Murchison went to bed in a very cheerful frame of mind. He had not enjoyed an evening so much for years. His cramped soul was uncurling itself and beginning to get the kinks out of it. He wondered what dreams he would have to produce for his employer's delectation in the morning, and whether he would be expected to dream of lost Atlantis, or a previous incarnation as a Pharaoh. He only hoped to goodness that the houris would behave themselves.
In response to his employer's questionings twelve hours later, however, he had nothing more interesting to produce than a vision of chasing a black cat round and round the flat.
‘What sort of a cat was it?’ asked Brangwyn, ‘did you notice anything special about it?’
‘It was a long-haired, fuzzy sort of beast, a Persian, I suppose,’ Murchison was truly thankful to have such an innocent dream for production, at which the chastest stars might peep. Brangwyn, however, chuckled inwardly, remembering his sister's nickname of Kitten, which her aureole of wavy dark hair and small, pointed, oval face had earned her.
‘I want to take this opportunity of having a few words with you before my sister appears. We can trust Ursula to be late. I have got rather a curious problem on my hands. I had trouble with your predecessor, and had to chuck him out more or less violently. There are some papers of mine that he wants to get hold of, and I do not think he would stick at very much to do it. You must keep your eyes skinned. Don't admit anybody to the flat on any pretext whatever in my absence.’
‘Right you are, sir,’ said Murchison cheerfully. ‘Out they go, dead or alive!’
At this moment Miss Brangwyn entered, putting a stop to the conversation.
‘What train are you catching, Ursula?’ inquired her brother.
‘The 10:57,’ replied the girl.
‘Ah,’ said Brangwyn, ‘I am afraid I shall not be able to see you off by that, but perhaps Murchison would be good enough.’
‘Certainly,’ said Murchison, quite amiably for him. He felt much happier with Miss Brangwyn since she had laughed at his lapse into smoking-room idiom. It seemed as if her mentality were nearer that of a man's, and therefore less incalculable than that of the average virtuous female, whom he privately considered an unnatural product of civilisation. It struck him as odd that his grenadier of a sister-in-law, who could put the fear of God into tradesmen, jobbing gardeners and hoc genus omne, and had brought nine children into the world, of whom five survived and were now reaching years of indiscretion, should be pure-minded to the verge of prudery, and the ethereal-looking Miss Brangwyn should laugh at a smoking-room jest.
Their late breakfast did not leave them much time for the train, and Brangwyn pushed them off straight from the table. Alone with Ursula in the taxi, Murchison was at a loss to know what to say to her. There were only two subjects which they had so far found in common, bulls and stallions, and he did not feel inclined to introduce either of them by the cold light of morning.
‘Have you a long journey in front of you?’ he asked politely.
‘North Wales,’ said Miss Brangwyn. ‘I go as far as Llandudno junction by train, and then I have a long car-run right up into the mountains.’
Murchison opened his eyes at this information. The Brangwyns must consider his part in the forthcoming experiment of considerable importance if the girl would take such a journey as that in order to inspect him. Brangwyn must have put through a trunk call, and she must have travelled all night in order to arrive when she did.
There was neither luggage nor ticket to attend to, so they had ample time in hand at the station, thanks to Brangwyn's urgency, and Murchison sat down opposite Ursula on the wide, padded seat of the empty first-class compartment to keep her company till the train started. They had hardly settled themselves when a shadow fell across the carriage, and a man appeared in the doorway leading into the corridor.
‘Well, Ursula?’ he said, ‘how are you?’ And, without waiting for an invitation, he came in and sat down beside her. Murchison stared at him resentfully; he was just beginning to enjoy talking to Miss Brangwyn.
