“It wasn’t a trick. She didn’t play tricks.”
“You trusted her, then?”
“I suppose so. The real fact is that I never thought about her when I wasn’t with her.”
“Was she fond of you?”
“Good Lord, no! I wasn’t the only man in her life. She may have admired my work, but that’s nothing to do with anything.”
After a silence, he said:
“I’d like to see Mrs. Jordan soon.”
“I’ll ask her to telephone.”
I rose to go, but he exclaimed:
“Just one minute! Tell me about that picture you painted of her. It was called Enigma, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. It was a nude study. My agent sold it, and the copyright, to a dealer who arranged for reproductions to be put on the market. Later, it changed hands, privately, at a big price, but that did not affect me financially.”
“Who bought it?”
“I don’t know. Anyhow, it would have been difficult to find out because the man who sold it died a few weeks later. My present agent, Leslie Leete, might know who bought it, but I doubt it.”
“There’s a reproduction in one of the papers to-day.”
“I haven’t seen it.”
He leaned back, then gazed at the ceiling.
As the moments passed, I became more anxious to go—and more and more irritated. I knew perfectly well the power which this man represented, but I cared nothing about that. I was concerned only with Carol. If I knew, with final certainty, that I had killed her, I should not go on living. Not because she had ever meant anything to me, but because I should know that I was dominated by a will wholly alien to the one which I believe to be mine.
At last he rose, then said, pointing to Carol’s letter:
“I shall have to keep this, but, of course, you’ll have it back eventually.”
“Keep it as long as you like.”
I said good-bye but, when I reached the door, I turned and said:
“Do you know if Antony Lawless is in town?”
“I expect he will be to-morrow.”
“Thank you.”
Directly I reached the street, I remembered he had said there was a reproduction of Enigma in one of the papers. That fact made me news. It linked me intimately with a melodramatic murder. I’d have to give my story to a journalist and I decided to give it, exclusively, to Arthur Kent, whom I’d known for years and who had done a good deal for me in one way or another.
I walked on slowly, looking for a telephone call-box.
Chapter Two
ANTONY LAWLESS
You can know a man for years, meet him frequently, spend weeks in his company, and yet have a premonition that all this is preliminary—that your friendship with him is destined to prove different in kind from any you have known: that, sooner or later, you will reveal yourself to him as you have never revealed yourself to any one.
For years, I have felt like this about Antony Lawless. Even at our first meeting, I had the strange certainty that this man would be intimately associated with a crisis in my life; consequently every meeting with him—no matter how trivial—had a relevance far removed from its setting. It was another stride towards a dark destination.
I do not imagine for one moment that Antony is aware of this “destiny element” in our relations, but, for me, it makes our friendship unique—and disturbing. I have had many friends of many nationalities but none who seemed “linked” with a future event.
It is, of course, a fact that on rare occasions you meet a man or a woman—or see a man or a woman—and are instantly aware of kinship. Also, and most mysteriously, you are convinced that your meeting with him or her—or your glimpse of him or her—is not fortuitous. It was ordained—and it served ends outside your widest guess.
I remember, years ago, standing on a station platform while a famous express pulled out. In the rear coach, an elderly man with a remarkable head leaned from the window. Our eyes met for a second, then there was nothing but the diminishing rattle of the train—and a sense of loss.
Some people believe that this sudden awareness of kinship between two strangers is caused by links in former lives, but, be that as it may, I am certain that each of us belongs to a spiritual family and that we recognise our own when we see them—however short the meeting; however brief the glimpse.
But my feeling about Antony was deeper than these intuitive flashes of recognition. I knew from the outset that, sooner or later, all barriers between us would collapse.
All this probably creates the impression that Antony is a mysterious portentous figure, whereas, in fact, he is the most casual-seeming person imaginable. Everything he does appears to be so inevitable that the discovery of his qualities is a gradual process. For instance, eventually you notice that, unlike most men, he has not a repertoire of manners from which he selects the one appropriate to his company. You also become aware of the remarkable fact that he lives wholly in the present. It is an odd experience—in an age determined to blue-print the future—to be with a man who has no idea what he will be doing next, but seems completely aware of what he is doing now.
He is about thirty-three and although his appearance is remarkable, it is the last thing you remember about him. His essential quality eludes any physical description, no matter how industrious. Like all original people, he sees only essentials in any given situation and acts only in relation to them. A Bohemian has been defined as a person who is loyal to realities whenever they conflict with conventions, but although that may not be true of many Bohemians, it is certainly true of Antony.
He is the youngest child of a distinguished family, the sons of which, for generations, have gone into the services or the church. His father was killed at the Battle of Jutland, his two brothers are in the navy. His mother—still renowned for her beauty and an amusing vagueness about practical affairs—had imagined that Antony would take orders, although he had never given the slightest indication of any such intention.
On coming down from Oxford, he inherited a certain amount of money, every farthing of which he spent wandering about the world, meeting all kinds of people and studying all sorts of subjects. On returning to England, he did various jobs—of brief duration and at irregular intervals—but did not adopt any definite career.
It may be indicative that although he had no technical qualifications, several people were eager to employ him but he consistently refused to accept a permanent position. A job seemed to find him when he needed one, with the result that he never lacked money although I am certain he had none in reserve. For him, money was like manna—it arrived daily, but it could not be kept. That was the Antony Lawless I met some years before the war—in somewhat unusual circumstances. Through a mistake of my agent, a drawing of mine, which I did not want to sell, was sent to an exhibition in London. When I discovered this, it was too late to do anything about it, so I consoled myself with the belief that it would not be sold as it seemed extremely improbable that the peculiar quality which it had for me would be detected by any one else.
It was bought by Antony Lawless. That was the start of our friendship.
What chiefly impressed me was the fact that although he knew hosts of people, of every condition and calling, he remained free essentially. As he was very popular with women, this was a near miracle, but the more I saw of him the more convinced I became that social activity did not involve him—as it does most of us—in loss of freedom.
He possessed a bewildering assortment of gifts. He was a good scholar; nearly first rate at tennis; had a genuine flair for originality in art and literature; was an authority on Villon; and had an influence over children which seemed like white magic.