Many modern people are tragic parodies of their pre-war selves, and this woman was one of them. Had it not been for these murderous years, she would not be in this basement, talking to strangers; her hair would not be iron-grey; the features would not have a mask-like fixity; expectation would not have died in the dark eyes. But, in the same way as a ship in peril jettisons all superfluities, this woman had shed everything inessential to survival. And she had survived—to haunt herself.
Meanwhile, Mervyn was describing his romantic passion for the dead Carol—asserting that, if he had known her, his turbulent life would have been transformed—that she shone above his darkness like a midnight sun—and that he was determined to find her murderer.
Incidentally, his attitude to this distinguished woman revealed the remarkable plasticity of his temperament. An aristocratic trait was always discernible in Mervyn—even during his descents into buffoonery—but, now, it became dominant. In a dozen delicate ways, he indicated such imaginative appreciation of her circumstances that eventually a degree of intimacy was established between them. To do this, while talking what must have been utter rubbish to her, was a near-miracle.
Finally, he said he was afraid things must have been distressing for her since the murder, and she replied that she had been overwhelmed by applications for Carol’s flat. She told an elderly man that the body had not yet been taken away, but he said he did not care tuppence about that. He and his wife had slept in the Tube for six months, and would willingly take a flat in a morgue if they could get one.
She related this in a deep-toned voice which had no hint of criticism. Her attitude implied that humanity no longer possessed the power to surprise or shock her. Things happened—that was all. One did not judge—one watched.
Mervyn lit a cigarette and was about to describe some of his many vicissitudes, when a man came into the room.
“Lord! That’s Marmaduke Murphy! Someone told me he was dead.”
Not only was the massive Marmaduke alive, but evidently derived immense satisfaction from seeing Mervyn, for, having studied the latter with the air of a champion boxer confronted by a frail opponent, he exclaimed in a resounding voice:
“Hallo, Mervyn, you old twister! Got you this time!”
Mervyn rose with alacrity.
“I’d better talk to Marmaduke alone. Extraordinary man! Practically certifiable! Haven’t seen him for five years.”
He hurried towards Marmaduke, who was making for the bar.
Directly we were alone, she said:
“Your friend has suffered? Yes?”
I told her that Mervyn had been invalided out of the army and that, in my opinion, he was still in a highly nervous state.
“It is what one thinks.”
“Please tell me something, Madame. Did you see Carol on the day on which she was murdered?”
“In the morning, I go to her flat.”
“Did she seem normal?”
“No—not normal. Usually—calm. That morning—no. She walk about the room. She say nothing.”
Almost immediately, she added:
“It is a great pity you do not see her that day. To you, she speak. You paint the grand picture. No one know her like you.”
After a silence, I asked:
“Did she talk to you about me?”
“No. Sometimes I say to her: ‘Max Arnold, the artist, you see him? Yes?’ And she say sometime she see you. But I ask few questions. I see that, to her—how do you say?—you are the man apart. She proud you paint her picture. So proud!”
Then she said:
“Your friend, who go to the bar, I see that he suffer. Any one see that he suffer. But you—no! One do not know. You are like me. We have things we cannot share. Always, we are alone with them—night and day—alone with them. I fond of Carol. Soon, I leave the shop. I forget Carol. One learns to forget. It is the only wisdom.”
There was a long silence. At last, I asked if she thought they would find the murderer.
“Who can say? She know many people. She kind to many people. About herself, she do not bother. And she speak of herself—never. I do not think it easy to find murderer.”
A moment later, a somewhat breathless Mervyn returned. He stood by the table, watching Marmaduke Murphy who was striding towards the door, muttering to himself. Suddenly he stopped, then shouted:
“Within one week! Or else——”
Mervyn sank into a chair.
“Extraordinary man! His family’s extraordinary too. His daughter recently presented this democratic island with twins. Both black. He imagines that I borrowed ten pounds from him on the day war was declared—just after Chamberlain’s radio speech, and just before the sirens sounded. Simply grotesque, of course!”
The room was still deserted, except for the man writing in a notebook; but, soon, a friend of the Polish lady arrived and we said good-bye.
Directly we found ourselves in icy darkness, Mervyn said:
“Never get a taxi or bus. Better walk to the Knightsbridge Tube.”
Then he added:
“How that woman makes a shilling out of that shop, I cannot imagine. But foreigners can make attractive knick-knacks out of nothing. She rather scares me. She has one of those faces which asks nothing of life. That’s the most frightening kind, don’t you think?”
“I’m more frightened by a face that once asked much—and now asks nothing.”
When we were in the Tube on our way to Piccadilly Circus, I said:
“Do you think Antony Lawless will be at the club?”
“He very seldom is at night. Why? Do you want to see him?”
“Not particularly.”
Mervyn began to talk about Antony but, although he said he was a “grand bloke,” it was clear that he did not regard him as really remarkable.
When we reached the club and were shaking the snow from our overcoats and stamping to get our feet warm, Mervyn exclaimed:
“Hope there’s some food! If there’s hot-pot, don’t have it. I shan’t be a minute. Just going to the Silence Room to see if there are any reviews worth borrowing.”
A few minutes later, he returned in a state of perturbation.
“I can’t stay, Max.”
“Why not?”
“Old Plimsoll’s here.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He terrifies me. When I look at him, I glimpse my future. I see, as in a map, the end of all.”
“But what’s the matter with him?”
“He’s seventy-seven. Till a few years ago, he was a man of vision—almost a mystic. And now he spends his time walking the streets, looking at young girls. If that could happen to him, what will happen to me? I’m off! There’s a crazy light in his eye—and he keeps shaking his head. I run for my life whenever I see him.”
Chapter Two
NOCTURNE
Soon after Mervyn had gone, the hall porter appeared and told me that the club was nearly empty, nevertheless I hesitated for some minutes before going upstairs to the dining-room.
Every day—every hour almost—it not only became more difficult to discuss Carol, but I increasingly resented references to her. It infuriated me that she had become a public topic and therefore a target for the curiosity of fools. How could I chatter with the idle and the indifferent—discuss clues—speculate about the motives of the murderer? How could I tell them that, since her death, Carol was nearer to me—and infinitely more real—than any of them? It was they who seemed ghostly, not she.
I stopped near the entrance to the dining-room. The doors were open and service was restricted to the centre table, lit by a solitary light, the rest of the big oblong room being almost in darkness.