The Ghost(英文版)-第32部分

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。　Yet　again；　McAra　had　surprised　me。　Here　was　a　man　reportedly　even　more　hostile　to　the　country　than　I　was；　and　yet　his　trail　had　merely　led　me　to　a　hiker’s　paradise。

　　I　got　out　of　the　car　and　locked　it。　After　two　hours’　driving　I　needed　to　fill　my　lungs　with　cold；　damp　New　England　air。　I　stretched　and　started　to　walk　down　the　e　from　its　perch　across　the　road。　I　took　a　couple　of　paces　toward　it　and　clapped　my　hands　at　the　cute　little　rodent。　It　streaked　up　into　a　nearby　tree；　flicking　its　tail　at　me　like　a　swollen　middle　finger。　I　hunted　around　for　a　stick　to　throw　at　it；　then　stopped　myself。　I　was　spending　far　too　much　time　alone　in　the　woods；　I　decided；　as　I　moved　on　down　the　road。　I’d　be　happy　not　to　hear　the　deep；　vegetative　silence　of　ten　thousand　trees　for　a　very　long　while　to　come。

　　I　walked　on　for　about　fifty　yards　until　I　came　to　an　almost　invisible　gap　in　the　trees。　Demurely　set　back　from　the　road；　a　five…barred　electric　gate　blocked　access　to　a　private　drive；　which　turned　sharply　after　a　few　yards　and　disappeared　behind　trees。　I　couldn’t　see　the　house。　Beside　the　gate　was　a　gray　metal　mailbox　with　no　name　on　it；　just　a　number—3551—and　a　stone　pillar　with　an　intercom　and　a　code　pad。　A　sign　said；THESE　PREMISES　ARE　PROTECTED　BY　CYCLOPS　SECURITY　；　a　toll…free　number　was　printed　across　an　eyeball。　I　hesitated；　then　pressed　the　buzzer。　While　I　waited；　I　glanced　around。　A　small　video　camera　was　mounted　on　a　nearby　branch。　I　tried　the　buzzer　again。　There　was　no　answer。

　　I　stepped　back；　uncertain　what　to　do。　It　briefly　crossed　my　mind　to　climb　the　gate　and　make　an　unauthorized　inspection　of　the　property；　but　I　didn’t　like　the　look　of　the　camera；　and　I　didn’t　like　the　sound　of　Cyclops　Security。　I　noticed　that　the　mailbox　was　crammed　too　full　to　close　properly；　and　I　saw　no　harm　in　at　least　discovering　the　name　of　the　house’s　owner。　With　another　glance　over　my　shoulder；　and　an　apologetic　shrug　toward　the　camera；　I　pulled　out　a　handful　of　mail。　It　was　variously　addressed　to　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Paul　Emmett；　Professor　and　Mrs。　Paul　Emmett；　Professor　Emmett；　and　Nancy　Emmett。　Judging　by　the　postmarks；　it　looked　as　though　there　was　at　least　two　days’　worth　uncollected。　The　Emmetts　were　either　away；　or—what？　Lying　inside；　dead？　I　was　developing　a　morbid　imagination。　Some　of　the　letters　had　been　forwarded；　with　a　sticker　covering　the　original　address。　I　scraped　one　of　the　labels　back　with　my　thumb。　Emmett；　I　learned；　was　president　emeritus　of　something　called　the　Arcadia　Institution；　with　an　address　in　Washington；　DC。

　　Emmett…Emmett…For　some　reason　that　name　was　familiar　to　me。　I　stuffed　the　letters　back　in　the　box　and　returned　to　my　car。　I　opened　my　suitcase；　took　out　the　package　addressed　to　McAra；　and　ten　minutes　later　I’d　found　what　I　had　vaguely　remembered：　P。　Emmett　（St。　John’s）　was　one　of　the　cast　of　the　Footlights　revue；　pictured　with　Lang。　He　was　the　oldest　of　the　group；　the　one　who　I’d　thought　was　a　postgraduate。　He　had　shorter　hair　than　the　others；　looked　more　conventional：　“square；”　as　the　expression　went　at　that　time。　Was　this　what　had　brought　McAra　all　the　way　up　here：　yet　more　research　about　Cambridge？　Emmett　was　mentioned　in　the　memoirs；　too；　now　I　came　to　think　about　it。　I　picked　up　the　manuscript　and　thumbed　my　way　through　the　section　on　Lang’s　university　days；　but　his　name　didn’t　appear　there。　Instead　he　was　quoted　at　the　start　of　the　very　last　chapter：

　　Professor　Paul　Emmett　of　Harvard　University　has　portance　of　the　English…speaking　peoples　in　the　spread　of　democracy　around　the　world：　“As　long　as　these　nations　stand

　　together；　freedom　is　safe；　whenever　they　have　faltered；　tyranny　has　gathered　strength。”　I　profoundly　agree　with　this　sentiment。

