IV

Down the straight length of Maida Vale, past the detached villas, past

the great blocks of flats that were like illuminated fortresses, he

moved at a steady pace, never lingering, just as if he were a young

man who knew exactly where he was going and knew exactly how long it

would take him to get there. But he wasn’t going anywhere; he was only

moving on, simply leaving that room with the bright cushions and the

fancy boxes and the quiet huddle of clothes and limbs by the end of the

deep sofa. He wasn’t quite real. He was a young man walking in a film.

Somebody spoke to him once. It was a big man in a cap and mackintosh,

and he planted himself squarely in front of the dazed Turgis and said,

almost angrily: “Here, I say, how do I find Nugent Terrace?” And

when Turgis muttered that he didn’t know, that he was a stranger in

that district, the big man said that he was a stranger too and that

everybody he asked was a stranger, that they were all bloody strangers.

When Turgis was walking on again, he kept repeating that--“all bloody

strangers.” He noticed things as he went along, though they weren’t

very real, only like the things you see in the background of a film.

Maida Vale turned itself into Edgware Road, and immediately became

bright and crowded, a gleaming medley of shop windows, pubs, picture

theatre entrances, hawkers’ barrows, and pale faces. There was a shop

where you could get sixpenny packets of gaspers for fivepence. A woman

was shouting at a pub door; she was drunk. A lot of people were waiting

to see the pictures, and a fellow with a banjo was singing to them. Two

Chinamen came out of a sweet shop: _All These Chocolates Our Own Make_.

That fried fish smelt bad. Two men starting a row, and a woman trying

to pull one of them away. A good raincoat for 25/6. Funny what a lot of

these imitation bunches of bananas there were, and didn’t look a bit

like the real ones either. That chap standing in the shop doorway was

just like Smeeth, might be his double. It streamed on and on, like a

coloured film, a film with heavy bumping bodies and real eyes in it.

Marble Arch, and some people waiting for buses.

Now, quite suddenly, he felt sick and terribly tired. There was nothing

left of his body but some tiny aching old bones, but his head was

enormous and there was more screeching and grinding and dull roaring

in the great hollow inside it than there was among the cars in the

road. He tried to think. Had he really gone there and done that? He

had gone to that room so many times in his imagination, had so many

scenes there, so many vivid encounters with Lena, that perhaps this

last visit wasn’t real either. Had he done that? His fingers, closing

round ghostly flesh, sent a sharp message to say he had done it.

Yes, he had. Then there was no changing it at all. It was there. As

if curtains had suddenly parted and been drawn up, he saw the room

again; he was back in it; a Turkish woman on a box of cigarettes, and

then--on the floor, not a movement. Something inside him, a little

wild thing, trapped, mad, sent up a scream. Something else muttered

over and over again that it was an accident, only an accident, a pure

accident, just an accident, all accidental, simply an accident; and

then it said that he wasn’t well, not at all well, ill in fact, nerves

and all that, yes nerves, quite ill, not healthy, not well. The tears

came into his eyes as he thought how true this was, for lots of people

had said that he wasn’t well and he knew he wasn’t well. Then a bus

came up and everybody got on it, so he got on it too, and sat inside.

The man next to him had a big swelling at the back of his neck, and for

a moment Turgis was sorry for him, but after that he forgot all about

him, forgot about all the other people in the bus, forgot all about

Oxford Street and Regent Street that rolled past like a gleaming and

glittering frieze. He did not notice where the bus was going; he did

not care; he sank into a sick stupor.

“’Ere, come along,” said the conductor. “Fares, please.”

Mechanically, vacantly, Turgis handed him twopence and received his

ticket.

Nobody else bothered about him at all. They glanced in his direction

and then looked indifferently away. Yet in a week or two perhaps they

might all of them be talking about him. But then he would not be Turgis

any more, Mrs. Pelumpton’s lodger and the railway and shipping clerk

at Twigg & Dersingham’s; he would be the Maida Vale Flat Murderer;

and as that he could set huge machines in motion, send men running

here and there, men with notebooks, men with cameras; news editors

would mention him at conferences; sub-editors would rack their brains

for good headlines for him; reporters would describe his little room

in Nathaniel Street and interview Mrs. Pelumpton; columns on his

“ill-fated romance” would be commissioned for the Sunday papers; good

money would be paid for the smallest snapshot of him; every detail of

his past would be sent roaring through the printing machines; men who

had known him would boast of it; special contributors would comment on

his story and his fate for twenty guineas a thousand words; scholarly

criminologists would make a note of his case for future reference;

