“Oh, yes, yes!”
“And show it to no one?”
“Do you think I want to parade it to all my friends? You can put it in an envelope, if you like.”
“That’s an idea! Here! This one will fit.”
He put the drawing into an envelope, then pressed the flap so frequently, to make certain the gum was holding, that I said:
“There’s some sealing-wax on the bureau, if you want it.”
“Yes, of course! Good idea!”
He struck a match, put a great blob of wax on the back of the envelope, licked his thumb, then pressed the wax.
“There! What shall I do with it?”
“Put it in that book. And now I’ll have to ask you to go. I’m fearfully tired.”
“Tired? You’re tired! That’s rich!”
When we reached the hall, he said:
“Come and see me off.”
As we went down the short flight of stairs leading to the main entrance, he laughed.
“Easy to get in and out without being seen—or heard. No fool, are you? At dead of night, you’d make no more noise than a ghost.”
Then he added:
“I shall go through the alley. Quicker, isn’t it?”
When we reached the pavement, he said in a whisper:
“Say nothing. Show nothing. Otherwise. . . .”
A moment later he vanished.
I returned to the sitting-room, then fell into a chair—physically exhausted, and psychically sick.
Chapter Two
REVELATIONS
Early the next morning I telephoned Haimes and was put through immediately.
“You wanted me to let you know if anything unusual happened, so——”
“And it has?
“Very unusual.”
“When could you come round?”
“Any time. Now, if you like.”
“Good! I’ll be waiting for you.”
When I went into his room Haimes greeted me with his usual imperturbability, nevertheless I felt an eagerness in him which was new. Public interest in the Chelsea Murder had not lessened and, recently, there had been covert hints in some newspapers to the effect that, doubtless, an arrest would shortly be made—and that, naturally, the present crime wave could not be expected to recede if criminals were not brought to speedy justice. Possibly, these implied criticisms had piqued Haimes’s professional pride.
“I’m expecting something, Mr. Arnold. And I’ll tell you why, though it will mean plain speaking. If you think something very unusual, it probably is—because I’ve a feeling that there are many things which you would think normal enough, but other people would find them decidedly queer.”
“I dare say you’re right. Anyhow, it’s for you to judge whether what I have to tell you is unusual, and whether it has any value. But I want to make it plain from the outset that the incident I’ve come to tell you about would never have happened except for Mervyn Maitland.”
“How does he come into it?”
“He’s always had a hunch that the murderer would be found at the Mirage Club. That’s why he’s haunted the place, as you probably know. I assume you’ve kept one eye on that club.”
“We didn’t forget it.”
“Well, Maitland insisted that I should go there, which I did very reluctantly, because I hate the damned place. I went there alone three times. No one at the club knew who I was. On my third visit, a few days ago, I ran into a man I know who shouted my name at me top of his voice, with the result that several people heard it. One of them—a man—turned up at my flat last night and said he wanted a long talk with me.”
“Name?”
“Hilary Harcourt. Incidentally, he seems very proud of his name. He asked twice if I did not think it very distinguished. He also said that you don’t forget it.”
“Was Maitland at the flat?”
“No, he’s away and won’t be back till to-morrow.”
“What did you make of Harcourt?”
“I found him very eccentric—even by my standards.”
I then gave a short summary of Harcourt’s attitude on arrival and stressed the fact that although I found him extremely repellent, I instinctively felt that I must listen to what he had to say.
“Is he intelligent?”
“The word isn’t applicable. He has insight—and insight from a very disturbing angle.”
“That’s something, coming from you.”
“Insight usually belongs to queer people. The normal only see what they expect. Harcourt, however, is in a special category.”
Then I exclaimed irritably:
“Look here, Haimes! I’m not going to describe Harcourt at length unless you tell me what you know about him. God knows I don’t want to talk about him at all! So I’m certainly not going to make this longer than it need be by telling you things which you already know.”
“I know something, of course, about all the people who frequent the Mirage Club. Wait a minute!”
He picked up the receiver, gave a number, then asked for some papers to be brought to him immediately.
When they arrived, he glanced at them, then said:
“Harcourt is a recent member of the club—he doesn’t talk to the other members—and he’s always writing in a notebook. That’s all I know about him—plus the fact that he’s extremely shabby.”
“His clothes are grimy, but their quality is first-class.”
“That’s interesting. You use your eyes. Perhaps he’s come down in the world.”
“He says he’s plenty of money. If that’s a lie, it’s a stupid one—as you’ll see later. By the way, this may interest you: he hinted that I am the murderer.”
There was a pause, then he said:
“Only hinted? Didn’t put up anything which he regarded as evidence?”
“No—only hints. He’s intuitive in his way. Things that would tell most people nothing tell Harcourt quite a lot. Anyhow, I dare say he’s not the first to think that I may have murdered Carol. In fact, I know he isn’t the first. But one thing is quite certain: the issue is between Harcourt and me. You must make what you can of that remark.”
“Well, go on!”
“Harcourt first discussed the night of the murder. He says he was out that night—near Mitre Street. He also says that he loves fogs and has always loved them. He went on to say that, when you’re in a fog, you’re ‘A thought in a stupendous shadowy brain—the last thought in a stupendous shadowy brain.’ ”
“He’s a madman, then?”
“Or a Surrealist. It’s for you to judge. He made several strange remarks and did several strange things. Anyhow, he says that, on the night of the murder, he was near the end of the alley—and that he heard someone.”
“D’you believe him?”
“He knows something. No doubt about that. Here’s two more facts which may interest you. Every now and again, after a silence, he would make a remark which could have had relevance only to his own thoughts. Also, more than once, he produced a notebook, then wrote in it as if he were alone.”
“Anything else?”
“He thinks he’s a genius, but that’s very common nowadays. He made several penetrating remarks about me, but there’s no point in quoting them. Don’t imagine he’s a fool, because, I assure you, he isn’t.”
“Perhaps he got his penetrating remarks about you from someone else.”
“I don’t think so. But here’s something which will probably interest you, I asked him if he thought that Chelsea student had murdered Carol. That amused him very much, but eventually he said: ‘That’s the kind of luck a genius gets.’ ”
I took the cigarette which Haimes offered me, then went on:
“Now we get to the real reason for his visit. He produced a drawing of a half-dressed Carol, which I did two or three years ago. He said it was much better than Enigma, Its only fault was that it was too lady-like. He wanted me to do a series of unlady-like drawings of Carol—for which he would pay a lot.”