　　The　squirrel　came　back　and　regarded　me　malevolently　from　the　roadside。

　　Odd：　that　was　my　overwhelming　feeling　about　everything　at　that　moment。Odd。

　　I　don’t　know　exactly　how　long　I　sat　there。　I　do　remember　that　I　was　so　bemused　I　forgot　to　turn　on　the　Ford’s　heater；　and　it　was　only　when　I　heard　the　sound　of　another　car　approaching　that　I　realized　how　cold　and　stiff　I　had　become。　I　looked　in　the　mirror　and　saw　a　pair　of　headlights；　and　then　a　small　Japanese　car　drove　past　me。　A　middle…aged；　dark…haired　woman　was　at　the　wheel；　and　next　to　her　was　a　man　of　about　sixty；　wearing　glasses　and　a　jacket　and　tie。　He　turned　to　stare　at　me；　and　I　knew　at　once　it　was　Emmett；　not　because　I　recognized　him　（I　didn’t）　but　because　I　couldn’t　imagine　who　else　would　be　traveling　down　such　a　quiet　road。　The　car　pulled　up　outside　the　entrance　to　the　drive；　and　I　saw　Emmett　get　out　to　empty　his　mailbox。　Once　again；　he　peered　in　my　direction；　and　I　thought　he　might　be　about　to　come　down　and　challenge　me。　Instead；　he　returned　to　the　car；　which　then　moved　on；　out　of　my　line　of　sight；　presumably　up　to　the　house。

　　I　stuffed　the　photographs　and　the　page　from　the　memoirs　into　my　shoulder　bag；　gave　the　Emmetts　ten　minutes　to　open　the　place　up　and　settle　themselves　in；　then　turned　on　the　engine　and　drove　up　to　the　gate。　This　time；　when　I　pressed　the　buzzer；　the　answer　came　immediately。

　　“Hello？”　It　was　a　woman’s　voice。

　　“Is　that　Mrs。　Emmett？”

　　“Who　is　this？”

　　“I　wondered　if　I　could　have　a　word　with　Professor　Emmett。”

　　“He’s　very　tired。”　She　had　a　drawling　voice；　something　between　an　English　aristocrat　and　a

　　southern　belle；　and　the　tinny　quality　of　the　intercom　accentuated　it：“S’vair　tahd。”

　　“I　won’t　keep　him　long。”

　　“Do　you　have　an　appointment？”

　　“It’s　about　Adam　Lang。　I’m　assisting　him　with　his　memoirs。”

　　“Just　a　moment　please。”

　　I　knew　they’d　be　studying　me　on　the　video　camera。　I　tried　to　adopt　a　suitably　respectable　pose。

　　When　the　intercom　crackled　again；　it　was　an　American　male　voice　that　spoke：　resonant；　fruity；　actorish。

　　“This　is　Paul　Emmett。　I　believe　you　must　have　made　a　mistake。”

　　“You　were　at　Cambridge　with　Mr。　Lang；　I　believe？”

　　“We　were　contemporaries；　yes；　but　I　can’t　claim　to　know　him。”

　　“I　have　a　picture　of　the　two　of　you　together　in　a　Footlights　revue。”

　　There　was　a　long　pause。

　　“Come　on　up　to　the　house。”

　　There　was　a　whine　of　an　electric　motor；　and　the　gate　slowly　opened。

　　As　I　followed　the　drive；　the　big　three…story　house　gradually　appeared　through　the　trees：　a　central　section　built　of　gray　stone　flanked　by　wings　made　of　wood　and　painted　white。　Most　of　the　windows　were　arched；　with　small　panes　of　rippled　glass　and　big　slatted　shutters。　It　could　have　been　any　age；　from　six　months　to　a　century。　Several　steps　led　up　to　a　pillared　porch；　where　Emmett　himself　was　waiting。　The　extent　of　the　land　and　the　encroaching　trees　provided　a　deep　sense　of　seclusion。　The　only　sound　of　civilization　was　a　big　jet；　invisible　in　the　low　cloud；　dropping　toward　the　airport。　I　parked　in　front　of　the　garage；　next　to　the　Emmetts’　car；　and　got　out　carrying　my　bag。

　　“You　must　forgive　me　if　I　seem　a　little　groggy；”　said　Emmett　after　we’d　shaken　hands。　“We　just　flew　in　from　Washington　and　I’m　feeling　somewhat　tired。　I　normally　never　see　anyone　without　an　appointment。　But　your　mention　of　a　photograph　did　rather　stimulate　my　curiosity。”

