cried Hooker. “I didn’t know anything about a girl—didn’t know there was one—but I ran into the father——”

  “What’s he like?” enquired Malcolm anxiously.

  “A pain in the neck, and a good big pain too. Now what’s the matter with ’em? I don’t care what Engelfield may be doing, it doesn’t explain the way they go on.”

  “Who’s Engelfield?”

  “He’s a physicist, like me, only older and better known, and he disappeared and I went looking for him, and now he turns out to be Henry MacMichael’s brother—as a matter of fact, I checked up on that—and, like your tennis girl, he changed his name—well, he left out the MacMichael—his real name’s Paul Engelfield MacMichael——”

  “I’m sorry,” said Malcolm, “but I’m not following all this.”

  Hooker laughed. “My fault. I’ll have to tell you the whole story

  —hey, what’s that?”<
br />
  It was the sound of a shot, very sharp in the immense night, and it seemed to come from the road just beyond the bridge. They could see the lights of a car along there. Then there was a second shot. Then the sound of somebody running, over the bridge, towards them. A figure appeared, pounding along their way. The next moment, a heavy man came up, gasping. It was the man who had asked them the question about the clock in the dining-room. He had another question this time.

  “Got a gun, you fellows?” he gasped, and when he found they hadn’t, he continued, fighting for breath: “All right. I’ll take a chance. Can’t run much farther—thought I might—hide under the bridge. Any water down there?”

  The headlights were turned in their direction now, and moved slowly forward.

  “Cover me up, boys. Say you saw me go down the road. I’m clean out o’ breath.” And the man crouched down behind them, wheezing and groaning a little, as the headlights came nearer. The two young men stood close together, not feeling too comfortable about this hide-and-seek game that included revolver shots. The car came up slowly, invisible behind its big lights, but then, when it was very close, suddenly gathered speed and swept past them and was soon out of sight.

  “That’s better,” said the stranger, getting up again, “and thanks a lot, you two. I know I might have got you both tangled up in a very nasty piece of business, and I apologise for it, but I was in a tough spot. Not a mile outside the town too. And I’ll tell you this—if I hadn’t run for it then, within these next two or three hours I’d have been laid out stiff somewhere among those hills, with a couple o’ vultures pecking my guts out of me to-morrow morning. What an escape! And I’m no coward, boys, believe me—but that’s just a bit too thick. Ugh!”

  “And what time,” asked Hooker calmly, “does the clock strike?”