“Maybe,” I said patiently.
I began to wish I hadn’t gone to the police station. You have the notion that you can wander into a police station and say, “I think two chaps were going to attack me ten minutes ago, off Wright’s Lane. I thought you might like to know.” But it doesn’t work out like that. You’re lucky if you get away within the hour.
It had taken some time to hack out what he wanted me to put on paper. The little interview room, with its glaring strip lighting, was hot, stuffy and foul with the reek of stale tobacco smoke.
“I thought I’d report the incident,” I said. “We’re always being told to report unusual or suspicious things to the police. So I thought I’d mention it. Particularly as there is a bit of background which you won’t let me mention.”
“I’m not stopping you telling me anything, sir,” he said stiffly. “What else do you want to tell me?”
I was obstinate now. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve mentioned it all already to one of your people. Just put this new report in. I’m not going over the whole story again. The reports will connect up some time, provided you have some sort of carding system. Some time they’ll connect up.” I added sourly, “Sooner or later they will, I expect, tomorrow or the next day, this year or next.”
He began to weaken.
“You’re right to report this matter, sir. It’s good of you to call, sir. I’ll make a note of what you’ve just said.”
We got to our feet. He didn’t mean what he said, and he knew I knew he didn’t mean it, but convention was satisfied. He relaxed and smiled.
“Maybe in ten minutes time I’ll be taking a statement from a tall chap in a short raincoat saying he’s been threatened by a gentleman carrying a knobkerrie. That’s the way it goes.”
“Well, you know my address,” I said, and did not smile.
I came out of the police station. A uniformed police officer was walking slowly round my car, almost audibly sniffing, as a dog will walk around another dog.
“Is this your car, sir?”
I nodded.
“I’ve been in the police station giving some information.”
“You should have left your sidelights on, sir.”
“Well, it’s under a street lamp. I didn’t think you had to leave sidelights on in London, anyway.”
I knew what he was beating up to, but again the conventions had to be maintained.
“When a car is left on a bus route, the lights must be switched on, sir, whatever other lighting is provided in the street.”
“I didn’t know that,” I lied wearily.
“Yes, sir. Good night.”
“Good night-thank you.”
He trudged heavily into the station. Probably he, too, was tired and bored. I drove round to Stratford Road.
My flat is above an ironmonger’s shop. It suits me, for there is nobody above me, and the buildings on either side consist only of business premises. So when I type late at night I disturb nobody.
The flat is not much to look at from the outside, but it is all right inside, though I say it myself.
There is a large living-room, a large bedroom, and two smaller rooms; one of them I use as a study, and the other is the room Juliet proposed to use as a dining-room, thus leaving no spare bedroom for anybody to stay in, which suited me admirably.
There are one or two quite nice pieces of antique furniture, given me by my father when my mother died, and he decided to live in a Hampshire inn and spend his time fishing and, I suppose, dreaming of the past. But he only survived her two years.
He had also given me a few pieces of Georgian silver, and some fine eighteenth-century sporting prints; though as to the latter, I know that from the moment she saw them Juliet had secretly made up her mind to replace them, no doubt as tactfully as possible.
She also had one or two ideas for new colour schemes when she moved in, but she was discreet enough not to dwell too much on the subject.
Sporting prints or not, and colour schemes or not, it was a good home for a bride to come to.
One is tempted to amend that last sentence, and say that it was a good home for a bride to come to provided she could see it.
I arrived back from the police station at one o’clock, parked the car in an empty space some yards up the road, and walked to my front door and let myself in, thinking that soon the rooms would be alive with Juliet’s possessions as well as mine.
I hate noise, especially abrupt noise, so I always close a door quietly. I closed the street door quietly. The blue stair carpet was before me, and I went up the stairs to the flat, weary but satisfied that up to now I had done all that I could.
About four steps from the top I stopped and stared down at the carpet, and more particularly at about half- an-inch of cigarette ash which lay there.
I stood looking down at the ash.
I never leave my flat or any other building smoking a cigarette, and I never go indoors smoking one. There is a simple explanation for this: the only thing which tastes good in the open air, to my mind, is a pipe. So I stood staring down at the ash. Then I looked up at the door of the flat. I remember noting how the polished wood and the brass knocker gleamed in the light of the stairway.
I climbed the last four steps to the flat. Outside the door I gently switched off the stairs light and listened to my heart beating.
After a while I silently lifted the flap of the letter box. The flat door opened on to a very short hallway, and beyond was the living-room. Off the living-room, to the right, was the study.
I saw nobody, and pondered how much the incident earlier in the evening must have affected my nerves. I lowered the flap of the letter box, feeling rather a fool.
There was nothing left to do now but go in.
Yet I stood listening for a few seconds, regulating my breathing, glad that Juliet could not see me. Then I fumbled in the darkness for the flat key, fingering the keys on the ring, not bothering to switch on the light again, and as I did so a faint, half-stifled cough from inside the flat stilled my movements and breathing. I told myself that noises are deceptive, especially at night, and raised the letter-box flap again.
Whoever it was, he was not in the living-room. But I could see the reflected flashes of his torch as he moved about the study.
I do not think I am more cowardly than the next man, but I may be more cautious and calculating, and possibly more imaginative. I assumed that only one man was inside the flat, and I was tempted, now that the uncertainty was over, to rush in and tackle him. But what if there were two?
Perhaps subconsciously the deciding factor was the thought of my marriage, and common prudence. I tiptoed down the stairs, softly closed the street door, and walked quickly to the telephone booths in Marloes Road. As so often, the first one I entered was out of order, the box refusing to accept a coin. The floor was littered with refuse. I do not know why these booths are so often filthy and out of order.
I swore, flung myself out of the booth and into the other one. This one was filthy, too, but when I lifted the receiver I heard the dialling tone, and thanked heaven that I had four pennies, and that the box would receive them.
I put them in, then realised that you do not need coins to dial “999.” Fearful that the coins might upset the routine, I pressed button “B,” recovered the coins, and then dialled “999,” and got through to Scotland Yard. An impersonal voice said:
“Scotland Yard-can I help you?”
“I want to report-”
“Where are you calling from, please, sir?”
“From the ’phone booths in Marloes Road. My name is James Compton, 274 Stratford Road, Kensington.”
“One minute, please, sir.”
