'I was right,' she said quietly. 'She had marked down the engagements as I said she would. Here they are on the date she died.'
She opened the diary, a small, red leather book. She gave it to Colonel Julyan. Once more he brought his spectacles from his case. There was a long pause while he glanced down the page. It seemed to me then that there was something about that particular moment, while he looked at the page of the diary, and we stood waiting, that frightened me more than anything that had happened that evening.
I dug my nails in my hands. I could not look at Maxim. Surely Colonel Julyan must hear my heart beating and thumping in my breast?
'Ah!' he said. His finger was in the middle of the page. Something is going to happen, I thought, something terrible is going to happen. 'Yes,' he said, 'yes, here it is. Hair at twelve, as Mrs Danvers said. And a cross beside it. She kept her appointment, then. Lunch at the club, and a cross beside that. What have we here, though? Baker, two o'clock. Who was Baker?' He looked at Maxim. Maxim shook his head. Then at Mrs Danvers.
'Baker?' repeated Mrs Danvers. 'She knew no one called Baker. I've never heard the name before.'
'Well, here it is,' said Colonel Julyan, handing her the diary. 'You can see for yourself, Baker. And she's put a great cross beside it as though she wanted to break the pencil. She evidently saw this Baker, whoever he may have been.'
Mrs Danvers was staring at the name written in the diary, and the black cross beside it. 'Baker,' she said. 'Baker.'
'I believe if we knew who Baker was we'd be getting to the bottom of the whole business,' said Colonel Julyan. 'She wasn't in the hands of moneylenders, was she?'
Mrs Danvers looked at him with scorn. 'Mrs de Winter?' she said.
'Well, blackmailers perhaps?' said Colonel Julyan, with a glance at Favell.
Mrs Danvers shook her head. 'Baker,' she repeated. 'Baker.'
'She had no enemy, no one who had ever threatened her, no one she was afraid of?'
'Mrs de Winter afraid?' said Mrs Danvers. 'She was afraid of nothing and no one. There was only one thing ever worried her, and that was the idea of getting old, of illness, of dying in her bed. She has said to me a score of times, 'When I go, Danny, I want to go quickly, like the snuffing out of a candle.' That used to be the only thing that consoled me, after she died. They say drowning is painless, don't they?'
She looked searchingly at Colonel Julyan. He did not answer. He hesitated, tugging at his moustache. I saw him throw another glance at Maxim.
'What the hell's the use of all this?' said Favell, coming forward. 'We're streaking away from the point the whole bloody time. Who cares about this Baker fellow? What's he got to do with it? It was probably some damn merchant who sold stockings, or face-cream. If he had been anyone important Danny here would know him. Rebecca had no secrets from Danny.'
But I was watching Mrs Danvers. She had the book in her hands and was turning the leaves. Suddenly she gave an exclamation.
'There's something here,' she said, 'right at the back among the telephone numbers. Baker. And there's a number beside it: 0488. But there is no exchange.'
'Brilliant Danny,' said Favell: 'becoming quite a sleuth in your old age, aren't you? But you're just twelve months too late. If you'd done this a year ago there might have been some use in it.'
'That's his number all right,' said Colonel Julyan, '0488, and the name Baker beside it. Why didn't she put the exchange?'
'Try every exchange in London,' jeered Favell. 'It will take you through the night but we don't mind. Max doesn't care if his telephone bill is a hundred pounds, do you, Max? You want to play for time, and so should I, if I were in your shoes.'
'There is a mark beside the number but it might mean anything,' said Colonel Julyan; 'take a look at it, Mrs Danvers. Could it possibly be an M?'
Mrs Danvers took the diary in her hands again. 'It might be,' she said doubtfully. 'It's not like her usual M but she may have scribbled it in a hurry. Yes, it might be M.'
'Mayfair 0488,' said Favell; 'what a genius, what a brain!'
'Well?' said Maxim, lighting his first cigarette, 'something had better be done about it. Frank? Go through and ask the exchange for Mayfair 0488.'
The nagging pain was strong beneath my heart. I stood quite still, my hands by my side. Maxim did not look at me.
'Go on, Frank,' he said. 'What are you waiting for?'
Frank went through to the little room beyond. We waited while he called the exchange. In a moment he was back again. 'They're going to ring me,' he said quietly. Colonel Julyan clasped his hands behind his back and began walking up and down the room. No one said anything. After about four minutes the telephone rang shrill and insistent, that irritating, monotonous note of a long-distance call. Frank went through to answer it. 'Is that Mayfair 0488?' he said. 'Can you tell me if anyone of the name of Baker lives there? Oh, I see. I'm so sorry. Yes, I must have got the wrong number. Thank you very much.'
The little click as he replaced the receiver. Then he came back into the room. 'Someone called Lady Eastleigh lives at Mayfair 0488. It's an address in Grosvenor Street. They've never heard of Baker.'
Favell gave a great cackle of laughter. 'The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, they all jumped out of a rotten potato,' he said. 'Carry on, detective Number One, what's the next exchange on the list?'
'Try Museum,' said Mrs Danvers.
Frank glanced at Maxim. 'Go ahead,' said Maxim.
The farce was repeated all over again. Colonel Julyan repeated his walk up and down the room. Another five minutes went by, and the telephone rang again. Frank went to answer it. He left the door wide open, I could see him lean down to the table where the telephone stood, and bend to the mouth-piece.
'Hullo? Is that Museum 0488? Can you tell me if anyone of the name of Baker lives there? Oh; who is that speaking? A night porter. Yes. Yes, I understand. Not offices. No, no of course. Can you give me the address? Yes, it's rather important.' He paused. He called to us over his shoulder. 'I think we've got him,' he said.
Oh, God, don't let it be true. Don't let Baker be found. Please God make Baker be dead. I knew who Baker was. I had known all along. I watched Frank through the door, I watched him lean forward suddenly, reach for a pencil and a piece of paper. 'Hullo? Yes, I'm still here. Could you spell it? Thank you. Thank you very much. Good night.' He came back into the room, the piece of paper in his hands. Frank who loved Maxim, who did not know that the piece of paper he held was the one shred of evidence that was worth a damn in the whole nightmare of our evening, and that by producing it he could destroy Maxim as well and truly as though he had a dagger in his hand and stabbed him in the back.
'It was the night porter from an address in Bloomsbury,' he said. 'There are no residents there at all. The place is used during the day as a doctor's consulting rooms. Apparently Baker's given up practice, and left six months ago. But we can get hold of him all right. The night porter gave me his address. I wrote it down on this piece of paper.'
Chapter twenty-five
It was then that Maxim looked at me. He looked at me for the first time that evening. And in his eyes I read a message of farewell. It was as though he leant against the side of a ship, and I stood below him on the quay. There would be other people touching his shoulder, and touching mine, but we would not see them. Nor would we speak or call to one another, for the wind and the distance would carry away the sound of our voices. But I should see his eyes and he would see mine before the ship drew away from the side of the quay. Favell, Mrs Danvers, Colonel Julyan, Frank with the slip of paper in his hands, they were all forgotten at this moment. It was ours, inviolate, a fraction of time suspended between two seconds. And then he turned away and held out his hand to Frank. 'Well done,' he said. 'What's the address?'
'Somewhere near Barnet, north of London,' said Frank, giving him the paper. 'But it's not on the telephone. We can't ring him up.'
