The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [137]
Bob closed the book and returned it to the shelf, assuming that the great oarsman must have been killed in the First World War. He perched on the end of the bed, considering the information he now possessed. If he could bring Dougie Mortimer’s right arm back to Cambridge and present it to the club at the annual Blues’ Dinner, it would surely be a prize that met his father’s demanding criterion.
He dressed quickly and went downstairs to the pay phone in the corridor. Once directory inquiries had given him the four numbers he required, he set about trying to remove the next obstacle.
The first calls he made were to the King William—or, to be precise, the King Williams, because the directory had supplied him with the numbers of three pubs in Hull that bore that name. When he was put through to the first, he asked, “Does Dougie Mortimer’s right arm hang above your counter?” He couldn’t quite make out every word of the broad northern accent that replied, but he was left in no doubt that it didn’t.
The second call was answered by a girl who said, “Do you mean that thing that’s nailed to the wall above the bar?”
“Yes, I guess that will be it,” said Bob.
“Well then, this is the pub you’re looking for.”
After Bob had taken down the address and checked the pub’s opening hours, he made a third call. “Yes, that’s possible,” he was told. “You can take the 3:17 to Peterborough, where you’ll have to change and catch the 4:09 for Doncaster, then change again. You’ll arrive in Hull at 6:32.”
“What about the last train back?” asked Bob.
“That’d be the 8:52, change at Doncaster and Peterborough. You should be back in Cambridge just after midnight.”
“Thank you,” said Bob. He strolled off to his college for lunch and took a place at the large center table, but proved unusually poor company for those around him.
He boarded the train to Peterborough later that afternoon, still thinking about how he could possibly relieve the pub owners of their prize possession. At Peterborough he jumped out, walked across to a waiting train on platform three, and climbed aboard, still deep in thought. When his train pulled into Hull a couple of hours later he was no nearer to solving the problem. He asked the first taxi on the rank to take him to the King William.
“Market Place, Harold’s Corner, or Percy Street?” asked the cabbie.
“Percy. Street, please,” replied Bob.
“They don’t open until seven, lad,” the cabbie told him once he had dropped Bob outside the front door.
Bob checked the time. Twenty minutes to kill. He walked down a side street at the back of the pub, and stopped to watch some young lads playing football. They were using the front walls of two houses on either side of the street as goals, and showed amazing accuracy in never hitting any of the windows. Bob wondered if the game would ever catch on in America.
He became so captivated by the youngsters’ skill that they stopped to ask him if he wanted to join in. He said, “No thank you,” confident that if he did play with them, he would be the one person who ended up breaking a window.
He arrived back outside the King William a few minutes after seven and strolled into the empty pub, hoping no one would pay much attention to him. But at six feet four inches, and dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer, gray flannels, a blue shirt and college tie, the three people behind the bar might well have wondered if he had dropped in from another planet. He stopped himself from looking above the bar, as a young blond barmaid stepped forward and asked him what he would like.
“A half a pint of your best bitter,” Bob said, trying to sound like one of his English friends when they ordered a drink from the college buttery.
The landlord eyed Bob suspiciously as he took his half-pint glass over to a small round table in the corner and sat down quietly on a stool. He was pleased when two other