We went into the hall, then I opened a door and switched on the light.
Mervyn swept the kitchen with an inventory-taking glance.
“There is a draining-board. It’s on the wrong side—there’s nowhere to put the crocks when you’ve dried them—but there is a draining-board. I see you have to have the light on, day and night. Also that you can only half-open the china cupboard, owing to lack of space. I also note that the hot-water pipes run through the larder. And that the boiler is an experimental model—made about 1850. Still, one must not expect too much. Presumably the rent is only two hundred a year.”
“I expect that’s about it. The furnished rent is six guineas a week. It would be much more now, of course, but I took this flat for duration.”
“You ought to sub-let a room.”
“The third room is about the size of a cupboard. No one would take it.”
“No one would take it! My dear Max, you don’t know the market. Why, Mercia Thistlewaite has let the hall of her flat—to a man with a troupe of performing seals.”
We went back to the sitting-room, then, having shared the sandwiches, Mervyn unpacked the things needed for the night and made up a bed on the sofa.
Meanwhile, he talked incessantly and wholly about himself: the people he had lived with since leaving the army; his wife; his plans; his family; his mother; his theories about the war; politics—and the probable fate of Mervyn Maitland, and the rest of humanity, in the near future. But although this non-stop commentary was a saga of self—and should therefore have seemed blatant egotism—Mervyn spoke with such detachment that he might have been describing the vicissitudes and views of a character in a book.
Finally, clad in a dazzling dressing-gown and red slippers, he lay full-length on the “bed”—lit a cigarette—then stared at the ceiling.
As he remained silent, I contrasted the flamingo-like figure on the sofa with the pre-war Mervyn—and was somewhat startled by the disparity between them. The pre-war Mervyn had been unstable, extravagant, eccentric—a headache for relatives and friends—but sane enough by standards then prevalent. To-day, however, you were not certain that he was sane, by any standards. You weren’t certain. Too many of his traits were suspect. For instance, his detachment was suspect, because he might be deliberately viewing himself from a distance as he found a close-up too disturbing. His loquacity was suspect—so was his permanent need for an audience. And you felt that his buffoonery might be a Punch and Judy show—manipulated by a Mervyn hidden behind curtains.
“Tell you what irritates me, Max! It’s people who pretend to care one damn about the horrors happening to humanity all over the world, when all they really care about is themselves and those belonging to them. That’s all they can bother about. They daren’t bother about others. You know the kind of people I mean. They are told that the Dutch or the Poles or the Chinese are starving and they say it’s ‘awful’—but there’s no awe in the voice. Or they say it’s ‘terrible’—but there’s no terror in the tone. I do it myself, but it really is rather tiresome.”
“Yes, it is tiresome. But what interests me is—what made you callous? You used to be rather an emotional person.”
“It’s the only thing I learned through going to the war.” He made a quick movement with his hands. “No need to go into all the details and, anyhow, it’s all really rather ridiculous.”
Almost immediately, he went on:
“There was a private in our lot. Every one called him Ray. Only nineteen. Kind of person you are grateful to for existing. Awfully popular with officers and men. Well, we were retreating. Lot of shell-fire and so on. Then the Huns must have fired a mortar, or whatever you call it—the result being that I found myself executing a series of highly complicated somersaults in mid-air.”
Pause.
“Eventually I returned to earth—completely stunned. That sort of thing is always happening in war, but you don’t get anything extra for it. Anyway, when I recovered my few faculties, I saw Ray quite near me—and quite dead.”
Again, he made a quick movement with his hands.
“Absolutely ridiculous, of course, but I took that rather badly. In fact, my horizon went black—and stayed black. Then, one day, a sergeant took me in hand. Incidentally, it was the sergeant who saved my life on the beaches.”
“What did he say?”
“He said this: ‘When anything grim happens out here, you mark it off—quick! See? Ray’s got his ticket. He’s had it. Too bloody bad, but there you are. You mark him off. See? Else you’re for the loony bin.’ What d’you think of that, Max?”
“A fellow who escaped from a concentration camp said much the same. He told me he soon discovered there was one emotion he could not indulge—and that was pity. Pity is a luxury. It is a tip given by the emotionally rich to the emotionally destitute. Your sergeant was right. You daren’t remember things nowadays. We’ve all supped full with horrors. Macbeth though he had, but he was wrong—he’d only had the hors d’œuvres. We’ve had to ring the curtain down on imagination. It will be interesting to see what we find when the curtain goes up. If anything.”
“Well, there it all is,” Mervyn said, as he settled more comfortably on the sofa. “I marked Ray off—and everything else. No good doing things by halves. By the way, changing the subject, you’re a very different person from the pre-war Max. Almost alarmingly different.”
“In what way, exactly?”
“Can’t be exact, my dear fellow! Quite impossible! You used to be an ardent spontaneous spirit and now you’re—glacial. Still, I’m certain you’re white-hot at centre. Lord! I wish I had a will like yours. But there’s no good bothering about that. The thing to do is to go to sleep before night starvation starts.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But tell me why it’s essential for you to be in Chelsea.”
“Oh, yes, of course! I’m doing detective work on the Carol murder—and I’m certain the murderer is in Chelsea. Quite certain! I really am absolutely in love with Carol.”
“Does that affect your relations with other women?”
“Good heavens, no! Carol is an ideal—and ideals have no effect whatever on action. But one thing is certain: the police are going to have a job to find the murderer.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“She had so many acquaintances—café pick-ups and so on. Oh, by the way. I’ve made one discovery already. Did you see in the paper that a Chelsea student had committed suicide?”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“He knew Carol. Not well—but he did know her. So he may be the murderer.”
“He may.”
Mervyn stretched hugely, then said:
“But here’s something really odd. Antony Lawless thinks you will discover the murderer.”
“When did he say so?”
“Yesterday. Odd, don’t you think?”
“Very. Still, he may be right.”
Part III
DISCOVERIES
Chapter One
MERVYN
“I say, Max! I suppose I’d better let people know where I am. What do you think?”
“Just as well, perhaps.”
We had just finished our first meagre breakfast together on a drear dark morning. There had been more snow during the night, so the outside world was a numbed silence.
“Mean a lot of telephone calls, I’m afraid.”
“Go ahead. Would you rather be alone?”
“Good heavens, no!”
Mervyn crossed to the telephone. He was still wearing sky-blue pyjamas, the flaming dressing-gown and the red slippers—and had just lit his sixth cigarette.