“It was damned awkward for me!” I exclaimed. “I had this note from her, written a few hours before her death, so of course I had to take it to Scotland Yard. I saw Haimes yesterday. Incidentally, he seems to know you.”
“Yes, I know Haimes. I went to the Yard directly I saw the news in the paper.”
“What on earth for?”
“Because I knew the police would need all the information they could get—and I didn’t want them to pester Carol’s mother.”
“Her—mother?”
Suddenly there was a confused whirring in the clock on the mantelpiece. Tiny doors flew open—a bird’s head darted out—emitted “Cuckoo” five times—then the twin doors shut with a click.
This grotesque interruption made me feel quite mad for a minute, but eventually I managed to repeat:
“Her—mother?”
“Yes.”
“She never told me she had a mother—or, if she did, I’d entirely forgotten it.”
“I thought you’d have read her story in the papers.”
I glanced at him. He was standing with one foot on the fender, looking at the fire. Something in his attitude revealed how profoundly Carol’s death had affected him.
“I have not read her story in the papers! I’m sick to death of the papers! D’you think I like my name being mixed up with all this? My telephone rings all day long. I’ve spent a lot of time with the Jordans to get away from it—leaving someone in my flat in case there was an important call.”
He said nothing, so I went on:
“I’m not going to tell sentimental lies just because she’s dead. You know perfectly well that, although she was my mistress, I never discussed her with you or with any one else. You’re not a fool, so you must have guessed why. Anyhow, if you didn’t. I’ll tell you. I loathed my relations with her. My one desire was to break with her. It doesn’t matter why that was so. It was so.”
“I know all that, Max. But I thought that her death—and such a death—would make a difference. I don’t know when you saw Carol last, but——”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I keep seeing her as I last saw her. She was here a week ago to-day, sitting in your arm-chair. We’d been to a matinée. She stayed on till six, because she wanted to hear that cuckoo-clock again. It always amused her. I can see her, clearly, in your arm-chair, looking up at the clock, waiting.”
After a silence I said:
“I lied just now. Death does make a difference. The devil of a difference! I’m going to find out everything I can about her.”
“That’s interesting—especially as I’ve a theory that you’ll discover who murdered her.”
“I wonder what makes you think that.”
“I just feel it. You’re a clairvoyant person—uncannily so at times.”
“I certainly have my moments. Now I want you to tell me her story. She probably told me some of it, but I didn’t listen to half she said.”
“It’s rather a dramatic story. She was an only child. Her father, Mark Norton, was a poster artist and a very successful one. He was an old-time Bohemian—very generous—always in debt—always borrowing money from the right people and lending it to the wrong ones. His wife idolised him—and continued to idolise him, despite his innumerable infidelities. She was intensely romantic and therefore lived in a world of her own which she imagined was the real one. That’s important, as you’ll see later. Norton had such a long list of marvellous plans for his daughter that he could never decide which to adopt. Carol adored him.”
After a pause, he went on:
“That’s how things were before the war. When Carol was about nineteen, Norton collapsed in the street. When they got him to hospital he was dead.”
“You didn’t know Carol, then, did you?”
“No—unfortunately. Not till soon after the war. Well, Norton not only did not leave one farthing, but he owed money—no end of money—all round. His friends had lent him too much during his lifetime to do anything for his widow and daughter. Besides, directly the war broke out no one thought of anything else. Carol and her mother had nothing—and her mother was incapable of doing anything except live in the past. She just could not believe that disaster had come to her. Money had to be got immediately—and Carol had to get it. She became a model.”
“I remember she told me something about becoming a model because of the sudden death of her father—but I’ve heard so many stories from so many models that I stopped listening years ago. Anyhow, there couldn’t have been a living in it, with a mother to keep and the war raging.”
“Of course not. But it will tell you a good deal about Mrs. Norton that she believed Carol made enough to provide for both of them. Anyhow, eventually Mrs. Norton went to live at Hove with a woman who has been devoted to her since schooldays. She did not have to pay rent—and Carol sent her three pounds a week.”
“So she had lovers practically from the time of her father’s death?”
“Yes. The first man she sat to was Eric Eaves.”
“Eric Eaves! I never met him, but I saw some of his work once and that was enough for me.”
“She was his model, then he disappeared and I don’t think she ever saw him again. She had a lover—and she continued to sit for a few artists.”
“I knew it was something like that, but I did not know details. Well, now Carol’s dead, Mrs. Norton won’t have a shilling.”
“It’s been arranged.”
“I know what that means. You are going to make her an allowance. Now, for all sorts of very odd reasons, I am the one to do that. I’ve more money than I’ve ever had, so it won’t involve the smallest financial sacrifice. That’s what’s called charity, I believe. I shall make her an allowance, though she need not know that it comes from me. In fact. I’d rather she didn’t. Also, I’m going to see her.”
“I wouldn’t hurry to do that, if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“It won’t be a pleasant experience. You’ve had enough shocks lately, one way and another.”
“What’s unpleasant about it?”
“I’ve told you that, when her husband died; she could not believe that disaster had come to her. I meant that—literally. I’m certain she thinks she’ll wake up one morning to find that her husband’s death—and the war—and the raids and everything else—are all part of a fearful dream. I tell you this because you’re the only man I know who could understand it.”
“I understand—perfectly. Sometimes it is difficult to know whether something actually happened, or whether it was a dream. Very difficult! But, as Mrs. Norton is incapable of realising facts, how did she stand up to the news of Carol’s death?”
“She didn’t stand up to it. She doesn’t believe it.”
“Did you show her the newspapers?”
“They had no effect whatever. She said that no one believes what’s in the papers nowadays.”
“You mean, she’s practically a mad woman?”
“If it weren’t for the devotion of the woman she lives with, she’d be put away. That’s the position, Max. And you’d better know it—if you’re going to see her. As things are, the few people she meets regard her as extremely eccentric.”
“I’ve met plenty of eccentrics.”
“I know you have. Still, you may find it an ordeal to be with her. She’s like a child who rejects experience—just rejects it, and goes on with her game of make-believe.”
“Well, maybe plenty of people will be doing that before long. Plenty have started already. How old is she?”
“About forty-eight.”
“I shall go to see her to-morrow. Give me the address, will you?”