“But perhaps this is the strangest thing of the lot. He had lived with the woman he murdered for about ten years. She was entirely ordinary—and nothing to look at. And yet he was jealous of her to the pitch of madness. They had an argument about where she had been one afternoon. He didn’t believe what she said—and shot her through the heart.”
Why I suddenly remembered this story, as I made my way to Scotland Yard, I cannot imagine. But every detail of that night in Paris, years ago, rose before me so clearly that I saw the circle of faces round the table; the haze of tobacco smoke; and heard the Englishman telling his story, while he tapped his empty pipe against the forefinger of his left hand. . . .
I reached Scotland Yard soon after twelve and, a few minutes later, was shown into Haimes’s room, having been told that he would join me almost immediately.
I looked around. It was a square room, containing a big desk; a side table on which were a number of trays, full of bundles of papers; a steel press; two upright chairs; a small arm-chair; and a sad-coloured carpet. All government offices have a mortuary-museum atmosphere and this room was in the tradition. I had just finished my inspection when Haimes appeared.
He was under middle height—broad and powerful—and had a slow, almost shambling gait. He greeted me as if we had met before, then sat at the desk, unlocked a drawer and began to rummage among some papers.
Everything about him was massive: every movement deliberate. This man would assume nothing, overlook nothing, forget nothing. Most people have several fluctuating characteristics, but it was plain to see that Haimes had two permanent ones: power and patience. I imagined he was about forty-six, but was not certain, because men of his build attain maturity quickly and seldom alter fundamentally. Eventually, the vigorous dark hair would become white—the lines of the broad corrugated forehead would deepen—but, otherwise, he would remain unchanged till Time finally triumphed.
“Here we are!” he exclaimed in a reverberating voice, as he put a sheet of paper on the desk. “Now, Mr. Arnold, I’ll tell you what I know about you in three sentences: You are an artist. Carol Norton was your model. And a picture you painted of her some time ago fetched a remarkably good price. Now, what have you to tell me?”
“Two things. But, first, I’d better explain what my relations were with Carol Norton. Otherwise, you might get a false perspective.”
“Go ahead!”
“When I tell you that I met her several years ago, you’ll naturally think that I know a lot about her. You’d be wrong. I know practically nothing about her. You will probably find that even more surprising when I tell you that she was my mistress.”
“Nothing surprises me. You mean, you just visited her periodically for one purpose—and only one?”
“Yes. I made her an allowance—and visited her periodically. I never discussed her with any one and I know nothing about her circumstances or history. Incidentally, she ceased to model for me long ago, because I haven’t touched a brush for over three years.”
I explained the nature of the government work on which I was employed, then added:
“That’s the background. Now——”
“Just a minute! Didn’t any one know she was your mistress?”
“Possibly a man called Antony Lawless, who is a great friend of mine.”
“I know Mr. Lawless. Tell me this: Where did you meet Carol Norton?”
“At Hartley Harrington’s house.”
“And when did you last see her?”
“About two months ago.”
“Right! What are the two facts you want to tell me?”
“The first is that I know where Carol was at ten o’clock on the night on which she was murdered.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!”
“She came to my place. I was out. She asked Mrs. Jordan—who lives in the flat opposite—if she could write a letter and leave it for me.”
“Where do you live?”
I told him my address.
“Quite near Mitre Street.”
“About ten minutes’ walk—if you take a short cut through an alley.”
“So she wrote you a letter in Mrs. Jordan’s flat.”
“Yes. I’ve brought it with me. It’s almost certain that it’s the last letter she wrote. But I want to make this clear: She had never been to my flat; and this is the only letter she ever wrote me.”
I handed it to him.
“She left this at your flat soon after ten o’clock on Tuesday night. Right?”
“Right!”
He held the letter some little distance from him, glanced at it comprehensively, then said:
“Writes a good hand.”
“Very!”
He put the letter on the desk, then read it slowly. When he had finished, he passed his right hand through his hair—and read the letter again.
At last he said:
“You evidently didn’t go—as you said you had not seen her for two months.”
“No, I didn’t go. I’ve been ill—I didn’t get in till eleven o’clock on Tuesday night—and there was a fog. Anyhow, it irritated me that she wrote. Irritated me so much that I only read the opening sentences.”
“I see. She says here: ‘If you get back to-night.’ What made her think you were away?”
“She got the idea from Mrs. Jordan, who imagined that, as I was late, I’d decided to stay with a friend, rather than face the fog.”
He picked up the letter, then read:
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.
There was a long silence.
I did not look at him. I had forgotten him. I heard Carol’s voice repeat those sentences. I heard her deep, soft voice, till I felt she was in the room, near me.
I got up and began to pace to and fro as if I were alone. Eventually, I heard him say:
“She kept her word. She did wait up for you.”
I said nothing and, after a pause, he went on:
“She was found half-dressed in bed. A reading-lamp was on—and there was a book on the floor.”
“And an electric fire burning.”
He looked at me quickly.
“It didn’t say that in the press reports.”
“Didn’t it? Then I must have dreamt it. I do have odd dreams at times.”
I did not know what he made of that and I did not care. Nothing makes one so reckless as boredom and, suddenly, I was seized by the insane desire to tell him about my “dream.” After all, if I did tell him—if I told him every detail—he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Obviously, it would be impossible to obtain any objective evidence to prove or disprove my story. I believe that if the silence had lasted another minute, I should have told him, but he suddenly exclaimed:
“Here’s the point, Mr. Arnold! And it’s an important one. She says in her letter that she did not want to be alone. Have you any guess why she did not want to be alone on that Tuesday night? Was she nervous—imaginative? Have you ever known her say that she did not like being alone in that flat?”
“Never!”
“So it’s—interesting—that she was nervous that night. It’s also—interesting—as you say she never telephoned you, or came to your flat, that she telephoned three times on Tuesday night and called at your flat at ten o’clock. And, when she found you were out, she wrote a letter and left it for you.”
“It’s more than—interesting—it’s inexplicable.”
“Did you ever hear her say that she disliked someone—or did not want to see someone? Wait! This letter is one of two things: either she was desperate to see you, and only you, on Tuesday night for some unexpected urgent reason; or her letter was a trick to get you to go round.”