There's a barber's shop on the south side, about half way along--one of those places where you go down a passage and there's a door at the end with a mirror and the name written across it in gold letters. You know what I mean.
'I went in there. There was a light in the passage, so I could see quite plainly. As I got up to the mirror I could see my reflection coming to meet me, and all of a sudden the awful dream-feeling came over me. I told myself it was all nonsense and put my hand out to the door-handle--my left hand, because the handle was that side and I was still apt to be left-handed when I didn't think about it.
'The reflection, of course, put out its right hand--that was all right, of course--and I saw my own figure in my old squash hat and burberry--but the face--oh, my God! It was grinning at me--and then just like in the dream, it suddenly turned its back and walked away from me, looking over its shoulder--
'I had my hand on the door, and it opened, and I felt myself stumbling and falling over the threshold.
'After that, I don't remember anything more. I woke up in my own bed and there was a doctor with me. He told me I had fainted in the street, and they'd found some letters on me with my address and taken me home.
'I told the doctor all about it, and he said I was in a highly nervous condition and ought to find a change of work and get out in the open air more.
'They were very decent to me at Crichton's. They put me on to inspecting their outdoor publicity. You know. One goes round from town to town inspecting the hoardings and seeing what posters are damaged or badly placed and reporting on them. They gave me a Morgan to run about in. I'm on that job now.
'The dreams are better. But I still have them. Only a few nights ago it came to me. One of the worst I've ever had. Fighting and strangling in a black, misty place. I'd tracked the devil--my other self--and got him down. I can feel my fingers on his throat now--killing myself.
'That was in London. I'm always worse in London. Then I came up here....
'You see why that book interested me. The fourth dimension . . . it's not a thing I ever heard of, but this man Wells seems to know all about it. You're educated now. Daresay you've been to college and all that. What do you think about it, eh?'
'I should think, you know,' said Wimsey, 'it was more likely your doctor was right. Nerves and all that.'
'Yes, but that doesn't account for me having got twisted round the way I am, now, does it? Legends, you talked of. Well, there's some people think those medeeval johnnies knew quite a lot. I don't say I believe in devils and all that. But maybe some of them may have been afflicted, same as me. It stands to reason they wouldn't talk such a lot about it if they hadn't felt it, if you see what I mean. But what I'd like to know is, can't I get back any way? I tell you, it's a weight on my mind. I never know, you see.'
'I shouldn't worry too much, if I were you,' said Wimsey. 'I'd stick to the fresh-air life. And I'd get married. Then you'd have a check on your movements, don't you see. And the dreams might go again.'
'Yes. Yes. I've thought of that. But--did you read about that man the other day? Strangled his wife in his sleep, that's what he did. Now, supposing I--that would be a terrible thing to happen to a man, wouldn't it? Those dreams....'
He shook his head and stared thoughtfully into the fire. Wimsey, after a short interval of silence, got up and went out into the bar. The landlady and the waiter and the barmaid were there, their heads close together over the evening paper. They were talking animatedly, but stopped abruptly at the sound of Wimsey's footsteps.
Ten minutes later, Wimsey returned to the lounge. The little man had gone. Taking up his motoring-coat, which he had flung on a chair, Wimsey went upstairs to his bedroom. He undressed slowly and thoughtfully, put on his pyjamas and dressing-gown, and then, pulling a copy of the Evening News from his motoring-coat pocket, he studied a front-page item attentively for some time. Presently he appeared to come to some decision, for he got up and opened his door cautiously. The passage was empty and dark. Wimsey switched on a torch and walked quietly along, watching the floor. Opposite one of the doors he stopped, contemplating a pair of shoes which stood waiting to be cleaned. Then he softly tried the door. It was locked. He tapped cautiously.
A red head emerged.
'May I come in a moment?' said Wimsey, in a whisper.
The little man stepped back, and Wimsey followed him in.
'What's up?' said Mr Duckworthy.
'I want to talk to you,' said Wimsey. 'Get back into bed, because it may take some time.'
The little man looked at him, scared, but did as he was told. Wimsey gathered the folds of his dressing- gown closely about him, screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked at Mr Duckworthy a few minutes without speaking, and then said:
'Look here. You've told me a queerish story tonight. For some reason I believe you. Possibly it only shows what a silly ass I am, but I was born like that, so it's past praying for. Nice, trusting nature and so on. Have you seen the paper this evening?'
He pushed the Evening News into Mr Duckworthy's hand and bent the monocle on him more glassily than ever.
On the front page was a photograph. Underneath was a panel in bold type, boxed for greater emphasis:
'The police at Scotland Yard are anxious to get in touch with the original of this photograph, which was found in the handbag of Miss Jessie Haynes, whose dead body was found strangled on Barnes Common last Thursday morning. The photograph bears on the back the words 'J. H. with love from R. D.' Anybody recognising the photograph is asked to communicate immediately with Scotland Yard or any police station.'
Mr Duckworthy looked, and grew so white that Wimsey thought he was going to faint.
'Well?' said Wimsey.
'Oh, God, sir! Oh, God! It's come at last.' He whimpered and pushed the paper away, shuddering. 'I've always known something of this would happen. But as sure as I'm born I knew nothing about it.'
'It's you all right, I suppose?'
'The photograph's me all right. Though how it came there I don't know. I haven't had one taken for donkey's years, on my oath I haven't--except once in a staff group at Crichton's. But I tell you, sir, honest-to-God, there's times when I don't know what I'm doing, and that's a fact.'
Wimsey examined the portrait feature by feature.
'Your nose, now--it has a slight twist--if you'll excuse my referring to it--to the right, and so it has in the photograph. The left eyelid droops a little. That's correct, too. The forehead here seems to have a distinct bulge on the left side--unless that's an accident in the printing.'
'No!' Mr Duckworthy swept his tousled cow-lick aside. 'It's very conspicuous--unsightly, I always think, so I wear the hair over it.'
With the ginger lock pushed back, his resemblance to the photograph was more startling than before.
'My mouth's crooked, too.'
'So it is. Slants up to the left. Very attractive, a one-sided smile, I always think--on a face of your type, that is. I have known such things to look positively sinister.'
Mr Duckworthy smiled a faint, crooked smile.
'Do you know this girl, Jessie Haynes?'
'Not in my right sense, I don't, sir. Never heard of her--except, of course, that I read about the murders in the papers. Strangled--oh, my God!' He pushed his hands out in front of him and stated woefully at them.
'What can I do? If I was to get away--'
'You can't. They've recognised you down in the bar. The police will probably be here in a few minutes. No'--as Duckworthy made an attempt to get out of bed--'don't do that. It's no good, and it would only get you into worse trouble. Keep quiet and answer one or two questions. First of all, do you know who I am? No, how should you? My name's Wimsey--Lord Peter Wimsey--'
'The detective?'
'If you like to call it that. Now, listen. Where was it you lived at Brixton?'
The little man gave the address.
'Your mother's dead. Any other relatives?'
