“I don’t believe,” thought Margaret, “that either of them know this man Masterson at all. That’s all part of the camouflage, that is. And then there’s that bit of terrible Latin. I thought better of Colonel Gethryn, I did. Still, there it is: ‘This matter is of the greatest importance. Obey immediately.’ Cicero indeed!”
She glanced at her watch. A quarter of an hour wasted already!
An idea came to her. Hastings had gone out for food. In that case he might, if he had indeed gone there, still be at that pseudo-Johnsonian haunt, The Cock. Thither she sent a messenger, hotfoot. He was back within five minutes, No, the boss wasn’t there.
“Damn!” said Miss Warren.
She looked again at her watch. Twenty past ten. She put on her hat—the little black hat which played such havoc with the emotions of the editor. The copy of Anthony’s message she placed on Hastings’s table, together with another hastily scribbled note. Then she went down the stairs and out into Fleet Street.
After three attempts, she found a taxi whose driver was willing to take her so far afield as Forest Road, N.W. 5.
The journey, the driver said, would take ’arfenar or thereabouts. Margaret employed it in constructing two stories, one to be used if this man Masterson turned out to be over fifty, the other if he were under. They were good tales, and she was pleased with them. The “under-fifty” one involved an Old Mother, Mistaken Identity, and an Ailing Fiancée. The “over-fifty” one was, if anything, better, dealing as it did with A Maiden from Canada, A Times “Agony,” Tears, A Lost Kitten, and A Railway Journey. Both tales were ingeniously devised to provide ample opportunity for innocently questioning this man Masterson as to his whereabouts on the night of Thursday.
The taxi pulled up. The driver opened the door. “ ’Ere y’are, miss. Number fourteen.”
As she paid the fare, Miss Warren discovered her heart to be misbehaving. This annoyed her. She strove to master this perturbation, but met with little enough success.
The taxi jolted away down the hill. The road was quiet; too quiet, Margaret thought. Also it was dismal, too dismal. There were too few lamps. There was not even a moon. There didn’t seem to be any lighted windows. A nasty, inhospitable road.
She perceived No. 14 to be a “converted” house. A great black building that might once have housed a merchant prince, but was now the warren of retired grocers, oddities, solicitors, and divorcees.
Margaret mounted the steps, slowly. The porter’s lobby in the hall was empty. From one of a series of brass plates she divined that flat 6b was the burrow of one James Masterson. Flat 6b, it seemed, was on the first floor. The lift was unattended. She walked up the stairs.
Frantically she reviewed her stories, testing them at every point. She wished she hadn’t come, had waited till Hastings had got back!
Facing the door of Flat 6b, Miss Margaret Warren took herself in hand, addressed rude remarks to herself, and applied firm pressure to the bell-push.
There was no sound of footsteps; there was no hand on the latch—but the door swung open.
Margaret fell back, stifling a scream. A small squeak broke from her lips. It was such a funny squeak that it made her laugh.
“Don’t be a fool, Margaret,” she told herself sternly. “Haven’t you heard of contraptions to open doors? Hundred percent laboursaving.”
But her heart was thudding violently as she entered the little hall. From a room on her right came a man’s voice, querulous, high-pitched.
“Who’s that,” it said. “Come in, damn you! Come in!”
She turned the handle, and entered a bedroom well furnished but in a state of appalling disorder. A dying fire—the temperature that day had been over ninety in the shade—belched out from the littered grate occasional puffs of black smoke. The bedclothes were tossed and rumpled; half of them on the floor. A small table sprawled on its side in the middle of the room. Crumpled newspapers were everywhere, everywhere. Huddled in an armchair by the fireplace was a man.
His hair was wild, his eyes bright, burning with fever, A stubble of black beard was over the thin face. Over his cheekbones was spread a brilliant flush. A man obviously ill, with temperature running high.
One must sympathise with Margaret. She had expected any scene but this. Again fear seized her. What a fool she had been to come! What a fool! This man Masterson was ill; yet she couldn’t feel sorry for him. Those over-bright eyes fixed on hers were so malevolent somehow.
She stammered something. Her mouth was so dry that coherent speech seemed impossible.
Then the man got out of his chair. Dully, she noticed how great was the tax on his strength. He clutched at the mantel for support. Dislodged by his elbow, a bottle crashed down and splintered on the tiles of the hearth. The smell of whisky, which always made her feel sick, combined with apprehension and the heat of the room, to set Margaret’s senses dancing a fantastic reel.
Clutching the mantelpiece, the man attempted a bow. “You must pardon my appearance,” he said, and his voice made the girl shrink back, “but I am—am at your service. Oh, yes, believe me. What can I have the great pleasure of—of doing for you? Eh?”
He started to move towards her, aiding his trembling legs by scrabbling at the wall. Margaret felt a desire to scream; choked the scream back. She tried to burst into speech, to say something, anything, to tell one of her stories that she had been so proud of. She failed utterly.
The man continued his spider-like approach.
“Go back! Go back!” Margaret whispered. She was shaking, shaking all over.
But the man had left the wall, and without its support had fallen to his knees. His head lolling with every movement, he crawled to the overturned table and searched among the litter of newspaper beside it.
Margaret cast longing eyes at
