The Fourth Bear полностью

“Only this,” said Ashley, laying down a third picture on the desk and pointing at someone astride a motorcycle near the trolley park. The figure was so far in the background as to be barely a smudge. A blowup that Ashley had printed didn’t really help. “It’s possible that this motorcyclist is Vinnie Craps,” said Ashley, “but I couldn’t say for sure—it might just be someone very bulky.”

Jack leaned back in his chair and twiddled absently with a pencil while Ash and Mary stared at him.

“What does it mean?” asked Mary.

“I’m not sure,” said Jack. “Goldilocks and Craps in the parking lot while Bartholomew is on a porridge buy. It might mean a lot of things—or nothing.”

Jack put down the pencil, held his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Explosions, cucumbers, porridge, missing scientists, QuangTech. Nothing seemed to make any sense at all.

“Anything on Gray?” he asked, still hopeful.

“No,” replied Ashley. “He isn’t on the voting register. I went through the births, marriages and deaths record, and I’m not sure he really is Dorian Gray—the only person I could find of that name was born in 1878.”

“A false name?” muttered Jack. “That’s all I need. Without Gray I’m almost certainly up for the ‘retirement on mental grounds’ review board. Perhaps I should cut my losses now and take the three-month sabbatical Kreeper so kindly offered me.”

“Hmm,” said Mary, glancing at Ashley, who blinked twice at her. Privately they had talked about this, and although they trusted Jack’s judgment, there was a strong possibility he had been overdoing things. Neither of them truly believed that the Allegro could mend itself.

The phone rang.

“Spratt, NCD…. Good afternoon, Mr. Bruin,” said Jack.

“Yes, I imagine it must be very difficult to dial with claws.” He grabbed a piece of paper and, with the telephone jammed in the crook of his shoulder, started to scribble as Mary looked over his shoulder. “Okay… but why don’t you tell me now?… Right. We’ll be over as soon as we can.”

He put the phone down.

“Ed said he didn’t know it was Goldilocks and would never have scared her out of the house if he’d known. He wants to tell us something—something he felt bad about and has to tell us in person. Hold the fort, Ash—Mary and I are heading back into the forest.”

Within minutes the silver Allegro was bowling down the road, heading for Andersen’s Wood as quickly as Mary could drive. Jack was worried. Ed had sounded scared, and when a five-hundred-fifty-pound male bear with nothing above it in the food chain is frightened, then you are sure to take notice. The sun went behind a cloud as they entered the forest, and the whole world seemed to darken. Mary slowed down instinctively but hit a speed bump anyway. Everything loose in the car was tossed in the air as they landed.

“Er, right here isn’t it?” said Mary as they counted the turnings off the tarmac road.

“Next one, I thought.”

“Are you sure? I recognize that broken branch.”

“Did you? What about the fertilizer bag?”

“Probably blew away.”

Mary stopped and backed up, ignored Jack’s advice and bumped down a forestry track. They found the three bears’ turning after about half a mile and drove up the grassy track. The cottage was exactly as they had last seen it, except for the absence of any smoke from the chimney. They stopped the car and got out.

“Wait!” said Jack in a soft voice.

Mary paused. “What?”

“Hear that?”

Mary strained, but no sound could be heard.

“No.”

“Exactly,” murmured Jack, and moved on. The forest was deathly quiet. Mr. Bruin had told Jack that the forest could speak, and Jack realized now what he meant. A drum beating is ominous, but ominous changes to threatening when it stops. A sense of foreboding closed over both of them, a feeling of danger that seemed to roll in from the forest like a wave.

“Shall I call for backup?” whispered Mary.

“Not yet. They might just be out.”