　　He　dressed　as　precisely　as　he　spoke。　His　spectacles　had　fashionably　modern　tortoiseshell　frames；　his　jacket　was　dark　gray；　his　shirt　was　duck　egg　blue；　his　bright　red　tie　had　a　motif　of　pheasants　on　the　wing；　there　was　a　matching　silk　handkerchief　in　his　breast　pocket。　Now　I　was　closer　to　him；　I　could　discern　the　younger　man　staring　out　from　the　older：　age　had　merely　blurred　him；　that　was　all。　He　couldn’t　keep　his　eyes　off　my　bag。　I　knew　he　wanted　me　to　produce　the　photograph　right　there　on　the　doorstep。　But　I　was　too　canny　for　that。　I　waited；　and　kept　on　waiting；　so　that　eventually　he　had　to　say；　“Fine。　Please；　do　come　in。”

　　The　house　had　polished　wood　floors　and　smelled　of　wax　polish　and　dried　flowers。　It　had　an　uninhabited　chill　about　it。　A　grandfather　clock　ticked　very　loudly　on　the　landing。　I　could　hear　his　wife　on　the　telephone　in　another　room。　“Yes；”　she　said；　“he’s　here　now。”　Then　she　must　have　moved　away。　Her　voice　became　indistinct　and　faded　altogether。

　　Emmett　closed　the　front　door　behind　us。

　　“May　I？”　he　said。

　　I　took　out　the　cast　photograph　and　gave　it　to　him。　He　pushed　his　glasses　up　onto　his　silvery　thatch　of　hair　and　wandered　over　with　it　to　the　hall　window。　He　looked　fit　for　his　age　and　I　guessed　he　played　some　regular　sport：　squash；　probably；　golf；　definitely。

　　“Well；　well；”　he　said；　holding　the　monochrome　image　up　to　the　weak　winter　light；　tilting　it　this　way　and　that；　peering　at　it　down　his　long　nose；　like　an　expert　checking　a　painting　for　authenticity；　“I　have　literally　no　recollection　of　this。”

　　“But　itis　you？”

　　“Oh；　yes。　I　was　on　the　board　of　the　Dramat　in　the　sixties。　e；　as　you　can　imagine。”　He　shared　a　complicit　chuckle　with　his　youthful　image。　“Oh；　yes。”

　　“The　Dramat？”

　　“I’m　sorry。”　He　looked　up。　“The　Yale　Dramatic　Association。　I　thought　I’d　maintain　my　theatrical　interests　when　I　went　over　to　Cambridge　for　my　doctoral　research。　Alas；　I　only　managed　a　term　in　the　Footlights　before　pressure　of　work　put　an　end　to　my　dramatic　career。　May　I　keep　this？”

　　“I’m　afraid　not。　But　I’m　sure　I　can　get　you　a　copy。”

　　“Would　you？　That　would　be　very　kind。”　He　turned　it　over　and　inspected　the　back。　“The　Cambridge　Evening　News　。　You　must　tell　me　how　you　came　by　it。”

　　“I’d　be　happy　to；”　I　said。　And　again　I　waited。　It　was　like　playing　a　hand　of　cards。　He　would　not　yield　a　trick　unless　I　forced　him。　The　big　clock　ticked　back　and　forth　a　few　times。

　　“Come　into　my　study；”　he　said。

　　He　opened　a　door　and　I　followed　him　into　a　room　straight　out　of　Rick’s　London　club：　dark　green　wallpaper；　floor…to…ceiling　books；　library　steps；　overstuffed　brown　leather　furniture；　a　big　brass　lectern　in　the　shape　of　an　eagle；　a　Roman　bust；　a　faint　odor　of　cigars。　One　wall　was　devoted　to　memorabilia：　citations；　prizes；　honorary　degrees；　and　a　lot　of　photographs。　I　took　in　Emmett　with　Bill　Clinton　and　Al　Gore；　Emmett　with　Margaret　Thatcher　and　Nelson　Mandela。　I’d　tell　you　the　names　of　the　others　if　I　knew　who　they　were。　A　German　chancellor。　A　French　president。　There　was　also　a　picture　of　him　with　Lang；　a　grin…and…grip　at　what　seemed　to　be　a　cocktail　party。　He　saw　me　looking。

　　“The　wall　of　ego；”　he　said。　“We　all　have　them。　Think　of　it　as　the　equivalent　of　the　orthodontist’s　fish　tank。　Do　take　a　seat。　I’m　afraid　I　can　only　spare　a　few　minutes；　unfortunately。”

　　I　perched　on　the　unyielding　brown　sofa　while　he　took　the　captain’s　chair　behind　his　desk。　It　rolled　easily　back　and　forth。　He　swung　his　feet　up　onto　the　desk；　giving　me　a　fine　view　of　the　slightly　scuffed

　　soles　of　his　brogues。

　　“So；”　he　said。　“The　picture。”

　　“I’m　working　with　Adam　Lang　on　his　memoirs。”

　　“I　know。　You　said。　Poor　Lang。　It’s　a　very　bad　business；　this　posturing　by　The　Hague。　As　for　Rycart—the　worst　foreign　secretary　since　the　war；　in　my　view。　It　was　a　terrible　error　to　appoint　him。　But　if　the　ICC　continues　to　behave　so　foolishly；