“Oh, but look here, Max, you must tell us your end of the Carol murder. You’ve stopped eating now. Give us the story!”
For the life of me, I don’t remember who said that. All I know is that Fergus turned on him and exclaimed:
“Expect Max to know the life-history of every model who’s sat for him? You want copy. Yes, yes, you want copy! All right! I’ll give you some. And I give it gladly, because I know you won’t be able to write it up—and, if you could, your bloody paper wouldn’t print it.”
This announcement focused everyone’s attention exclusively on Fergus. Even Bill, the waiter, came nearer to the table.
“Ask yourselves,” Fergus began, “ask yourselves what really happened. One human being killed another. A man stabbed a girl. Never mind why. He’d got it in for her—and he murdered her. And he stood by her bed and saw what he had done. Get that! He saw what he had done.”
He turned to me.
“That’s right, isn’t it? If the murderer stayed in Carol’s room for only ten seconds after killing her, he saw what he had done.”
“That’s certain.”
“Well, it’s damned refreshing! Listen! Ten minutes ago, a V 2 fell. Probably that V 2 was made by forced foreign labour—probably launched by forced foreign labour. The men who launched it will probably never know if it reached England. And they certainly won’t know what it did. They won’t see the dead, the dying, the maimed. Wait! Possibly our bombers will be over Germany to-night. They’ll drop five-ton—ten-ton—bombs. They’ll kill hundreds, perhaps thousands—anonymously! They won’t see their dead, but the man who murdered Carol knew what he was doing—and saw what he had done. That’s refreshing! It’s romantic! It’s a modern Romeo and Juliet.”
There was a chorus of comments, exclamations, but—scarcely knowing what I was doing—I rose, then groped towards the door. Before reaching it, someone took my arm, and I heard Singleton say:
“You’re coming to my place for a drink.”
Before I could reply, Fergus lurched over to us and said:
“Going? Quite right too! If I had any damned brains. I’d have gone long ago.”
He peered first at Singleton, then at me, as if surprised to find us together, then he said to Singleton:
“Tell you something. I love Max—and I admire you. Yes, by God, I admire you! You’ve pulled down all the blinds in your house—and kept ’em down. But all my blinds are up. Day and night, they’re up—so every blackguard and every fool can stare in.”
He made a staccato movement with both hands, then went unsteadily towards the table.
Two minutes later, Singleton and I left the club.
For some moments we walked in silence through icy darkness. The frozen snow was so thick that often we did not know whether we were on the pavement or in the road. Now and again Singleton flashed a torch in order to discover our whereabouts, but the eerie whiteness obliterating everything made even familiar landmarks difficult to recognise.
Singleton, who was about fifty-six, had been one of my first patrons and, before the war, I met him and his son, Michael, fairly frequently. There were many reasons why this companionship was stimulating, the chief being the remarkable affinity between them. Each had a strain of asceticism—a reverence for quality—and a flair for essentials. Often, of course, there is surface similarity between father and son, usually derived from the dominance of the former; but the bond between Singleton and Michael was created by membership of the same spiritual family. To be with them, was to become instantly aware of their mutual affection—an affection so deep that it isolated them. Singleton had been a widower for nearly twenty-five years and had no other children.
Michael joined the R.A.F. some months before the war. He died in the Battle of Britain.
As he had served with great distinction, his death was announced over the radio. I happened to be in the club at the time and several men were convinced that Singleton “wouldn’t be able to take this punch.” Incidentally, it was remarkable how every one instinctively recognised the unique relationship between Singleton and his son.
But, the next day, at his usual time, Singleton came to the club. And, every day thereafter, Singleton came to the club, at his usual time. He gave no sign whatsoever of his loss—literally and absolutely none. And, equally remarkable on another level, no one mentioned that loss to him. Friends shook his hand—and left it at that.
There was a club waiter, whom every one called Bill, a red-faced jolly-looking man, who had immense respect for Singleton. Bill was away at the time of Michael’s death, but returned a week later. I was alone in the nearly-deserted dining-room, with Bill in attendance, when Singleton came into the room.
Bill went over to him impulsively, but stopped abruptly before the tall impassive figure, not knowing what to do. For some moments they faced each other—then Singleton held out his hand.
So Fergus had not been wrong when he said that Singleton had pulled down all the blinds in his house and kept them down. One knew nothing of his interior life. Most masks conceal only the face, but Singleton’s hid his whole being, consequently one could not guess the nature of the drama enacted behind it—if any.
There was a general belief that he had considerable private means, but the facts known about him were few in number and stark in outline. He was the sole survivor of an old family; he had travelled widely; spoke several languages; had considerable pretensions as an art critic; and had once possessed a remarkable library. He was an authority on contract law and, since 1939, had given his services to the government. Criminal law was his hobby: international law his “light relaxation.” He lived in a small flat off Piccadilly, having sold his place in Buckinghamshire soon after Michael’s death. Every one knew these facts about him—and I doubt if any one could have made a single addition to them.
“We’re nearly there, Max.”
After a pause, he added:
“You must look after yourself. The murder of that girl must have been a shock for a man of your temperament. Fergus was wrong when he said that you and he were brothers, but you are alike in some ways.”
“I’ve often wondered what you make of Fergus.”
“I’m prejudiced, because I like him. He’s destroying himself, of course. Still, that’s common enough nowadays, but Fergus knows it. Can you imagine him content in any circumstances?”
“In none.”
“It’s from men like Fergus that the new religion will come—for it will seem a new religion. Fergus, himself, will die in the desert, but it is from men like him—men compelled to explore the wilderness of their own being—that the new religion will come. But here we are, and I am not sorry.”
Singleton’s flat was on the first floor of a block which had suffered so severely from bomb damage that many of the flats were uninhabitable. It had three rooms and, on former visits, we had always talked in a large sitting-room, but, on this occasion, he opened the door of a small room at the end of a short passage, then asked me to sit down while he got some brandy.
It was a panelled room, but, although its contents had the quality which characterised everything belonging to Singleton, my attention was instantly claimed by two photographs: one of a woman, so young and so lovely that it was difficult to believe she had been the wife of the Singleton known to me; the other, of Michael in R.A.F. uniform.