The more I studied these photographs, the more remarkable the resemblance between them became, for Michael’s features—despite their essentially male characteristics—had the sensitivity of the face half-smiling at him from the wall opposite.
Evidently, this was Singleton’s intimate room. The tall bookcase between the windows housed survivors from his library; chairs, table, rugs represented a final selection—a deep-rooted personal preference. Everything here had a special claim on memory. Here he sat, night after night, alone—surrounded by spiritual salvage.
“Sorry to have been so long.”
I felt fairly certain that the half-full bottle of brandy was his last, but knew it would be useless to protest. He sat down in a small arm-chair opposite mine—looked round, as if to make certain that nothing had been moved—then said:
“I get rather tired of club chatter about world conditions. Take those fellows to-night. Except Fergus, they all assumed that standards of judgment still exist.”
“Whereas, actually, they don’t?”
Of course not. It’s sauve qui peut for humanity nowadays. That’s the only operative standard. How could there be any other? Standards belong to the past—and the past has been destroyed. There are no precedents for to-day. When everything is unprecedented, history has come to an end.”
After a pause, he added:
“It would save sentimentalists some anguish if they realised what an immense advance it would be if humanity attained the ethical ideal of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”
“It would certainly save us being told, with unctuous emphasis, over the radio, that we are dropping almost nightly five times the weight of bombs dropped by the Germans during their heaviest raid over London.”
“All that will be child’s play, if the war goes on. Fergus was right when he said that V 2’s are confetti compared with what’s coming. As you doubtless know, a new hierarchy of horrors will soon be unloosed on stunned humanity.”
He took a sip of brandy, then said:
“However, we won’t bother about that. Didn’t you think that Fergus’s contrast between the murderer who sees what he has done—and those who kill anonymously—was rather effective?”
“Very effective. Fergus is one of the few people who realise how callous we’ve all become as a result of years of total war. To stay sane, we had to become callous. But the fact that we have become callous has sinister implications—and it will certainly dispel the dreams of many facile reformers.”
“That reminds me, Max. Did you hear Nugent Nunn on the radio last night? You didn’t? Pity! I’m not talking now about Nunn as a writer. Actually, as a writer, he has only one defect—he is unreadable. But, as a reformer, he mistakes his will-to-power for altruism and, like most reformers, he invents a humanity to fit his formula for regeneration.”
He rose, crossed to the table—took a cigarette from a lacquer box—then said:
“Nevertheless, without being absurdly Utopian, I do think it probable that we shall soon all achieve chain-gang equality.”
He smoked seldom and, as I watched him light his cigarette with fastidious care, it again occurred to me that everything about this man—especially his conversation—was a mask.
I began to contrast him with Mervyn, and, as a result, I suddenly asked:
“What do you make of Mervyn Maitland?”
“He’s an interesting person. Men have different ways of dealing with shattering experience. Mervyn went to the frontier of insanity. There’s no doubt whatever about that. He managed to stay just the right side of the frontier by becoming a buffoon—and by never being alone for a single second. You’ve noticed, of course, that he never is alone for a single second. People think Mervyn’s a fool, but, in point of fact, he’s not one.”
“Very far from it. If Mervyn is staging an act, he is an artist—because he never lets up on his performance.”
There was a long silence.
He still stood by the table, watching the smoke rising from his cigarette. Various theories occurred to me as I studied the upright figure, the waxen features, the deep intelligent eyes, but the most persistent was the possibility that Singleton could reveal himself to no one—and envied, therefore, men like Fergus and Mervyn who paraded every emotion for general inspection.
At last he returned to his chair.
“I want to discuss this murder, Max. As you know, criminal law is my hobby and certain criminals interest me. I was talking to Haimes of Scotland Yard yesterday. I know him fairly well and have a high opinion of his ability.”
“Why does the Carol murder interest you?”
“Because none of the usual motives is apparent. I stress the word, apparent. If there had been violation or robbery, this murder would be common form. But there was neither. Also, this girl seems to have been remarkable in some ways. In fact, the more one reviews all relevant data, the more obscure the case becomes. I do not think the murderer will be easily found.”
“Did you tell Haimes that?”
“I said it was my amateur opinion. My real reason for seeing him was that, in my view, an important aspect of the case seems to have received little attention.”
“What’s that?”
“Carol was killed with a dagger which the murderer found on the mantelpiece in her room. Clearly, therefore, the murder was either wholly unpremeditated—or it was committed by someone with intimate knowledge of Carol’s surroundings—someone who, for some reason, decided to use the dagger which he knew was in her room.”
“What did Haimes say to that?”
“It had occurred to him—naturally—but I think his main problem is that many persons visited Carol’s flat. In fact, so many that—as you know—the door of the flat and the street door were frequently left ajar. Several persons, therefore, had intimate knowledge of the contents of her rooms.”
“Does Haimes think that young student, who committed suicide, is the murderer?”
“He said little about him, but I gathered there is no evidence one way or the other. On balance, I believe the murder was premeditated—and was executed with extreme cunning.”
“Did Haimes tell you he had seen me?”
“No, but I guessed it, of course, because I knew that Carol had written to you a few hours before her death. Everything about this case is mysterious. For instance, Antony Lawless has the illogical theory that you will find the murderer.”
“I know he has. He told Mervyn so. Mervyn, too, is determined to find the murderer. You, too, are on his track. And Haimes, of course. So, between us, we ought to get him hanged.”
Singleton threw his cigarette into an ash-tray, moved his chair nearer to mine, then said:
“Probably my real interest in this case is derived from the fact that Carol was the model for Enigma. I’ve probably told you before that I’m convinced that Enigma is one of the very few nudes which this century has produced. It is a nude—not a naked woman. Tell me this: Would you have painted it if you had not met Carol.”
“No.”
“It’s the handling of the paint, my dear fellow. For years now, handling of paint has been ignored—and is, of course, dismissed by those artists who are incapable of it. You remember Gauguin said that, when in doubt about spelling, his handwriting became illegible—and that many inferior artists use a similar stratagem in painting.”
He went on to contrast the methods of Old Masters with modern ones. According to Singleton, the Old Masters used less paint, but applied it so skilfully that they obtained what has been called the “in and in look.” There were no smears in their work, but a dance of brush strokes. Compared with the Old Masters, modern artists were workmen, not creators. They “give you spectrum-colours, side by side.”