novelists and dramatists would see if he could be worked up into

anything good; millions would talk about him, would denounce him,

would cry for his execution, would sign petitions, or perhaps pray for

his soul; if he were set free, ten thousand women would be ready to

marry him, and any halting sentences he could produce about himself

would be handsomely paid for and conjured into The Story of My Life,

announced on innumerable placards and hoardings: he would be somebody

at last--the Maida Vale Flat Murderer. As yet, however, he was only a

shabby, hollow-eyed youth with a vacant look, huddled in a seat that

slowly moved round Piccadilly Circus, where, against the night sky,

commerce was clowning it royally in a multi-coloured fantasy of lights.

Nobody bothered about him yet; they were, as the big man had said, all

strangers.

At the corner of the Strand and Wellington Street the bus turned and

then stopped, and there he left it and began walking eastward. He

had no destination, no plan; his mind issued no commands to his body

to move, this way or that; his legs simply went on; while his mind

was half in a dream and, for the rest, a vague jangle of conflicting

voices. It was quieter now, less crowded, for he was going along Fleet

Street, where later, perhaps, the machines would pound him into brisk

news just as the other machines had pulped the tall trees into paper

for such news. They were waiting, just round the corner, down the dark

alleys, these machines, ready to pounce on some unhappy morsel of

humanity. But as yet he was still only Turgis, Mrs. Pelumpton’s, Twigg

& Dersingham’s, and now he drifted on, up Ludgate Hill, turning his

face towards the old grey ghost of St. Paul’s, then curving in its

shadow round Church Yard, up Old Change, down Cheapside, along Milk

Street and Aldermanbury. It was better here in the City; not so much

glare and noise, not so many people; it was huge, dark, and wettish,

like a big cellar, a cave. It made his head feel better; and at last he

could think a bit, though it was like trying to think in a nightmare.

His legs were taking him somewhere now. There was no sense in it,

but then there was no sense in anything. Oh, what had he done, what

had he done? A street lamp, set queerly at the side of a great blank

wall, threw its uncertain light on to a short curving flight of stone

steps. While he questioned himself, his feet sought these steps and

trod them with an ease that suggested familiarity. His hand touched

the stout little iron post at the top, as it had done many and many a

time before, for the blank wall belonged to _Chase & Cohen: Carnival

Novelties_, and these were the steps that prevented Angel Pavement from

being a _cul de sac_.

Two little yellow lights flickered at him, like a dubious pair of eyes,

from somewhere down the little street. He walked towards them, quite

slowly now, as if at last his mind was attempting to control his legs.

The lights were those of a car. They were the feeble headlights of a

taxi. And above this taxi, there was one lighted window, on the first

floor, and on the first floor of No. 8. Somebody was in the office,

Twigg & Dersingham’s, at this time, ten o’clock. He had to tell himself

so very slowly and clearly, and he did it while he was standing in

front of the waiting taxi.

He put his head round the corner, to look in the driver’s seat. “I

say,” he began, with difficulty as if his voice was rusty, “I say----”

“Hel-lo, hel-lo!” the driver suddenly shouted, so that Turgis jumped

back. “What the hel-lo! You give me a start, mate. I must ha’ dropped

off.”

“I say,” said Turgis, returning to look at him earnestly, “did you

bring somebody here? In there, I mean.”

“I did,” replied the driver. “And I’m waiting for the party to come

out.”

“Who was it? I mean, what was he like?”

The driver pushed forward a wrinkled red face. “Now I should

say--that’s my business. Who d’you think you are, young feller?

Scotland Yard or what?”

“No, but you see, I happened to be passing, you see,” he hesitated

a moment, “and, well, I work up there--where the light is--in that

office, and I wondered who it was.”

“Your place--like?”

“Yes.” Turgis gulped. He felt sick; he was trembling; he couldn’t talk

like this long. “My place, where I work.”

“I see. Well, matter of fact, there’s two of ’em in there, and I

brought ’em here from a restaurant in Greek Street. There’s a young

lady and a stiffish gent--big moustache. That’s who’s in there, mate.

Now are you satisfied?”

