These memories of Antony came into my mind as I walked towards his flat on the day after my interview at Scotland Yard. It was a meagre afternoon with low-lying mist and a sky lugubrious as an old umbrella. Everything had dwindled to the ghost of itself. Soon, these shrouded streets would be indecipherable in the anonymity of night.
As I turned into St. James’s Street, two muffled figures passed and I heard one say:
“It’ll be over by Christmas.”
They vanished into the mist.
With the exception of the last six months, I had seen little of Antony since the outbreak of war. He joined the army, as a private, in 1939, obtained his commission a year later, then served with the Eighth Army until he was wounded in Italy. He was hit in the shoulder, the result being an almost total loss of power in the right arm. Six months ago, he had been invalided out of the services and was now living in a flat which had been lent him by the colonel of his regiment.
As I turned out of St. James’s Street to make a somewhat zig-zag way to his flat, which was over an antique shop at the end of a narrow street, I remembered dropping in on him, three or four months ago, to find that he had just returned to town and was confronted by a formidable mail, chiefly from men overseas. I discovered that most of his time was now spent on the domestic problems of the men in his regiment and, as many of them had been away from England for three or four years, these domestic problems were highly complicated. Wives had disappeared; or had written asking for a divorce; or had ceased to write; or had produced children and were therefore terrified by the prospect of their husbands’ return on leave. Antony had become a liaison officer between the unhappy protagonists of these dreary dramas and, miraculously, had effected many reconciliations.
This had been his chief occupation since his return to civilian life but, as he had no domestic help of any kind, the flat made demands, especially as it contained everything its owner valued. Despite the loss of power in his right arm, Antony managed to perform the necessary domestic tasks, with the exception of bringing up coal from a diminutive yard behind the shop. This was beyond his strength, but the job was done for him each morning by the milkman, who regarded Antony as a being far removed from other customers on his round.
Having made my way through gaping desolation, caused by a flying bomb, I turned a corner and entered the narrow street which led to Antony’s flat.
I stopped, then lit a cigarette.
What would Carol’s death mean to him? They had been friends—not lovers, friends. Why had this remarkable man given her a thought, or an hour of his time? He had met interesting people all over the world. What attraction could she possibly have had for him?
Then a question of a different kind presented itself. Why had Haimes said—at our interview at Scotland Yard—that he knew Mr. Antony Lawless? Knew him in what connection?
I threw my unfinished cigarette away but, instantly, other questions shot into my mind.
As Carol had been afraid of being alone on that Tuesday night, why didn’t she go to Antony? Had he been away? And why had he not telephoned me directly he heard of her death? Haimes knew more about his movements than I did. How had Haimes known that Antony would be back in town to-day?
Had he waited for me to come to him? Perhaps, on the background of her tragic death, it seemed odd that I had never discussed Carol with him. At the time, he had probably regarded my silence as a whim, but—now—it might have a very different significance. And Carol? What had she told him about me?
I walked on, but stopped again when I reached the shop.
I was afraid of this meeting. I was afraid of what he might know—what he might suspect—but, above all, I was afraid of his insight. With others, one had defences: with him, one had none—because he never attacked.
For some moments I hesitated, then ran up to the first floor and pressed the bell.
“Max!”
He took my arm, piloted me along a broad passage, then into a large sitting-room.
“You’d better rest. I’ll get tea. It’s practically ready.”
Directly he had gone, I discovered to my dismay that everything irritated me. In the first place, he had instantly realised that I was not well and this robbed me of initiative. I had intended to ask a dozen questions, but, immediately, I had been relegated to the rôle of semi-invalid. Also, and more mysteriously, his appearance irritated me. Although we had met frequently since his return to civilian life, it was only now that I recognised how little he had changed. The slender vital figure; the almost auburn hair; the wide-set eyes; the sensitive features were unaltered. Everyone was branded by war but Antony seemed unscarred. For some indefinite reason, this irritated me.
So did the room. Formerly, this comfortable sitting-room, with its countless photographs of school teams, regimental and family groups—with its snapshots of friends, houses, horses, dogs, filling all the spare spaces—had proclaimed the super-schoolboy personality of its owner. A cuckoo-clock on the mantelpiece—probably the lone survivor of a memory-treasured nursery—had made that personality attractive. This room contained everything which the colonel—now fighting in Holland—loved. It was not a room, but a shrine. Once, that had seemed rather moving. Now, it seemed ridiculous. It was puerile for a man to be so anchored in the past.
Above all, it irritated me that Antony’s first remark had not been about Carol. I felt that, in the same way as he had waited for me to come to him, he was determined that I should be the first to refer to her.
When he returned, carrying a round yellow tray, he said casually:
“By the way, Mervyn Maitland was here when you telephoned. He had to go, but he’ll probably come back, because he’s very excited—and has no end of questions to ask you. I thought I’d tell you, in case you don’t want to run into him just yet.”
“I don’t mind in the least.”
“That’s all right, then.”
Silence.
I had lied, of course. Actually, the prospect of being cross-examined by Mervyn, with Antony for audience, was annihilating.
“Well!” I exclaimed angrily. “You say nothing about Carol.”
“I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“I couldn’t at first.”
Then, as he said nothing, I added:
“Who do you think murdered her?”
“It must have been a lunatic.”
“Perhaps it was.”
“It must have been.”
I put down my cup, then rose and paced the room once or twice. Eventually I stopped near him and said:
“Were you here on Tuesday night?”
“No. I came back early on Wednesday—and saw the news in the midday paper.”
“So you’ve no idea whether Carol tried to see you on Tuesday night?”
“I know she didn’t, because Ross slept here on Tuesday—and he did not go out because of the fog. Carol did not come and she did not telephone.”
“Perhaps she knew you were away?”
“No, she didn’t know.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll be surprised to hear that she telephoned me three times. And she came to my flat at ten o’clock. She spoke to Mrs. Jordan, then wrote a letter, asking me to go round when I came in. She’d never done anything like that before, so it’s damned odd she did on Tuesday night.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“It—doesn’t?”
“No.”
I hesitated, then decided that I did not want to know why he was not surprised, partly because it annoyed me that he had not asked whether I went to see Carol after reading her letter.