He saw before him a tall but slenderly built man, who was exceedingly carefully dressed, and whose perfectly regular features had a chiselled perfection that promised nonentity if it had not been for the high, narrow forehead, which relieved the face from ordinariness though it did not add to its attractiveness. Murchison thought to himself that a man with a forehead like that was sure to be a wrong ‘un, though he could not have given his reasons for the impression. He felt that he did not like the man, quite apart from the fact of his intrusion; in fact, he disliked him very much indeed. The newcomer possessed personality to a marked degree; one felt it even as he stood in the doorway, and the personality he possessed was of a kind that made Murchison's hackle rise.
There was a dead silence in the carriage of such a peculiar quality that Murchison turned and looked at Ursula. She never had any colour in her cheeks, but normally they were of a creamy magnolia hue which is perfectly healthy, but as he stared he saw her gradually go the colour of ashes. The pupils of her large, dark eyes slowly dilated until there was no iris left, and they were uncanny pools of blackness. And all the while she never spoke or moved, but stared at the newcomer like a bird fascinated by a snake. He, for his part, watched this painful exhibition with evident satisfaction, and made no attempt to put her at her ease.
A wave of hot anger swept over Murchison. It was too bad for a nice girl like Ursula Brangwyn to be scared half to death by this unpleasant individual. He wasn't going to have it. Now Murchison was decidedly slow in social relationships, but he was quick enough when action was needed. He knew it was impossible to drive the newcomer out of the carriage, for he had as good a right to be there as Ursula had, so he leant forward and placed his hand on the girl's knee.
‘I am afraid you're not feeling very fit,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come along with me to the buffet and I'll get you a drop of brandy?’
She turned her dazed eyes from the other man and gazed helplessly at Murchison without speaking. He looked her steadily in the eye and gripped her with his will, as he had done with panicking Tommies many a time out in France. He did not wait for any reply from her, but opened the door of the carriage and got out, and then leant in and lifted her out bodily, as if she had been a child, set her on her feet, holding her as she leant helplessly up against him, and said over her shoulder to the disgusted young man in the carriage:
‘You keep out of the way unless you want your head punched.’
Murchison supported Ursula, who hardly seemed capable of setting one foot in front of the other, into the refreshment-room, and sat her down on a corner settee where she could lean her head back against the cushions, sent the waitress for brandy, and, diluting it with no more than its own bulk in water, took Ursula firmly by the head and poured it down her throat.
‘Are you obliged to travel by this train?’ he asked, ‘because you are going to have your friend as a travelling companion. Why not come back to the flat and have a rest, and go on later?’
Ursula nodded acquiescence, and he led her out of the station and into a taxi, and back to the flat, sincerely hoping that Brangwyn would be at home to cope with his sister; but, as before, Brangwyn was not forthcoming when he wanted him, and he found himself with the collapsing Ursula on his hands, and not even a char in sight.
He got her out of her hat and her mink coat as if he were undressing a doll, and deposited her gently in one of the large armchairs, and sat down himself on the edge of the wide brick hearth and stared at her as she gazed into space with unseeing eyes, wondering what on earth he should do with her. He recognized that she had had a severe emotional shock; in fact, her condition reminded him vividly of shell-shock, but he could not imagine what on earth could have occurred in a civilized city to reduce her to this state. The fellow had simply looked at her, and she had gone as flat as a burst tyre. He could understand a girl getting the wind up if she had a sticky past and it suddenly rose up and smote her; he could understand her having hysterics, or something of that sort; but the kind of paralysis that had overtaken Ursula Brangwyn was beyond his comprehension. He did not think it would be much use sending for a doctor to cope with a condition of this kind, nor did he think the excitable Latins in the restaurant would prove particularly helpful. No, anything that was to be done for Ursula Brangwyn would have to be done by him, and he had better get on with it.
He bent forward and laid his hand on her knee once again.
‘Look here, Miss Brangwyn,’ he said, ‘you have absolutely no need to be scared of that fellow. Your brother and I will send him spinning if he gives any trouble or bothers you again.’
