He began to stride up and down the room.
“You never seem to have asked yourself the most obvious questions. Why d’you imagine that all sorts of unhappy people were always going to her flat? Because she radiated something which precious few people possess. That’s why. She had no resentment, no pride, no hatred. She accepted everything that had happened to her—all the squalor, all the humiliations—accepted them gratefully because, through them, she met you.”
“It sounds like a dream to me.”
“Perhaps you’ll discover how right the French are when they say that the true is always the incredible. You never imagined that you’d be in love with her. So, perhaps, you’ll eventually find out how wholly she was in love with you.”
“You said you had overwhelming reason for knowing what Carol’s feelings were for me. What is that overwhelming reason?”
There was a long silence before he said slowly:
“The fact that she wouldn’t marry me.”
I rose, then went to him.
“You asked Carol to marry you?”
“Yes.”
“And you mean to tell me that she refused?”
“Yes.”
“Because she was in love with me?”
“Yes. And now you know everything.”
I went into the hall—got my hat and overcoat—then returned.
“I may know everything, but I realise none of it. I’m going. The next time we meet, we shall know who murdered her.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“It doesn’t matter how. The next time I come here, we shall know who murdered her.”
Chapter Three
AN AFTERNOON WITH MERVYN
The next day, I returned to the flat at about four o’clock to find Mervyn in the sitting-room, arranging numerous newspapers on the table. He seemed larger and better dressed even than usual and had an alert confident air which was new and impressive.
He was delighted to see me. He announced that we would have a drink as he had managed to get a bottle of whisky owing to high-pressure barter, and that then he would give an account of remarkable adventures during his two days’ absence.
He made me sit in the best chair—drew the curtains—switched on all the lights—then returned to the newspapers.
“Must glance at these, Max. Perhaps peace has been declared and we’ve missed it.”
He ran an expert eye over a popular newspaper.
He threw the paper aside, picked up another and scanned the headlines.
“What a mess, Max! What a spectacle the era of Progress presents! In its way, a fascinating spectacle. Interesting to the head—annihilating to the heart . . . Here’s some fellow writing about the verdict of history. Would you believe it? Probably a future historian won’t have any space to spare for the Second World war.”
He picked up another paper, studied it for a couple of minutes, then threw it on to the floor.
“It’s interesting that proprietors of popular newspapers evidently still believe in the infallibility of the dope. It’s also interesting that our publicists apparently do not know that the English are the most instinctive people in the world who sense all the facts—although they are rarely told any of them.”
He gathered the papers together, then crammed them into a waste-paper basket.
“Tell me something, Max. You’ve lived most of your life abroad, so you ought to have perspective. What will happen to England after the war?”
“A miracle. An economic Dunkirk.”
“But why should a miracle happen to England?”
“Because England believes in miracles.”
He paced up and down for a few moments, then announced:
“You’re right. A miracle will happen. Incidentally, one has just happened to me.”
Before I could speak, he went on:
“I’ve just had two extraordinary meetings—extraordinary, even by my standards. Very different, but very remarkable. Shall I tell you about them?”
“Nothing I’d like better.”
“Before I start, you look different.”
“I feel different.”
He lit a cigarette, mixed another drink, then leaned against the mantelpiece, in the attitude of one about to be interviewed by the press.
“Now, this is important. I don’t want you to think I’ve suddenly become an optimist. Most optimism is, of course, merely an evasion. It’s a device to dodge suffering. Nevertheless, I must say that I take a less foggy view than I did of post-war economic prospects.”
“How do you account for that?”
“I’ve been offered a job.”
An impressive silence.
“I—Mervyn Maitland—have been offered a job.”
“What sort of a job?
“I’ll tell you.”
He moved an arm-chair nearer to mine, then sat down, leaned forward, and said:
“I ran into Buck Broadside this morning. Not a bad fellow. Bit flamboyant. Still, Buck’s all right—if you like technicolour. He whisked me off to an ornate club—infested exclusively by Black Marketeers—led me to a corner table in a chromium bar, then ordered two double whiskies.”
Pause.
“Buck says he’s got a job for me directly the war ends. He also said that he was going to make a packet but there wasn’t any time to lose because, after the war, we should get a Kerensky government and, after them, we should get ‘the bloody Bolshies.’ ”
He half-emptied his glass, then went on:
“Buck announced that I had a unique knowledge of the difficulties of women—that I got on well with them—and those facts made me the ideal man for the job he had to offer. He added that he was speaking in absolute confidence—and I said I would not say a word to any one.”
Pause.
“This is the set-up. Directly peace strikes stunned humanity. Buck is going to float a company—The Whistle-While-You-Work Vacuum Cleaner Limited. He said he’d swamp the home market with vacuums at a price which would annihilate competition.”
Another pause.
“Then Buck became expansive. He was lyrical about the post-war export drive. His theme was that markets were limitless—and he certainly was. He said he was going to sell a vacuum to every member of the ‘backward races.’ I was distressed to learn that, according to Buck, the backward races comprise nearly three-quarters of humanity. He said the purchasing power of the backward races would have to be increased. He didn’t say how—but no one ever does, Anyway, before I knew where I was, China, India, Africa were all luxuriating in whistling leisure. This vision of Paradise Regained so exhilarated Buck that he ordered two more doubles.”
Mervyn finished his drink.
“I was pretty impressed by all this, but Buck now revealed cosmic horizons. He said that modern science would soon make inter-stellar trade possible. One had to face it and he, Buck, did face it. I tried to, but soon got dizzy. By now, however. Buck was doing a humming trade with the inhabitants of Mars and Venus—who, hitherto, had not been contaminated by contact with humanity. Buck wasn’t certain whether Mars and Venus would be on the gold standard, or in the sterling area, or in the dollar pool. He thought the dollar pool was the most likely. With an escalator clause—of course.”
Pause.
“But Man and Venus weren’t enough for Buck. There’s nothing of the parish pump about him. Soon the whole of the Milky Way was resounding with the rhythmic hum of Whistle-While-You-Work vacuum cleaners. Nature will have to stop abhorring a vacuum when Buck really gets going.”