“Yes--thanks.”

“’Ere,” said the driver, after a pause, pushing his face over the edge

of his door and staring at Turgis, “’ere, half a minute, boy, what’s

the matter? You’re not crying, are you? Got the jim-jams, boy, or what?”

But Turgis had disappeared into the dark doorway.

V

The office door was slightly open, so that a thin pencil of light

pointed across the landing. Turgis waited a minute, staring at it from

the shadow. He passed a hand roughly over his wet face. Then, summoning

all the courage left him in the world, he blundered in, almost flinging

himself into the private office beyond.

“Now who the hell are you?” roared Mr. Golspie, jumping up from his

chair at the table. Somebody gave a scream. It was Miss Matfield, in

the corner.

“Lena,” said Turgis, choking over the name.

“Well, I’ll be damned! If it isn’t What’s-his-name--Turgis.” Mr.

Golspie glared at him, and advanced ferociously. “And what the devil

do you want charging in here like this, eh? What’s the game, eh?”

“Lena. Lena.”

“Do you mean my daughter, Lena? What are you talking about? What about

her? What the blazes has she got to do with you?”

“I think--I’ve killed her.”

“_Killed_ her?”

“Yes.” And Turgis stumbled to a chair and began sobbing.

“My God! he’s mad, he’s clean mad,” cried Mr. Golspie to Miss Matfield,

who had risen from her chair and was looking from Turgis to Mr. Golspie

in startled bewilderment. “Here, you, stop that blubbering, and try to

talk sense. What do you know about my daughter, Lena? You’ve never even

set eyes on her.”

“I have,” cried Turgis, almost indignantly. “I was with her to-night,

in your flat. I’ve been there before. I took some money there

first----” He hesitated.

“That’s right, he did take some money there,” said Miss Matfield

quickly. “Oh!--I believe it’s true.”

Mr. Golspie pounced on him at once, clapping a heavy hand on his

shoulder. “Come on, then. What happened? Get it out, quick.”

Turgis blurted out a few sentences, broken and confused, but they were

quite enough.

“My God, if she is, I’ll kill _you_. Come on, get up, you--you bloody

little rat, you--we’re going straight into that taxi and we’re going to

see, and you’re coming with us.”

“But can’t you telephone?” cried Miss Matfield, wildly.

“Yes, of course--no, I can’t. I knew I’d have thought of it. The rotten

telephone’s out of order--been out of order for two days. Come on,

let’s get away. You turn the lights out, Lilian; I’m going to look

after this fellow. Hurry up, for God’s sake.”

It was a long long journey. For the first five minutes or so, nothing

was said, but after that Mr. Golspie, out of sheer impatience, began

to ask questions, and piece by wretched piece, he dragged the whole

miserable story out of Turgis, who sat facing him, on one of the

little seats, trembling, afraid every minute that Mr. Golspie was going

to hurl himself across the tiny space at him. His misery was so great,

now that his brain was clearer, that he felt that he would not mind

being killed, but nevertheless Mr. Golspie’s huge violence, repressed

but apparently ready to burst out any moment, terrified him. Miss

Matfield hardly spoke a word the whole time, and when she did it was in

a very soft shaky voice. But she stared at Turgis, and when the lights

flashed in he saw that her face was pale. It never occurred to him to

wonder what she was doing there so late with Mr. Golspie.

“It just shows you, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Golspie to Miss Matfield. “If

I hadn’t suddenly thought during dinner I ought to slip back there for

quarter of an hour, to tot those figures up to show that chap in the

morning, we’d never have seen this fellow. What were you doing there

anyhow? I don’t know if it’s much good asking you, because you seem to

me wrong in your damned head--but what were you doing there?”

“I don’t know,” Turgis muttered. “I just went there. I didn’t know

where I was going. I suppose when I got to the City, well, I just went

to Angel Pavement--sort of force of habit.”

“Another ten minutes and we shouldn’t have been there, and then I

shouldn’t have got back home till twelve. What time is it now? Quarter

past ten, eh? What time did you leave my place?”

“I don’t know really. I’m all mixed up----”

“My God!--you are,” said Mr. Golspie bitterly. “And you’re going to be

a worse mix up soon, let me tell you.”

“I think--it couldn’t have been much after eight--I don’t know,

though--might have been half-past eight.”

