Someone had photographed him, taken away the background—or it needn’t be a faked film! Make-up could create features like his for the purposes of a film.
He went back to his chair and read the letters through again and felt something of the passion in them and knew one thing; Lucille had been in love with the man to whom she had written. They weren’t faked; they had a quality which reflected sincerity. So Lucille had had a lover, and had come to London to see him.
Who was the lover?
The man with the fiery eyes?
* * * *
The man came in again.
* * * *
Roger really saw him, this time. Apart from his eyes there was nothing remarkable about him. He had a thin face, not ugly, not handsome—a vague kind of face. His lips were unusually well-shaped and red. He had brown hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead, with a wide centre parting. He was dressed well in dark grey, but apart from those eyes, he was just an ordinary man. He walked easily, smiled, and sat down.
“Have you read them?”
“Yes.”
“Have you asked yourself what a prosecuting counsel would say?”
“The defence would want proof that the letters were addressed to me.”
“Oh, they’d have proof. Admirable proof. From two or three blameless people who would swear that you often went to 18 Sedgley Road to collect these letters—irreproachable witnesses. West. Do you like it?”
Roger said: “Not much. When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”
The man laughed—as lightly as if this were a normal conversation, and Roger had made some casual quip.
“Now you’re being sensible,” he said. “You’re half-way towards doing a deal. Before you’ve finished you’ll have to come all the way, because it’s the only thing that will save your neck from being stretched. I’ll tell you, later, possibly to-morrow. I’ve one or two other items of information for you. This house is a private asylum. You’re not the only borderline case they’ve had here. The doctor, like those witnesses, is irreproachable. The staff is thoroughly trained. Some time ago, a Mr. King was brought here by his friends, because he was a psychopathic case and given to moods of violence. He received treatment for a few days and was released. He came back once, before this week. He came when you were away from the Yard on special jobs, and you would have great difficulty in proving you had been somewhere else. He was a fair-haired man, who might be mistaken for you. The only two members of the staff who really saw him at close quarters and could be sure it wasn’t you, were the male nurse who shaves you and the doctor. Your own nurse never saw him—nice girl, isn’t she? She’s very sorry for you. She thinks that you’ve committed some violent crime and are under the proper treatment. The doctor who is prescribing for you will swear that Arthur King and you are one and the same. The theory will be, of course, that as Roger West you knew something was going wrong with your mind, you called yourself King and submitted to treatment. Now the defending counsel might make something of that, but—think what the prosecutor would say.”
Roger said harshly: “Do my thinking for me.”
“Very well. The prosecutor would say that this was all carefully planned, so that if you were caught, you would be able to offer evidence that you were a mental case. The resident doctor here would swear to it, but others would say—truthfully—that if a man wants to pretend that he’s over the border he can do so, and fool almost anyone. You’ve simply fooled this resident doctor.”
The man laughed.
Roger eased his collar.
“The case rests,” said the other easily. “Spend the rest of the day and to-night seeing if there’s a way out of it. If I were in your shoes, I’d come to a conclusion pretty quickly. The only courses open to you are to play ball with me or kill yourself. And if you don’t play ball with me, you will kill yourself. Your body will be found with those letters in your pockets, and a veil will hastily be drawn. Your wife will have a bad time for a while, but she’ll get over it. It’s surprising how quickly human beings recover from the worst of shocks, and she’ll have plenty of helpers. Your friend Mark Lessing will help her to bear the burden stoically, won’t he? And he’ll probably become step-father instead of uncle to your two boys. Nice kids, I’ve seen them several times. What’s the name of the elder one? Something unusual, Marion was telling me—she doesn’t believe you’ve any children, of course, she just thinks you’re a bad case. A violent case, who——”
There was just so much one could stand . . .
At the first mention of Janet, Roger had felt his muscles tensing; at mention of the boys, he’d felt a savage hatred which locked him in his chair. And that question—”what’s the name of the elder one”—brought a vivid picture of Scoopy, big, eager, and trustful, looking at him. Rage took possession of him, and he leapt up, smashed at the blurred face, hit something—and felt agonizing pain in his stomach, from a kick.
Next moment he was surrounded by a surging group of people, fighting wildly. His right arm was forced behind him in a hammerlock, he felt sick with the pain. He saw three men as well as his tormentor; two were holding him, one of them was holding something that looked like a coat harness. In the doorway stood Marion.
Marion said: “Oh, please——”
The men ignored her. Roger’s arms were forced through holes in the “coat”; and he knew it wasn’t a coat, but a strait jacket. There were tears in Marion’s eyes.
He was taken out of the room—upstairs; not into his own room, but to one much smaller—a padded cell.
* * * *
He stayed there for the rest of the day and during the dread, dark night. There was a couch on which to lie. Before daylight had faded, two men had come in and fed him with a spoon; that was the only food he had. He couldn’t rest; dozed fitfully, and dreamt as soon as he dropped off. They weren’t nightmares, and he wasn’t sure
