“Are you quite sure you won’t have a drop of brandy?”
I sighed. I gave him up. I smiled.
“All right. Thanks. I will.”
We drank ceremoniously, touching glasses. Arthur smacked his lips with unconcealed satisfaction. He appeared to imagine that something had been symbolized: a reconciliation, or, at any rate, a truce. But no, I couldn’t feel this. The ugly, dirty fact was still there, right under our noses, and no amount of brandy could wash it away.
Arthur appeared, for the moment, sublimely unconscious of its existence. I was glad. I felt a sudden anxiety to protect him from a realization of what he had done. Remorse is not for the elderly. When it comes to them, it is not purging or uplifting, but merely degrading and wretched, like a blad—
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der disease. Arthur must never repent. And indeed, it didn’t seem probable that he ever would.
“Let’s go out and eat,” I said, feeling that the sooner we got out of this ill-omened room the better. Arthur cast an involuntary glance in the direction of the window.
“Don’t you think, William, that Frl. Schroeder would make us some scrambled eggs? I hardly feel like venturing out of doors, just now.”
“Of course we must go out, Arthur. Don’t be silly. You must behave as normally as possible, or they’ll think you’re hatching some plot. Besides, think of that unfortunate man down there. How dull it must be for him. Perhaps, if we go out, he’ll be able to get something to eat, too.”
“Well, I must confess,” Arthur doubtfully agreed, “I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Very well, if you’re quite sure it’s wise… .”
It is a curious sensation to know that you are being followed by a detective; especially when, as in this case, you are actually anxious not to escape him. Emerging into the street, at Arthur’s side, I felt like the Home Secretary leaving the House of Commons with the Prime Minister. The man in the bowler hat was either a novice at his job or exceedingly bored with it. He made no attempt at concealment; stood staring at us from the middle of a pool of lamplight. A sort of perverted sense of courtesy prevented me from looking over my shoulder to see if he was following; as for Arthur, his embarrassment was only too painfully visible. His neck seemed to telescope into his body, so that three-quarters of his face was hidden by his coat collar; his gait was that of a murderer retreating from a corpse. I soon noticed that I was subconsciously regulating my pace; I kept hurrying forward in an instinctive desire to get away from our pursuer, then slowing down, lest we should leave him altogether behind. During the walk to the restaurant, Arthur and I didn’t exchange a word.
Barely had we taken our seats when the detective entered. Without a glance in our direction, he strode over to the bar
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and was soon morosely consuming a boiled sausage and a glass of lemonade.
“I suppose,” I said, “that they’re not allowed to drink beer when they’re on duty.”
“Ssh, William!” giggled Arthur, “he’ll hear you!”
“I don’t care if he does. He can’t arrest me for laughing at him.”
Nevertheless, such is the latent power of one’s upbringing. I lowered my voice almost to a whisper.
“I suppose they pay him his expenses. You know, we really ought to have taken him to the Montmartre, and given him a treat.”
“Or to the opera.”
“It’d be rather amusing to go to church.”
We sniggered together, like two boys poking fun at the schoolmaster. The tall man, if he was aware of our comments, bore himself with considerable dignity. His face, presented to us in profile, was gloomy, thoughtful, even philosophic; he might well have been composing a poem. Having finished the sausage, he ordered an Italian salad.
The joke, such as it was, lasted right through our meal. I prolonged it, consciously, as much as I could. So, I think, did Arthur. Tacitly, we helped each other. We were both afraid of a pause. Silence would be too eloquent. And there was so little left for us to talk about. We left the restaurant as soon as was decently possible, accompanied by our attendant, who followed us home, like a nurse, to see us into bed. Through the window of Arthur’s room, we watched him take up his former position, under the lamp-post opposite the house.
“How long will he stay there, do you think?” Arthur asked me anxiously.
“The whole night, probably.”
“Oh dear, I do hope not. If he does, I shan’t be able to sleep a wink.”
“Perhaps if you appear at your window in pyjamas, he’ll go away.”
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“Really, William, I hardly think I could do anything so immodest.” Arthur stifled a yawn.
“Well,” I said, a bit awkwardly, “I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“Just what I was going to suggest myself, dear boy.” Holding his chin absently between his finger and thumb, Arthur looked vaguely round the room; added, with a simplicity which excluded all hint of irony:
“We’ve both had a tiring day.”
Next morning, at any rate, there was no time to feel embarrassed. We had too much to do. No sooner was Arthur’s head free from the barber’s hands than I came into his room, in my dressing-gown, to hold a conference. The smaller detective in the overcoat was now on duty. Arthur had to admit that he had no idea if either of them had spent the night outside the house. Compassion hadn’t, after all, disturbed his sleep.
The first problem was, of course, to decide on Arthur’s destination. Inquiries must be made at the nearest travel bureau as to possible ships and routes. Arthur had already decided finally against Europe.
“I feel I need a complete change of scene, hard as it is to tear oneself away. One’s so confined here, so restricted. As you get older, William, you’ll feel that the world gets smaller. The frontiers seem to close in, until there’s scarcely room to breathe.”
“What an unpleasant sensation that must be.”
“It is.” Arthur sighed. “It is indeed. I may be a little overwrought at the present moment, but I must confess that, to me, the countries of Europe are nothing more or less than a collection of mouse-traps. In some of them, the cheese is of a superior quality, that is the only difference.”
We next discussed which of us should go out and make the inquiries. Arthur was most unwilling to do this.
“But, William, if I go myself, our friend below will most certainly follow me.”
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“Of course he will. That’s just what we want. As soon as you’ve let the authorities know that you mean to clear out, you’ll have set their minds at rest. I’m sure they ask nothing better than to see your back.”
“Well, you may be right… .”
But Arthur didn’t like it. Such tactics revolted all his secretive instincts. “It seems positively indecent,” he added.
“Look here,” I said, cunningly. “I’ll go if you really want me to. But only on condition that you break the news to Frl. Schroeder yourself while I’m away.”
“Really, dear boy … No. I couldn’t possibly do that. Very well, have it your own way… .”
From my window, half an hour later, I watched him emerge into the street. The detective took, apparently, not the faintest notice of his exit; he was engaged in reading the nameplates within the doorway of the opposite house. Arthur set off briskly, looking neither to left nor right. He reminded me of the man in the poem who fears to catch a glimpse of the demon which is treading in his footsteps. The detective continued to study the nameplates with extreme interest. Then at last, when I had begun to get positively exasperated at his apparent blindness, he straightened himself, pulled out his watch, regarded it with evident surprise, hesitated, appeared to consider, and finally walked away with quick, impatient strides, like a man who has been kept waiting too long. I watched his small figure out of sight in amused admiration. He was an artist.