“Did he know Carol?”
“He says not.”
“Where did he get that drawing?”
“That’s a mystery. He says he bought it—at a price.”
“What did you do with the drawing when you finished it?”
“Gave it to Carol.”
“Of course you asked Harcourt how he got it?”
“Yes, and he suggested a number of ways by which he might have come by it. Said she might have sold it—or lost it—or had it stolen. Well, I can’t say that she didn’t lose it—or have it stolen—because either may have happened during the weeks before her death. As you know, I didn’t see her during that period.”
“When did Harcourt get the drawing?”
“He says only recently. Round about the time she was murdered. Here’s another point. He didn’t want me to show that drawing to any one. He was very definite about that.”
“Did he tell you anything about himself?”
“Not a lot. He said he had come to London only recently—and that he’d been away for years—a long way away.”
After a silence, Haimes said:
“You must know, Arnold, whether you believe what this fellow said, or whether you don’t.”
“I don’t think he lied consciously.”
“Well, let’s get back to the drawing. Do you think Carol sold it?”
“I’m certain she didn’t.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Because she was very attached to it. She was delighted when I gave it to her—and pleased as a child when she found it fitted the celluloid case in which she kept her identity card. She said she’d now really be able to prove who she was.”
Haimes rose, crossed to the window, then, having surveyed the frost-bound scene, turned and said:
“Tell me your most definite impressions about Harcourt.”
“I believe he was physically exhausted. I’m certain he has a superman conception of himself. Incidentally, he told me he was the greatest psychologist there has ever been. I believe that on several occasions he entirely forgot my presence—especially when he was writing in his notebook.”
“You said he made some remarks which could relate only to bis own thoughts. D’you remember any of them?”
“He said once, apropos of nothing: ‘Good enough for a text-book psychologist, I’ve no doubt.’ Another time he said: ‘Not there! Is it likely?’ But, apart from these monologues, he made some strange remarks. For instance, he told me that he ‘could hear a ghost—walking on tip-toe.’ And I’ve just remembered that he said that ‘One is always hearing voices—all sorts of voices—day and night.’ ”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
After a silence, he asked:
“Did you press Harcourt as to whether he had met Carol or not?”
“I did, but he only repeated that he had come to London recently and that he did not join the club until Carol was dead. When I said he must like the club a lot as he was always there, he made some remark to the effect that you had to be somewhere.”
“He didn’t convince you, then, that he had not met Carol?”
“I haven’t a guess whether he knew her or not. But he knows something. I haven’t a shadow of doubt about that. No idea what it is, but—he knows something. What I’d like to discover is how he got that drawing of Carol. That’s the mystery. I’m certain she did not sell it, and I’d be very surprised if she lost it.”
“Because she was so attached to it?”
“Yes. Heaven knows why, but she was.”
“And she always kept it in the case with her identity card?”
“Yes. And she always carried the case in her bag.”
“You’re—certain?”
“Quite certain.”
Then I exclaimed:
“Damn it, Haimes! You must know if that case was in Carol’s room!”
“Yes, it was there.”
“In her bag?”
“Yes.”
“Evidently the drawing wasn’t.”
“No—no drawing.”
Before I could speak, he went on:
“How did you leave things with Harcourt?”
I felt I’d better placate him, so I agreed to do the drawings he wanted—out told him I needed the drawing he had of Carol.”
“Why did you say that?”
“Because it made me feel sick to see it in his hand.”
“Did he give it to you?”
“Yes, after a lot of fuss. At one moment, he was afraid that I’d tear it up. Then he thought perhaps I’d better have it. Then he got into a panic because he was afraid I’d show it to people. I had to promise that I wouldn’t let any one see it—or tell any one that we had met.”
“Well, go on!”
“He made such a fuss about my not showing it to any one that I suggested he should put the drawing into an envelope. He thought that was a grand idea, so he put it in an envelope, then took such elaborate precautions to ensure that the flap was fast that I told him he could seal it if he liked. He thought that was an inspiration. He put a great blob of wax on the back of the envelope, then pressed it to make certain it held. It was quite a performance.”
“And then, what?”
“I told him to put the envelope in this book. As you see. I’ve brought it with me. You’ll find the envelope in it.”
“That’s first rate!”
He locked the book in a drawer.
“Now, Arnold, this is important. Have you told any one about your meeting with Harcourt?”
“Not a soul. As I’ve said, Maitland is away and I haven’t seen any one. You think it’s better not to say anything about it?”
“It’s essential. Don’t say a single word to any one.”
I got up to go.
“Well, I’m off to see Antony Lawless. I gather you’d rather I did not tell even him.”
“Much rather. Even the most trustworthy people sometimes talk in their sleep.”
“That’s true. And they sometimes walk in their sleep.”
“Did that ever happen to you?”
“Frequently—till I was eight.”
He came to the door with me.
“Thanks for telephoning at once and for coming round. Remember—not one word to anybody. You’ll hear from me soon.”
It is extraordinary how one can thread the streets of a great city and remain solitary—wholly intent on subjective things—yet avoid colliding with passers-by, and automatically take precautions before crossing the road.
I was in this abstracted state after leaving Haimes and it was not until I reached Piccadilly Circus that I became aware of surroundings—and became aware of them then only owing to a curious coincidence.
For some minutes before reaching the Circus, I had been thinking about Antony Lawless and the necessity for seeing him at once, so it was almost a shock when I looked up and saw him, twenty yards ahead, walking briskly towards St. James’s Street.
It is, of course, a fact that the least detail about a person in whom one is profoundly interested possesses not only attraction but mystery. Inevitably, a person who wakens wonder seems strange. So, as I followed Antony down Piccadilly, I tried to imagine the mission from which he was returning, or the one to which he was hastening, only to discover that I had not a guess as to the probable nature of either. There is a dreary certainty about the range of most people’s activities, but, with Antony, everything was speculative, because anything seemed possible.
I quickened my pace—came level with him—then took his arm.
“Max! . . . Where are you going?”