“You don’t always have elevated Enigma moments. Even imaginative man needs—relaxation—to slacken the tension of his nerves.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it. You didn’t always see Carol as the Enigma lady.”
He produced his pocket-book, took out a drawing, then threw it on the table.
“Recognise that?”
It was a drawing of a half-dressed Carol, which I had done two or three years ago and which she had liked so much that I gave it to her.
“Where did you get this?”
“You recognise it, then?”
“Where did you get it?”
“There’s plenty of ways I might have got it.”
“Such as?”
“She might have sold it.”
“She didn’t sell it.”
“No? Perhaps it was stolen.”
“She always carried it in her bag.”
“Things get stolen from bags.”
“Did you buy it?”
“Yes—at a price.”
“When?”
“Can’t say to a day. Round about the time she was killed.”
I went nearer to the table. He seized my arm.
“You won’t tear it up!”
“Why the hell should I tear it up?”
I stared at the drawing, re-living the autumn afternoon on which I had given it to her—watching her delight when she found that it would fit the celluloid case in which she kept her identity card.
“Gets you, doesn’t it? That drawing’s worth fifty Enigmas. Enigma would be all right—with a few additions.”
At last I managed to say:
“So the drawing appeals to you?”
“ ’Course! It’s too damned lady-like, but that could be—remedied. You must know Carol as no one did. And I’d bet a lot that she knew you as no one else does. Much better! By the way, it’s difficult not to hate the woman who knows all the little things about you. Damned difficult! All the little undignified things which no one else knows. Still, this is the real point: I suppose even you could do with more money, couldn’t you? Mervyn Maitland must cost a packet.”
“Suppose I could do with more money, what do I have to do to get it? Always assuming that you have any.”
“Don’t you bother about that. I’ve plenty. Plenty! Now, listen! And get this very straight.”
He lit a cigarette, inhaled the smoke deeply, then said:
“It so happens that Carol rings all my bells—and I’ve a lot of bells. Huge belfries, full of ’em. I’d rather look at that lady-like drawing than at a dozen naked film stars. One’s queer about things like that—as you know. I want you to do a series of drawings of Carol—not lady-like ones—and I’ll buy ’em. At a price which will surprise you.”
“That would be a—unique—commission for me.”
“Naturally. I’m a unique person. Don’t imagine you’ll meet any one in the least like me, because you won’t. And don’t pretend that you’re not a bit odd yourself, because I’m damned certain you are. You wouldn’t live with a lunatic like Maitland if there weren’t something you don’t want to think about.”
“You’re certainly a psychologist.”
“The greatest there’s ever been.”
I moved a chair nearer to his, then decided to remain standing.
“You may be the greatest psychologist there’s ever been, but your suggestion ignores several essentials from my point of view.”
“What are they?”
“My reputation, for one. Any one who knows anything would see that I’d done the drawings you want.”
“But I shouldn’t show them to any one!”
“Maybe not. But I’ve only your word for that—the word of a man who walked in from the street.”
“You must be mad! Show them to any one! D’you think I’d share them?”
“Have you shown that drawing to any one?”
“ ’Course not!”
“By the way, did you know Carol?”
He stared at me.
“Know her!”
“That’s what I said.”
“You do ask some damned soft questions! I told you I only came to London recently.”
“Still, you might have met her at the Mirage Club.”
“I didn’t join the confounded place till after she was dead.”
“Well, you evidently like it, because you’re always there.”
“You’ve got to be somewhere. That’s the hell of it—you’ve got to be somewhere! That’s why I love fogs. Then—you’re nowhere. Everything’s gone. Everything! Squalid streets; frightened faces—gone. Nothing! You’re a thought—in a stupendous shadowy brain. The last thought—in a stupendous shadowy brain.”
He looked round, as if to make certain we were alone, then said:
“Tell you something. A secret!”
“Well?”
“I did hear someone on the night of the murder. Near the end of the alley!”
He looked up at me.
“Only I could have heard that footfall. But I’d hear a ghost—walking on tip-toe.”
“Did you see any one?”
“Not telling you all my secrets.”
Suddenly he exclaimed:
“There’s no one here, is there?”
“Who do you think might join us?”
“Not surprised you don’t like this room.”
“Who do you think might join us?”
“Can’t think of any one. Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Who? . . . Who?”
“Carol!”
He rose, very slowly, then stood near me.
“You’ve—seen her—here?”
“I’ve not seen her, but I heard her say my name—in a voice that was half hers.”
“That’s nothing. One is always hearing voices—all sorts of voices—day and night.”
He looked round the room, then, evidently reassured, picked up the drawing.
“What memories must have of her! Do they wheel endlessly, like suddenly-frightened birds? Do you ache for her? Do millions of maddening Carols stampede through your mind? Is her image tattoed in your memory?”
He waited—then began to laugh.
“You don’t answer. You daren’t answer! You won’t open the locked door in your mind. You’re the real Enigma—Mr. Max Arnold.”
Again he produced the notebook, sat at the table and began to write.
Several minutes passed, but he did not pause. This time, I was convinced he had forgotten my presence. Eventually he put the notebook away, but remained at the table, in the attitude of one listening intently.
“Never! Not there! Is it likely?”
I struck a match, and the sound made him aware again of his surroundings.
“Sure Maitland isn’t here?”
“He’s away for the night.”
“He’ll go for good soon. You’ll see. You won’t be able to dodge being alone. Not you! You can knock on all the doors of the world—but every one of them will be opened by Mr. Max Arnold.”
“Do you find that every door is opened by—Hilary Harcourt?”
“Distinguished, eh? Hilary Harcourt! You don’t forget it, do you?”
Then he said, with an abrupt change of manner:
“You’ll do the drawings I want. Otherwise . . . but you’ll do them. And you won’t show them to any one. Understand?”
“I’m not likely to.”
“Never mind about ‘not likely to.’ You won’t! And you’re not to say you’ve seen me. Understand? And don’t you tell Maitland.”
“I shan’t tell Maitland. But I want that drawing of Carol.”
“What for? No, wait! Perhaps you’d better have it. Yes, you’d better have it! You’ll give it back?”