I said nothing and at last he added:
“I’m counting on you to let me know anything which seems peculiar to you. Possibly you’ll remember something.”
“Possibly. If I do, I’ll let you know.”
I rose and was about to go, when he said:
“You can take Carol’s letter. I’ve finished with it.”
Nearly a minute passed before I crossed to his desk, picked up the letter—then went slowly out of the room.
Chapter Four
PRELUDE TO CONFESSION
When I reached the antique shop, I came to a standstill. This was the moment for final decision. Until now, I could persuade myself that at any minute I should abandon the insane idea of confessing to Antony Lawless, but, now, the issue was inescapable. Either I should go up to his flat—or I should return to Chelsea.
Some time passed, but I remained on the pavement, looking at the sitting-room windows. I felt certain he was in. Perhaps he had seen me. Perhaps he was standing behind those curtains, wondering why I stayed so long in the frost-grey street.
All sorts of irrelevant thoughts wandered through my mind. The flat had been lent to Antony by the colonel of his regiment. Perhaps the colonel had returned and was now gazing at the photographs of school teams and regimental groups—at snapshots of relatives, horses, dogs—at the cuckoo-clock on the mantelpiece. Perhaps, at this actual minute, the colonel was looking at these relics of a world which had become almost indistinguishable from a dream.
Then it occurred to me that, even now, I could postpone a final decision. Why had I assumed that, if I went to his flat, I should inevitably confess? Probably, directly I found myself in his presence, the absurdity of confession would instantly become apparent. Perhaps we should talk generalities for half an hour, then I should go back to Chelsea. But one thing was certain: in no circumstances would I discuss my visit to Mrs. Norton, or tell him that she had sent me the album containing Carol’s photographs.
I climbed slowly up the rather steep stairs.
The flat door was open and, as I entered the hall, I heard a woman’s voice, then Antony’s. When I went into the sitting-room, I indicated that they were not to interrupt their conversation, then sat down and lit a cigarette.
I had not seen the woman before. She was about twenty-three, dark, and had an attraction not wholly attributable to physical desirability. They were talking trivialities, yet everything they said, and everything they did, seemed to possess peculiar interest. Sometimes, at a play, you are enthralled by a scene between two characters. There is nothing exceptional about it—it does not contain a single conventional thrill—but, somehow, the characters dower dialogue and action with imaginative magic. You seem to be watching a world where everything is happening for the first time.
Antony and this unknown woman created that effect, consequently I did not mind how long their conversation lasted. I was content to watch and listen, particularly as I became aware of a quality in her which was not easy to define.
She had no affectation, no self-consciousness—none of the pseudo-animation which many modern women parade, evidently believing that men find it attractive. She did not say what she thought he would want her to say. She did not pose as an inhabitant of his world. She remained in her own—and was delightfully at home in it.
When she learned my name, she asked if Antony were expecting me, and when I told her I had called on chance, she said it was odd because they had been talking about Enigma.
Then she asked:
“Is it true you don’t know where the picture is?”
“Perfectly true. I do not even know who bought it.”
She left a few moments later and, when Antony returned, I said:
“You have a strange effect on women. I’ve often noticed it. They don’t stage their modern-woman-act with you.”
“That’s because I don’t treat them as equals. Sit by the fire, Max. It’s good to see you.”
I sat in an arm-chair, took the cigarette he offered me, then said:
“Why don’t you treat them as equals?”
“Because they’re not. You can regard them as superiors, or inferiors, but not as equals. Personally, I think they should be regarded as superiors, because they are so plastic that they would soon earn the distinction if they don’t possess it already. Anyhow, it seems to me that men’s outlook on women is entirely conditioned by their outlook on the future. When faith in the future is strong, women are honoured. When it’s weak, they aren’t. Anyway, for me, a meeting with a woman is adventure.”
“In what way?”
“I’ll put it like this. When you are with a man, you’ve a pretty good idea how he will reach an opinion about you, because you know what he regards as important. But, with a woman, you haven’t a guess. Things wholly trivial to you—movements, gestures, tone of the voice, and so on—will probably be all-important to her. That’s why it’s easier to deceive a man than it is to deceive a woman. You can camouflage yourself when you’re with a man, because you know what he will look for. But you can’t with a woman—because you’ve no idea what she regards as revealing.”
He laughed—moved an arm-chair nearer the fire—then sat down.
After a long silence, I said:
“You know that Mervyn’s living with me?”
“Yes, he told me some time ago.”
I began to talk about Mervyn, only because I wanted to restrict the conversation to “safe” subjects, but, against my will, I ended by saying:
“Mervyn tells me that you think I shall find the murderer.”
“I told you so too. But Mervyn possibly isolated it from its context. I was telling him how uncannily clairvoyant you are. So much so that, if you really wanted to find the murderer, you would find him.”
“What did Mervyn say?”
“He said you certainly were clairvoyant—and that you wanted to find the murderer more than anything else in the world.”
Again, there was a long silence.
Then, simply in order to say something, I asked:
“Any idea when the colonel returns?”
“No—none.”
Pause.
“What’s happened to the cuckoo-clock?”
“The main-spring’s gone. They’ll take three months to repair it.”
I knew that if I did not go now I should tell him things about myself which I had told no one. I also knew that, if I went, he would know I had run away. I had seen him only once since Carol’s death—I had avoided him ever since my meeting with Mrs. Norton—so he would certainly guess that I had not come to-day to chatter generalities.
He rose, switched on a reading-lamp, then crossed to the window and drew the curtain.
Why had he suddenly made the room more intimate? Had he done it deliberately—or had it no significance?
He returned to his arm-chair. I knew that he would not be the first to speak.
The bedroom door must have been ajar, because I could hear a clock ticking.
I do not know how long the silence lasted.
“I’ve come to tell you something. You knew that, of course. Ever since our first meeting I’ve known that, sooner or later, you’d be involved in a crisis in my life. But there’s all the difference between knowing that an hour will come—and hearing it strike.”