When the last stroke faded, he stepped to the “microphone” and announced:
“This is the B.B.C. Home Service, Here is the news—read by Mervyn Maitland.
“. . . And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; and the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places. And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains; and said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb: for the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand? . . .
“That is the end of the news.”
Apocalyptic silence.
At last Mervyn said:
“I wish I hadn’t read that. Once those sentences are uttered, you can’t get rid of them. They’re still here. They’re hanging from the ceiling, like invisible stalactites.”
Pause.
“You know, some of Carshalton’s interpretation of Revelations is impressive—and some is completely haywire. For instance, he says that the stars of heaven which fell to the earth represent goodness and truth in varying degrees. The fact that they fell from their high places indicates a total spiritual black-out. That’s all right. But his interpretation of 666—the number of the beast—is not so hot.”
“What is his interpretation?”
“He says 666 is the number of the beast—and the beast is the Big Three. He works it out this way. 6 plus 6 plus 6 equals 18. And 1 plus 8 equals 9. And 3 goes into 9 three times. So 9 is the Big Three. And he also says that when the Big Three meet for the ninth time, the third world war will break out.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said I thought he’d got something. Then he gave me another tot of rum, which brought glad tidings to many depressed areas in my shivering body.”
He talked about Carshalton at some length then I rose and told him I was going to read in bed.
“That reminds me, Max. You used to be surrounded by books, but you haven’t got any here.”
“I’ve given up owning things. I belong to three lending libraries—and a good public one. I can lend you a book if you want one.”
“No thanks. I’ll stick to Revelations. I read and read—and understand nothing. Still, it does things to me. I feel like a blind man, wandering through cosmic immensities.”
Soon after five the next evening, we left the flat to go to the club which Carol used to visit.
Streets, pavements, roofs, were ghostly with frozen snow: a dagger-keen wind struck at every corner. Niggard light and spectral immobility distorted everything as effectively as if some black magician had waved a wand.
The muffled-up Mervyn, having walked about fifty yards—counting the burst water-pipes—eventually stopped and said:
“Extraordinary thing that, whenever there is a frost in our Island Home, thousands of water-pipes burst. Immediately, no end of people—including amazed Canadians—write to the papers, explaining how easily this could be prevented. But nothing is done. Nothing ever is done in the Plumbers’ Paradise. Year after year after year, the pipes continue to burst. The trouble with England is that it contains too many people who continue to exist long after they have ceased to evolve. The phrase is not mine, of course. God knows where I picked it up.”
As I turned towards the King’s Road, he took my arm and exclaimed:
“No need to go that way! There’s a short cut through an alley. Surely you know it?”
“I know it. I thought the snow would be thicker there.”
“Never mind! The sooner we get there, the sooner we get a drink.”
It was darker in the alley. Not a light, or a sound, anywhere.
Suddenly, a dog barked.
“God! What’s that?”
“Only a dog! Lord, Max, you must be in a hell of a state! You jumped about a yard.”
“This damned place gets on my nerves! Why the devil can’t they have a light!”
“But they haven’t had a light anywhere for over five years.”
“They could have one now. Light doesn’t help a V 2. Anyhow, to hell with them all! And to hell with their damned dogs too! Get me out of this place!”
“But we are out of it! There’s Mitre Street. You can’t let yourself go like that! I wouldn’t dare go over the edge. I’d be afraid of not getting back.”
He peered into the gloom, then said:
“I believe there’s a policeman outside the door of Carol’s place.”
“Well, what the hell does it matter if there is? We’re going to that club, aren’t we?”
“Yes, of course. All the same, I’m pretty sure it is a policeman.”
Two minutes later, we turned out of Mitre Street and entered deeper obscurity.
The Mirage Club was exactly what I had expected it to be. You went down a few steps into a basement, then through a curtained arch into a long corridor, at the end of which was a door opening on to a low-pitched oblong room with a few tables and an infirm piano in a corner. The dark blue walls were ornamented with chalk drawings; one of which was a crudely-executed head of Carol. At the far end was a narrow passage leading to a makeshift bar. The place was meagrely lit, and at first glance, seemed empty, until I noticed a man at a small table near the piano, who glanced in our direction, then went on writing in a notebook.
Mervyn went to the bar, eventually returning with two glasses of sherry.
“No whisky—no gin—and less civility.”
He looked round, then exclaimed:
“That head of Carol is new! Wasn’t here two days ago. It’s extremely bad. Well, this isn’t exactly exhilarating. Usually several people here at this time.”
“What’s it matter? We can drink this stuff, then go to the club. We’ll dine there. I suppose they’ll all talk about Carol, but I may as well get it over.”
Mervyn said nothing. He was staring at a woman, standing in the doorway. For some moments she hesitated, as if undecided whether to stay or go, then walked slowly to a table near the one at which we were sitting.
A minute later, Mervyn said in a whisper:
“I’ve got it! I saw her photograph in the paper. She’s the woman who runs the shop under Carol’s flat. You remember! A Polish woman. Gave evidence at the inquest. I’m going to speak to her.”
“She won’t want to talk to strangers. Probably had a hell of a time since she left Poland. Then gets mixed up with a murder! Leave her alone, for heaven’s sake! Let’s finish this filthy sherry—and go.”
“I must speak to her. You wait here.”
He crossed to her table. Two minutes later, he went to the bar—returning with a cup of coffee and two anaemic buns which he presented with the suavity of a super head waiter.
Then he came over to me.
“I’ve told her who you are, Max, and she wants us to join her. She’s remarkable—and her English is pretty good.”
We went to her table and, as Mervyn made himself responsible for the conversation, I glanced repeatedly at this woman whom Carol had known intimately.
She was between forty-five and fifty and must have been lovely before suffering tamed the proud-set features and robbed the eyes of every expression except one. She moved seldom—made no gestures when she spoke—and although she listened to Mervyn, I doubt if she were exclusively concerned with him.