If you can, do come round. I can’t think why, but I’ve been restless all day and—to-night—I do not want to be alone.
I shall wait up for you.
Do come, if you can.
God! It was urgent enough!
Why had she written: “If you get back to-night?” Did she think I’d been away? And why had she been nervous that night?
I was trying to answer these questions, when the front-door bell rang. Just as I had decided not to see any one, the letter-box was rattled in a way which told me that the visitor was Mrs. Jordan, who lived in the flat opposite and who had been extraordinarily kind during my illness.
I hurried down the passage, then opened the door.
“Good morning, Max. Sorry to come so early, but——” She broke off, looked at me more closely, then said:
“You’re not looking so good.”
“I didn’t sleep last night. Do come in.”
When we entered the sitting-room, she turned and asked:
“When did you get back?”
“Get back! I haven’t been away.”
“But you weren’t here on Tuesday night?”
“Yes, I was. I came in at about eleven. Why?”
Some one called to see you—about ten o’clock.”
“Tuesday night?”
“Yes. I said—as you weren’t in—you’d probably decided to stay with a friend, rather than face the fog.”
“Was it a man or woman?”
“A woman. Very alluring one, with chestnut hair. You wait till my husband comes back to-morrow! You know he always calls you ‘The Hermit.’ Well, he’ll change his opinion when—— Good heavens, Max! What on earth is the matter? You look like a ghost.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Yes. She was in the entrance hall when I came in. She asked if you were away. She said she’d rung several times, but you weren’t in. I said you were probably staying with a friend because of the fog. Then she wanted to know if she could write a note and leave it for you, so I asked her into my flat. I came over after lunch yesterday to tell you all this, but, as you weren’t in, I was certain you had stayed with a friend on Tuesday night.”
I stared at her, till she exclaimed:
“What is the matter, Max?”
“She was Carol Norton.”
“Carol Norton? . . . Not the woman——”
“Who was murdered a few hours after you saw her.”
“It can’t be true!”
“It’s true enough.”
“My God!”
We stared at each other.
“That’s why the photographs in the papers were vaguely familiar. I did not read about the murder. I kept looking at the photographs. It’s—terrible!”
Then she added:
“The strange thing is I nearly asked her to tell me who she was.”
“Why?”
“There was something about her I liked.”
“Was she upset? Frightened?”
“I don’t think so. But she was certainly very anxious to see you.”
After a silence, she asked:
“Did you know her well?”
“I’ve known her for some years. She used to sit for me. I’ll have to tell you more later. I’ve got to go to Scotland Yard soon. And I shall have to tell them that Carol was here at ten o’clock on Tuesday night, and that you spoke to her. You don’t mind?”
“No, of course not! . . . When did you last see her?”
“Just before I was ill.”
“Over two months ago?”
“Roughly.”
“Why didn’t you come in yesterday, Max, and tell me all this?”
“I couldn’t talk about it yesterday.’
“I’m not surprised. And I’m not surprised that you did not sleep last night. I’d better go now, but you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“I’d be grateful if you’d let me spend some time in your flat. I don’t want to keep answering telephone calls.”
“Come whenever you like—for as long as you like.”
“Thank you.”
I saw her out, then returned to the sitting-room.
Carol had come to the flat at ten o’clock. She had spoken to a stranger—and asked if she could write a letter. Obviously, therefore, she had been desperately anxious to see me. And, presumably, only me. Why? Why didn’t she go to Lawless?
The more I analysed her actions, the more impossible it became to explain them.
Half an hour later, I left to keep my appointment with Detective-Inspector Haimes.
The fog had vanished, but clouds obscured the sun. The sky pulsed with planes, while the air vibrated with their multiple roar. As I passed a man with a barrow, he looked at me, winked, then said:
“Someone’s going to get a packet. Thank the Lord it’s not us!”
I made some reply, then as I walked on—vaguely aware that I was taking a roundabout route to Whitehall—I discovered that I was unable to think of anything relating to Carol.
The most irrelevant thoughts and memories came into my head.
For instance, I found I was thinking about a discussion—years ago—in a Paris café. There were about a dozen men at the table, mostly foreigners, and all sorts of subjects had been discussed when Bidot, a Belgian artist, asked if any one present had ever known a murderer. Apparently no one had, and conversation was about to pass to another topic, when an Englishman—who had scarcely spoken—said he had been at a school with a boy who, twenty-five years later, was hanged for murdering a woman at Highgate.
He told us that this boy—who had a Greek father and an English mother—had been extremely popular with women, even as a schoolboy. He was most particular about his appearance and totally indifferent to the opinions of others.
Then the Englishman said:
“I saw a good deal of The Greek, as he was called, after we left school, but, eventually, I went abroad and we did not meet again.
“About twenty-five years later, I saw in the paper that a man with The Greek’s name had been found guilty of murdering a woman and had been condemned to death. No end of women signed a petition for reprieve, but with no effect. That was the first I’d seen of the case, but I read the reports of the trial and there was no doubt whatever that the condemned man was the boy I had known at school.
“But this is the odd thing. As the date for The Greek’s execution got nearer, I began to remember all sorts of trivial incidents which had happened when we were at school together—things I’d forgotten for years. It was uncanny. Here’s one incident I remembered:
“All the boys used to long to steal apples from the head master’s orchard, but hadn’t the pluck. Well, The Greek prevailed on me to take the risk. I was scared out of my life, but I gave in because he had the will of the devil. He made me climb the biggest tree, then shinned up after me. We stuffed our pockets with apples and were about to make our getaway, when The Greek suddenly put his head to one side, listened, then slightly parted the boughs and beckoned to me. There, below, was the head master slowly approaching the tree in which we were perched. I had such a wind-up that I nearly fell off the bough—but The Greek stood like a panther poised to spring, his features lit and his black eyes blazing. I’ve never seen any one so alive.
“I’d forgotten that escapade, years ago, but, while he was awaiting execution, I kept seeing that boy in the apple tree. The night before he was hanged, I did not sleep one wink and—at eight in the morning—I was sick as a dog.