* * * *
So mystery was piled upon mystery. The dead girl was unknown, which meant that the Yard wasn’t getting far in its inquiries. That was trivial, compared with the greater mystery—what did these people think they were going to do with him? Why had they brought him here, why had they identified him with Arthur King, and then talked so plainly during the rescue that the police must realize that he was in fact West? Why had they treated him like this, as if trying to convince him that he was ill, in need of treatment—that his mind was unbalanced ?
What good was he to anyone if the Yard had reason to believe him to be a killer? He lit another cigarette.
He stood up and went to the window, looking into the garden, and then saw that this window was exactly the same as the one upstairs—of toughened glass, and without a movable frame.
He turned from the window and picked up the newspapers again—and then he heard a sound behind him. It made him swing round. A shutter was falling over the window from the outside, a shutter like a Venetian blind, blotting out the sun from the top half of the window, then descending over the bottom half. When the shutter was nearly down he rushed to the window and touched the glass, but there was nothing he could do. All he could see was a little of the lawn and the heads of a few daffodils; they disappeared when the shutter fell right into position, and he was left in absolute darkness. Only the glowing tip of his cigarette relieved it, and that faded when he stopped drawing at it.
He heard no sound, now—just stood with his back to the window, staring into darkness.
He heard a whirring noise, which came suddenly, and turned his head to the right. Then he saw light—a beam, as from a powerful torch, shining on the opposite wall. There, the wall was bare. The light hit the wall, much like that from a cine-camera and about the same shape; it made an oblong of light, two yards across, a yard and a half down. Yes, it was from a small projector, and the whirring was explained, they were going to put on a film. He forced himself to walk slowly to a chair facing the wall: he could just pick it out, among the other furniture. He sat down and crossed his legs.
A picture appeared.
A girl was walking along a narrow street—that was all. He didn’t recognize the street, but there were things in it which told him that it wasn’t in England; more likely, France. The terraced houses were tall, and the windows had shutters fastened back against the walls. There were several little balconies at the higher windows. The street was empty, except for the girl, who appeared to be walking towards him. She looked tall. She walked quickly. She was smartly dressed and seemed thoughtful. In a way, she wasn’t unlike Marion; but he might also say that she wasn’t unlike Janet. She kept on walking—was the street as long as that, or was it a trick of the camera ?
She turned into another street where there were more people, into yet a third. This was a wide busy thorough-fare. He caught a glimpse of a single-decker bus with a crowd of people standing on the platform at the back— peculiar to Paris.
The dead girl had worn French nylons.
He had forgotten that sharp nervous fear of the sudden darkness, was absorbed in the pictures.
The girl was lost among the crowds; no, not quite lost, she appeared occasionally, once stood and looked into a shop window—at handbags. Then she walked on—and there was a cut in the film.
Another picture came, this time of a small cafe, with a big striped awning over a dozen or so small tables, a waiter standing in white jacket by the open door, one couple drinking out of long glasses. Then the girl appeared and sat down as far as she could get from the couple. The waiter approached her; she shook her head, said something, indicated that she was waiting for a companion. The waiter took up his position in the doorway. The girl lit a cigarette, adjusted her long skirt, looked up and down the street. Twice she glanced at her wrist-watch. She began to frown.
She opened her handbag, and took something out—a letter? She studied it closely. Yet her eyes didn’t move from side to side, as they would have done had she been reading. She put the thing down, and he saw that it was a photograph; he thought it was of a man, but couldn’t be sure. The girl finished her cigarette, and began to tap her foot on the ground.
Then a shadow appeared over her.
She glanced up—and although the frown disappeared, she didn’t smile, but looked anxious. She said something, and Roger wished this weren’t a silent film, then scoffed at himself for the inanity of the thought.
The shadow grew into a man, who had his back to the camera. He pulled up a chair and sat down. The waiter reappeared. The man with the girl leaned forward and hid most of her from Roger. The man was hatless; he had fair wavy hair which needed cutting. There was something familiar about him; Roger couldn’t place it. Then the man turned, as the waiter approached, and Roger caught a glimpse of the profile—and sat up, a chill shiver running up and down his spine, a physical thing which he couldn’t prevent.
It was his profile.
He had never seen that girl in his life before, but he was sitting there as if in the flesh and talking to her.
The picture faded.
But the whirring continued, it hadn’t finished yet. The light seemed bright. The sweat on Roger’s forehead was cold; this was getting on his nerves, he could sense unnamed terrors hidden from him.
Another picture flashed on-
Of the girl—without a face, or with a face that was unrecognizable. She was just as he had seen her at Copse Cottage.
And then a man spoke from a corner of the room.
“Why did you do it, West?
CHAPTER VIII
ROGER hadn’t heard him come in; hadn’t dreamt that anyone was there. He started violently, and peered towards the corner. He could see a vague shape, which faded as the light from the projector died away.
