Mervyn passed his hands through his hair, then went on:
“As Buck was now—literally—talking in astronomical figures, it seemed an appropriate background on which to mention the question of my salary. So I mentioned the question of my salary.”
“With satisfactory results, I hope.”
“I regret to inform you, Max, that Buck returned to earth with a celerity unknown to light. Also, he became smaller, physically. A fact which, doubtless, Einstein could explain—but one which I could only regard as a symbol. Buck then said that, as regards my salary, he had a purely nominal figure in view—but my commission would be generous. He repeated that my job would be to sell a vacuum to every housewife in the London area. He then added that he would rather I did not have affairs with customers—but he admitted that what I did in my own time had nothing whatever to do with The Whistle-While-You-Work Vacuum Cleaner Limited.”
“So you don’t think that Buck’s vision of inter-stellar trade will come off?”
“Everything is possible, Max, except sanity. Buck’s scheme leaves one thing out. Which is, that men will probably shortly blow the earth to smithereens. I shall be sorry if they do because, I understand, that might involve the destruction of the moon. And the moon consoles Mervyn Maitland. I’ll tell you something. One evening last week, I found myself in Seven Dials—a spot which owes more to the ingenuity of man than it does to the inspiration of the Creator. I was thinking how drab, dull, and dismal, everything was; when, suddenly, the clouds relented and the ghostly glory of a full moon transfigured squalid streets. Mervyn Maitland bowed his head. Wonder stirred in his battered heart. He walked slowly on, in a mood of mystic reverence—then ran bang into Siegfried Bottomley who has the puerile delusion that I owe him ten pounds.”
Mervyn sighed deeply.
After a silence, I asked whether it were still a fact that he had had no communication of any kind from his family. And whether it was still true that none of them knew where he was. He replied that those facts still stood—that he had won the Fight for Freedom—and that future acts of aggression on the home front would be ruthlessly suppressed.
“D’you mean to tell me, Mervyn, that your family don’t even know that you’re a member of the club?”
“They know nothing. As I’ve said before, I would like to see Drina. Still, she’d find me if she wants me. She’s only just over sixteen, but has initiative. She has many of her father’s gifts. The simple fact is that I ought not to have married Ella. Purely my mother’s doing. But I’m free, and am going to remain free.”
He drew his chair nearer the fire, put his feet on the mantelpiece, then exclaimed:
“I say, Max! Just remembered something. But, first, tell me if you’ve been to the Mirage Club lately.”
“Not for some little time. And I’m not going again. Why?”
“When I was there last, I noticed a seedy bloke, writing in a notebook. He kept looking at me in a peculiar way.”
“How long ago?”
“Four or five days.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. He’s always there, but, for some reason. I’ve never taken much interest in him till my last visit. I wondered if you’d noticed him.”
“He was there the night we talked to the Polish woman. I thought I mentioned him to you. I haven’t seen him at the club since.”
“Odd-looking fellow. He studied me as if I were a new arrival at the Zoo. He’d gaze at me, then write like anything in that notebook. Still, heaven knows, you see some strange specimens at that club.”
He rose, stretched, then lit a cigarette.
“And now; Max, I’m going to tell you about the most extraordinary meeting I’ve ever had in the whole of my life.”
“Sounds promising.”
“The most extraordinary, without any exception whatever. Destiny makes my dates—and she certainly fixed up a strange one yesterday.”
He turned, leaned against the mantelpiece, then went on:
“It happened like this. I ran into Antony Lawless at about half-past twelve yesterday. He said he had seen you. Incidentally, he didn’t seem to be his usual serene self. But, possibly, that was because he had to go to Hove, although it was extremely inconvenient.”
He broke off, then asked:
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Go on!”
“Well, we got talking—you know how it is—and then I made a shattering discovery. Antony told me he ought to go to Hove to see a woman who was mad and who would not live much longer. That interested me, so I asked who it was—and discovered it was Carol’s mother. Then I remembered that I had seen references, in the early newspaper reports of the murder, to Mrs. Norton, but she soon went out of the news, so I forgot about her. You never mentioned Carol’s mother—no one ever mentioned her—so I never gave a thought to Mrs. Norton. It was a devil of a shock, therefore, to discover that Carol’s mother was out of her mind and living with a companion at Hove.”
He paused, evidently expecting some comment, but as I made none, he went on:
“Antony said that he only went to Hove to give the companion a break—and he also said that, on recent visits, Mrs. Norton had not recognised him. So I suggested that I should go in his place. He thought about that quite a bit, then said it was a peculiar suggestion, but it really didn’t matter who went, as Mrs. Norton didn’t recognise visitors. He then made the extraordinary remark that perhaps I could do more for her than he could. I’ve no idea what he meant, of course. Anyhow, he eventually said that he would telephone Hove, and tell the companion that a Mr. Mervyn Maitland would come in his place. Whereupon, I borrowed the fare from him—and a bit extra for a few flowers. So, having had one petrified bun and some icy tea at Victoria—during a lull in exploding V 2’s—I caught a train to Hove soon after two.”
Before he could continue, I exclaimed:
“Don’t bother to describe her room! It runs the length of the house. There’s one of her husband’s posters over the mantelpiece—photographs of Carol—dance programmes, and odds and ends, all over the place!”
“So you’ve been there!”
“Didn’t she tell you I had?”
“She forgets everything directly it’s happened. You really are an incalculable being! Why on earth didn’t you tell me you had met Mrs. Norton?”
“Because I wanted to forget it. That’s why.”
“Really? Isn’t that odd? I found her familiar, in a peculiar kind of way. Still, perhaps there’s a good reason for that. She’s out of her mind. She’s not dangerous, like the sane, but she is mad. And I am—well, not entirely normal, shall we say? So it was a meeting between the end of the road and the half-way house.”
He explained that, on arrival, he had a talk to Mrs. Norton’s companion, whom he called Gertrude. He said she had grey hair, balanced features, and calm steadfast eyes—and that she also had the “concentration of one intent on a single objective.” Mervyn was warned not to be surprised by anything Mrs. Norton said, because she frequently confused dreams with actual events.
“So, having been briefed, I went into her room. It’s been altered since your visit. A curtain now cuts off the part by the window facing the back garden. This curtained recess is her bedroom. So, on entering, no one was visible. I was confronted by a curtain and silence.”
Pause.
“Bit awkward! Still, after a moment’s hesitation, I parted the curtain and went in, so to speak. She was in bed, motionless, and looked so frail that she might have been a spirit. When she became aware of my presence, she raised herself on wand-like arms, then pointed to a chair. I sat down, but said nothing because any customary greeting would have been quite incongruous.”