Next day was one of those gorgeous blue days of which November gives
but few, and Eustace was glad to run out to Wimbledon for a game of
golf, or rather for two. It was therefore dusk before he made his way
to the Gray's Inn Road in search of the unexpected. His attitude
towards his errand despite the doctor's laughter and the prosaic
entry in the directory, was a little confused. He could not help
reflecting that after all the doctor had not seen the man with the
little wise eyes, nor could he forget that Mr. G. J. Harding's
description of himself as a coffin merchant, to say the least of it,
approached the unusual. Yet he felt that it would be intolerable to
chop the whole business without finding out what it all meant. On the
whole he would have preferred not to have discovered the riddle at
all; but having found it, he could not rest without an answer.
No. 606, Gray's Inn Road, was not like an ordinary undertaker's shop.
The window was heavily draped with black cloth, but was otherwise
unadorned. There were no letters from grateful mourners, no little
model coffins, no photographs of marble memorials. Even more
surprising was the absence of any name over the shop-door, so that
the uninformed stranger could not possibly tell what trade was
carried on within, or who was responsible for the management of the
business. This uncommercial modesty did not tend to remove Eustace's
doubts as to the sanity of Mr. G. J. Harding; but he opened the
shop-door which started a large bell swinging noisily, and stepped
over the threshold. The shop was hardly more expressive inside than
out. A broad counter ran across it, cutting it in two, and in the
partial gloom overhead a naked gas-burner whistled a noisy song.
Beyond this the shop contained no furniture whatever, and no
stock-in-trade except a few planks leaning against the wall in one
corner. There was a large ink-stand on the counter. Eustace waited
patiently for a minute or two, and then as no one came he began
stamping on the floor with his foot. This proved efficacious, for
soon he heard the sound of footsteps ascending wooden stairs, the
door behind the counter opened and a man came into the shop.
He was dressed quite neatly now, and his hands were no longer blue
with cold, but Eustace knew at once that it was the man who had given
him the handbill. Nevertheless he looked at Eustace without a sign of
recognition.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked pleasantly.
Eustace laid the handbill down on the counter.
"I want to know about this," he said. "It strikes me as being in
pretty bad taste, and if a nervous person got hold of it, it might be
dangerous."
"You think so, sir? Yet our representative," he lingered
affectionately on the words, "our representative told you, I believe,
that the handbill was only distributed to suitable cases."
"That's where you are wrong," said Eustace sharply, "for I have no
one to bury."
"Except yourself," said the coffin merchant suavely.
Eustace looked at him keenly. "I don't see----" he began. But the
coffin merchant interrupted him.
"You must know, sir," he said, "that this is no ordinary undertaker's
business. We possess information that enables us to defy competition
in our special class of trade."
"Information!"
"Well, if you prefer it, you may say intuitions. If our
representative handed you that advertisement, it was because he knew
you would need it."
"Excuse me," said Eustace, "you appear to be sane, but your words do
not convey to me any reasonable significance. You gave me that
foolish advertisement yourself, and now you say that you did so
because you knew I would need it. I ask you why?"
The coffin merchant shrugged his shoulders. "Ours is a sentimental
trade," he said, "I do not know why dead men want coffins, but they
do. For my part I would wish to be cremated."
"Dead men?"
"Ah, I was coming to that. You see Mr.----?"
"Reynolds."
"Thank you, my name is Harding--G. J. Harding. You see, Mr. Reynolds,
our intuitions are of a very special character, and if we say that
you will need a coffin, it is probable that you will need one."
"You mean to say that I----"
"Precisely. In twenty-four hours or less, Mr. Reynolds, you will need
our services."
The revelation of the coffin merchant's insanity came to Eustace
with a certain relief. For the first time in the interview he had a
sense of the dark empty shop and the whistling gas-jet over his
head.
"Why, it sounds like a threat, Mr. Harding!" he said gaily.
The coffin merchant looked at him oddly, and produced a printed form
from his pocket. "If you would fill this up," he said.
Eustace picked it up off the counter and laughed aloud. It was an
order for a hundred-guinea funeral.
"I don't know what your game is," he said, "but this has gone on long
enough."
"Perhaps it has, Mr. Reynolds," said the coffin merchant, and he
leant across the counter and looked Eustace straight in the face.
For a moment Eustace was amused; then he was suddenly afraid. "I
think it's time I----" he began slowly, and then he was silent, his
whole will intent on fighting the eyes of the coffin merchant. The
song of the gas-jet waned to a point in his ears, and then rose
steadily till it was like the beating of the world's heart. The eyes
of the coffin merchant grew larger and larger, till they blended in
one great circle of fire. Then Eustace picked a pen off the counter
and filled in the form.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Reynolds," said the coffin merchant,
shaking hands with him politely. "I can promise you every civility
and despatch. Good-day, sir."
Outside on the pavement Eustace stood for a while trying to recall
exactly what had happened. There was a slight scratch on his hand,
and when he automatically touched it with his lips, it made them
burn. The lit lamps in the Gray's Inn Road seemed to him a little
unsteady, and the passers-by showed a disposition to blunder into
him.
"Queer business," he said to himself dimly; "I'd better have a cab."
He reached home in a dream.
It was nearly ten o'clock before the doctor remembered his promise,
and went upstairs to Eustace's flat. The outer door was half-open so
that he thought he was expected, and he switched on the light in the
little hall, and shut the door behind him with the simplicity of
habit. But when he swung round from the door he gave a cry of
astonishment. Eustace was lying asleep in a chair before him with
his face flushed and drooping on his shoulder, and his breath
hissing noisily through his parted lips. The doctor looked at him
quizzically, "If I did not know you, my young friend," he remarked,
"I should say that you were as drunk as a lord."
And he went up to Eustace and shook him by the shoulder; but Eustace
did not wake.
"Queer!" the doctor muttered, sniffing at Eustace's lips; "he hasn't
been drinking."