A moment later, Harrington burst into the room. Despite eighty years of tempestuous life, the old man retained dynamic energy. He told me he’d had to break off because he had just remembered an engagement. That’s why I hadn’t found him in the studio. He’d have to go at once. And it was a damned nuisance! Especially as I’d turned up, because he particularly wanted to see me. How long did I think this confounded war would last? And was it true that I was working on camouflage? Well, I certainly must not do that for long. Would I lunch with him soon at his club? Good! Excellent! He would telephone me. And now he must go.
“But before I do go, Max, I want to show you a discovery of mine.”
Then, turning towards the screen, he called out:
“Ready, Carol?”
“Nearly.”
“Well—hurry.”
A minute later, she emerged, wearing a black suit and hat which emphasised her remarkable chestnut hair.
“Max! This young lady is Carol Norton. Take a good look at her. A really good look! Pity you didn’t come earlier. She’s the model for you! But, I warn you, she has off days when she won’t bother about anything and looks hell. Now, I must go! Put those things away for me, Carol, will you?”
“I’ll put them away.”
There was an obedient note in the deep voice which was unexpected and appealing.
“Come to the door with me, Max. Ah! You’ve brought the book back! Put it in the library—will you—after I’ve gone?”
He took my arm and piloted me to the front door. When we reached the pavement, he stopped, glanced round, then announced:
“The devil’s about! You mark my words—the devil’s about! Look at that sky! Look at that street! How I loathe huge cities!”
“Not more than I do. I’ve always avoided them like pestilence.”
“Ah, my boy, Nietzsche was right! Remember what he said? ‘It is ill living in towns: too many of the lustful dwell there.’ Remember?”
“Yes, I remember. He wasn’t far wrong.”
A moment later, he hailed a taxi and we said good-bye.
I went to the library, put the book back in its place, then returned to the hall, just as Carol was coming down the long passage from the studio.
When she was level with me, I said:
“Where do you live?”
“Chelsea.”
“May I come back with you?”
“Why do you want to?”
“I can’t be alone. That’s why.”
Now that she was near me, I realised the extent to which the compressed lips and the bewildered eyes imposed an alien expression on the candid features. But, almost immediately, I saw her—not as she was now—but as she had been in the studio.
“Do you live alone, Carol?”
“Yes. I’ve a flat over a shop in Mitre Street.”
Then she added:
“You haven’t told me your surname, so I suppose you guessed I know that you are Max Arnold.”
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
Then, to my astonishment, she said:
“You ought to go home and rest. You look terribly tired.”
“I’m certain to go home, as you call it. I’ve just taken a furnished flat, belonging to a major, and it’s dreary beyond description.”
“All the same, you ought to go home—and rest.”
“Rest!”
After a silence, she said:
“I didn’t think you’d be a bit like this.”
“You’ve thought about me, then?”
“Mr. Harrington often talks about you and your work.”
“Are you free for the rest of the day?”
“I could be, if I telephoned someone.”
I crossed to the hat-stand and got my hat and coat. Then I hesitated.
I knew I was on the threshold of a relationship which would be different from any I had known and I also knew, with instinctive certainty, that I ought to make an excuse, any excuse, and leave her—and not see her again. But the alternative was to spend the afternoon in Major Black’s flat, surrounded by his inhospitable furniture, then, at about seven o’clock, grope my way through the black-out to the club.
I crossed quickly to her.
“Let’s go! And let’s get out of those infernal streets just as soon as we can!”
That was our first meeting at Harrington’s house. . . .
And now—she is dead. And I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it, although I killed her.
There was not one detail, in the newspaper reports of the murder, which conflicts with the horrors seen in my “dream.” Hours before her death was known to the police, I could have written a description of the murder which would have agreed at all points with their discoveries.
But the crucial fact is that, for months, I have been obsessed with the desire to break with her. So obsessed, that I hoped she would die, because I could imagine no other means of deliverance.
Well, when I was a child, and Hilda had taken one of my glass marbles, I became so obsessed by desire to regain it that I walked in my sleep to her room and took the marble from her bag.
And, one night, when imagination was aflame with Fredrika, I dreamed I was walking to the Empty House—and woke to find myself by the rusty gates.
And, last night, I dreamed that I went to Carol’s flat and murdered her. . . .
I began to pace slowly up and down the room. It was just dawn. It seemed an eternity since Mervyn had telephoned.
I do not know how long I continued to pace the room before an idea occurred to me and I stopped by the encyclopædia in its revolving case—took out a volume—and read the entry headed SOMNAMBULISM.
I read it slowly, especially the following sentences:
“Sometimes the actions performed are of a complicated nature and bear relation to the daily life of the sleeper. Frequently somnambulists have gone along dangerous paths, executing deliberate movements with precision.”
I put the book down, then began to pace the room again.
It was useless to think. I should have to act—and act immediately. Carol had written to me a few hours before her death and I should have to give her letter to the police. They would probably wonder why I had not telephoned directly I saw the news in the paper.
But I cared nothing about the police. In a way difficult to explain, others did not exist. I have always been alone with the deepest issues in life—and I was alone with this most terrible one.
Suddenly I began to tremble. The room had become colder! And I was no longer alone!
Then I heard a whisper, in a voice which was Carol’s, and not Carol’s:
“Max! . . . Max.”
Part II
ENCOUNTERS
Chapter One
THE POLICE
At ten o’clock I telephoned Scotland Yard, saying I had certain information about Carol Norton, which might be considered important, and could call at any time convenient. After a brief delay, I was told that Chief Detective-Inspector Haimes, who was in charge of the case, would be free at noon.
I replaced the receiver and was about to unlock the drawer in which I had put Carol’s letter, when I suddenly remembered that I had read only the opening sentences—which had irritated me to such an extent that I could not read the remainder.
I unlocked the drawer and took out the letter.
Max,
I have telephoned three times, but there was no reply. If you get back to-night and are not too tired, please come and see me.
Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been ill? I’ve only just heard. You can’t have been alone for weeks with only a daily woman to look after you! Why didn’t you telephone? Did you think I’d be no good as a nurse? I expect you thought that—but you might have given me a trial.