“Nearly two hours--och!” Mr. Golspie groaned. “Here, this fellow’s got

to drive faster than this, or we’ll be all the damned night getting

there.”

It was horrible stumbling back up that garden path again, going through

the hall and climbing the stairs once more. It was worse inside the

flat. “You go in there and wait, you,” said Mr. Golspie, and gave

him a mighty shove that landed him in the middle of the sitting-room,

which seemed to him now, of all the places he had ever known, the most

horrible, the most closely packed with misery, and the very sight of

its cushions and fancy boxes made him feel sick. Nevertheless, he had

not been there more than a minute before he knew somehow that Lena was

not dead. Then, after a few more minutes, voices came through the open

door behind him, and he turned and crept nearer to it.

“No, no, no!” cried a voice, and he recognised it at once as that of

the foreign, witch-like old woman who lived downstairs, “she would not

’ave a doctair. I loosen her dress and geef her cognac and do dees

teeng and odair teengs, and ven I say, ‘You ’ave a vairy great shock,

my dee-air, ve call a doctair,’ she say: ‘No, no, no. No doctair.’ Vell

den, eet does not mattair. But I say, ‘You go to bed. Aw, yes, you go

to bed, at vonce, my dee-air.’ And she deed not vant to go to bed, but

I make her go.”

“Little monkey!” Mr. Golspie rumbled. “Good job you thought something

was up, though, and came in. I’m much obliged. Very grateful. Just take

Miss Matfield here in to her, will you, and I’ll be back in a minute or

two.”

“Is she all right?” cried Turgis, as Mr. Golspie came into the room.

“I don’t know about that,” he replied grimly, “but she’s a damned sight

better than she was when you left her lying here, you crazy little

skunk. Come here.”

“Oh!--thank God!”

“Come here. You can do your thanking afterwards.” And he grabbed Turgis

by the lapel of his coat and yanked him nearer. “Just listen to me.

There are one or two things I could do to you. To start with, I could

give you such a damned good hiding you’d never want to look at a girl,

never mind put your hands on her, for the next six months. See?” And he

shook Turgis with a sort of menacing playfulness, like a terrier with a

rat. “And while I’m about it, here’s a bit of good advice for you. Keep

away from ’em. You’re not a lady-killer, y’know--though, by God, you

nearly were to-night--and if you take a good look at yourself, you’ll

see why. Drop it. You’re no good at it. And another thing I could do to

you, mister half-starved caveman, is to hand you over to the police. I

could do that all right, couldn’t I?” he demanded, looking sternly at

his wretched prisoner, who, hearing that tone and meeting that look,

had every excuse for not realising that this was the last thing Mr.

Golspie had any idea of doing.

“Yes, you could, Mr. Golspie,” he replied miserably. He saw himself

marched off, locked in a cell.

“Well, I’m not going to, not yet, anyhow. But, listen--if I ever set

eyes on you again, I will. If you come within a mile of this place----”

“Oh, I won’t, I won’t.” And Turgis certainly meant it.

“And you don’t go back to that office, understand? You don’t go near it

again. Keep right away from it. Keep away from me altogether, see?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Turgis gasped, for now Mr. Golspie had stopped shaking

him, but was pulling him backwards through the sitting-room doorway,

almost lifting him bodily with that huge powerful grasp on his coat

shoulder.

“I don’t ever want to see you again, unless it’s in the dock or the

madhouse,” said Mr. Golspie, throwing open the door of the flat with

one hand while with the other he gave a violent twist and brought

Turgis round in front of him. “The very sight of you turns my stomach,

see? You understand? You’re not going back to that office, and you’re

not coming within a mile of this flat, and you’re going to keep out of

my sight and you’re going to keep your nasty mouth shut, too. You’ve

been lucky to-night, my God you have! But if ever I see you again,

you won’t be lucky. So get out and bloody well stay out. There!” And

Mr. Golspie, spinning him round, released his coat collar, put a hand

in the small of his back, and with a short run and a tremendous heave

sent him sprawling down the stairs. He pitched forward badly, banged

his nose so hard that it bled, and was bruised, but managed to pick

himself up at the bottom and go blindly along the hall to the front

door.

He waited a minute outside, leaning dizzily against one of the pillars.

The cool darkness rocked round him. In the garden, just by the broken

statue of the boy and the two fishes, he was violently sick.