I do not know what he said on seeing me, or whether he said anything, because his whole attitude made it plain that I was as unwelcome as a bomb. And although, eventually, he did ask me to come in, he qualified the invitation with the remark that he had very little time and a great deal to do.
I noticed a couple of suitcases in the hall and, when we went into the sitting-room, I saw a half-filled trunk near the window.
“So you’re going away?”
“Yes.”
I waited, but, as he did not say where or for how long, I lit a cigarette and wondered whether he would ask me to sit down.
“I shall have to go on packing. I’ve a lot to arrange.”
There was a long silence, but at last he said irritably:
“I thought you told me that, when we next met, we should know who murdered Carol.”
“So you haven’t seen the paper?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“She was murdered by Hilary Harcourt.”
“Hilary Harcourt?”
“You don’t know the name?”
“Never heard it in my life.”
“Perhaps you’ll recognise his description. He’s about forty-five—wears very dingy clothes of good quality—sandy hair—deep-sunk eyes—puffy features. He seems physically exhausted, and seldom looks at you. Know any one who fits that description?”
“No one.”
Then he added:
“You evidently know him well.”
“We’ll come to that in a minute. He says he did not know Carol. I thought he might be lying, but, as you have never heard his name and don’t recognise a description of him, it looks as if he wasn’t lying.”
“How long have you known him?”
“I don’t know him. He came to my flat—once.”
“So you found Carol’s murderer. I thought you might. All the same, it’s ironical that you did. What made come to your flat?”
I explained the circumstances which had led to Harcourt’s midnight visit, then said:
“When I was here last, I’d come straight from Haimes, but I said nothing about Harcourt, because Haimes insisted on silence.”
He lit a cigarette, then said with studied deliberation:
“I think they’ve got the wrong man.”
“What?”
“I think they’ve got the wrong man. In fact. I’m certain they have—unless Harcourt is a homicidal maniac who murders indiscriminately. And that’s what you’d have to believe—if he did not know Carol. One thing’s certain: if he did know her, I should have heard his name.”
“They can’t have got the wrong man!”
“Why not? And why are you so disturbed by that possibility?”
“If Harcourt didn’t murder her, I did.”
“Have you told Haimes that?”
“I told him that the issue is between Harcourt and me.”
“What humbug! I suppose you know whether you murdered her or whether you didn’t.”
“I don’t know.”
“I haven’t time to listen to nonsense.”
“Perhaps you’ll find time to listen to the truth.”
Then I told him how—when I returned to my flat on the night of the murder—I hesitated before going to bed because I had the peculiar sensation that there was something which must be done immediately.
“Not very surprising—as you’d had that letter from Carol.”
“I didn’t read it. I only read the opening sentences. That may surprise you, but——”
“It doesn’t surprise me. It’s—unbelievable.”
“Well, it’s the fact. So my feeling that there was something which had to be done was not caused by Carol’s letter.”
I told him that I went to bed at about three o’clock—and then I told him the dream.
I ended by saying:
“That was the dream. And, when I woke, I could not believe that it was the dream. When details of the murder were given in the press, they coincided with those of my dream. I’ve told you that, till I was eight, I often walked in my sleep. Well, in view of all the terrible evidence, d’you wonder I was forced to believe that I had walked in my sleep to Mitre Street—and murdered Carol? Wait! When I was a child, it was when I became obsessed by something that I walked in my sleep—obsessed by the Empty House, or by a puppy which I loved passionately. One night I walked in my sleep to the stables to pat him and, while I was doing it, I dreamed that I was going to the stables. Well, I was obsessed by Carol—obsessed by the idea of breaking with her—so was it surprising that I thought I had walked in my sleep to Mitre Street?
“Especially as you wanted Carol to die.”
“You don’t forget much.”
He began to pace the room. I was still standing, though I doubt if he was aware of it. He seemed chiefly concerned not to lose control. Several minutes passed before he said:
“I thought you knew more about yourself than any man I’ve ever met. I was wrong. You’ve been torturing yourself for weeks about something which should have been perfectly plain from the outset.”
“I don’t know what any of that means.”
“That’s unbelievable. But everything about you is unbelievable—with one exception. Surely you’ve good reason for knowing that you frequently feel what is happening to others when you are not with them. I reminded you recently of the time we stayed at Laleham together. Boyd was in a cottage down the lane. He was ill, but the doctor did not think he was in any danger. One night you came to my room and said you were certain Boyd was dead. In the morning, we heard he had died in his sleep. I tell you all this again because you seem to have forgotten it.”
Almost immediately, he went on:
“And what about the Empty House? You knew nothing of the family which had once lived there—and yet you imagined one which was identical with the family which had actually lived in that house. And not only that. When you saw that house for the first time, you sensed tragedy. And there are other examples of how you know what is happening—or what has happened—to people when you are not with them.”
He stopped near me, then asked:
“What really caused that dream? You’d had a letter from Carol. The opening sentences told you that she wanted you to go to her flat. She’d never asked anything like that before and it irritated you, because you wanted to break with her. You wanted to break so much that you hoped she would die. And—because you’re clairvoyant—you felt that something menaced her. That’s why you knew there was something which must be done immediately.”
“Well, go on!”
“That was your state when you went to sleep. Then—in your dream—you saw what was happening in her flat. You saw the murder. An element of confusion was introduced by the fact that your hatred of Carol made you identify yourself with the murderer. But surely, when you woke, you—of all men—should have realised what had actually happened.”
“It all sounds very lucid and logical when it’s put like that—although it entirely ignores the possibility that I had walked in my sleep to Mitre Street.”
“All right!” he exclaimed irritably. “Then perhaps you’ll tell me this: If you were afraid that the dream was not a dream, why didn’t you tell someone about it? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“That’s an odd question—coming from you. There are about a dozen answers. Here’s one of them. You are always alone in a vital crisis. That’s the sign that it is a vital crisis. If you can talk about it, it’s only a problem. Surely you—of all men—know that there’s a time when one must be silent, and a time when one can speak.”