And then, as it suddenly occurred to him that it might be fear of her brother finding out something with regard to the young exquisite that had thrown her into a panic, he added:
‘Or if there is anything I can do for you on my own, you have only to say what it is and I'll do anything I can. I don't know anything about the fellow, but I have a sort of feeling he needs kicking, on general principles, if for nothing else.’
The girl slowly turned her eyes towards him. He noticed that all her movements were peculiarly slowed down.
‘No,’ she said in a low, toneless voice, ‘there is nothing either you or Alick can do. Alick has done all he can. I am the only person who can do anything. I have got to help myself - if I can - if I can.’
‘Well,’ said Murchison, ‘I don't know what it is that you propose to do about it, but I can tell you one thing, the longer you sit and look at it before you do it, the worse it will get.’
‘There is nothing for me to do. It is just the way I feel about things.’
‘There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it,’ said Murchison.
‘Yes, I know,’ replied the girl. ‘It isn't that. I'm not fond of him any longer. I'd be only too thankful to be rid of him. I would truly. But I can't get rid of him. I can't break the rapport between us. He still has the most awful power over me. He can make me do anything he wants.’
‘Well,’ said Murchison, ‘he wanted to make you stop in the train and talk to him, but he didn't manage it when I hoicked you out. What's been done once can be done again.’
‘It isn't just that. It's me, too. It's just like drink or drugs. A kind of craving.’
‘It'll wear off with time,’ said Murchison firmly, though he hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.
‘I thought so, too,’ said the girl, with a sigh, ‘but it's come back as strong as ever now I've seen him again.’
Murchison suddenly remembered the girl's words concerning an experiment that had gone wrong, and which had left her considerably shaken up. He also remembered his employer's words concerning a previous secretary who had turned out badly and had to be fired hastily and was not on any pretext to be admitted to the flat; and it suddenly occurred to him that the man he had seen at the railway station might be one or other of these persons - or, more probably, one and the same person; it was unlikely there would be two separate sets of melodrama in the same family. The young man had probably been engaged as he had been engaged, got mixed up with Ursula Brangwyn, and had been slung out by her brother for some pretty drastic reason, and the girl had had the shock of a bust-up love affair, and was having a bit of a nervous breakdown in consequence. He was sorry for her, but wondered why it was she had been fool enough to fall for such a blighter; why couldn't she see that he was all wrong? Why, above all, hadn't Brangwyn seen through him earlier in the proceedings? He wondered what they had all been up to - this man, who radiated such curious personal magnetism and had such an uncanny power over the girl, Brangwyn, with his interest in queer cults and lost arts, and the girl herself, possibly badly damaged as a result of some psychological experiment that had gone wrong.
A wave of pity swept over him as he looked at the girl, sitting huddled in the big chair and staring into space with unseeing, terrified eyes. It was an ugly thing to see a human being reduced to such a condition; it seemed to derogate from the dignity of the whole human species that it was possible to reduce anyone to such a state of helplessness and subjection to the mind of another. He felt the short hairs on the nape of his neck beginning to rise. Powers were abroad that he did not understand. Anyone who had not actually seen the incident would pooh-pooh it as an hysterical girl's imagination; but he himself had felt the strange personal influence that radiated from the man; an influence that filled him, a male, with an almost irresistible desire to strike him, and that might quite well have all sorts of queer effects on a highly strung girl like Miss Brangwyn if the fellow gave his mind to getting hold of her.
Well, it was a queer business altogether. He wondered how much he was going to get mixed up with it in the course of his work for Brangwyn. The less the better, he thought, or he might be following his predecessor into the discard ignominiously. One thing was quite certain, however, he needn't get himself mixed up with Miss Brangwyn. That, at least, was optional.
To his immense relief he heard a latch-key being inserted in the door, and rose to welcome his employer. But when the door opened it was not Brangwyn who stood there, but a complete stranger, a heavily built, pock-marked mulatto, and over his shoulder Murchison caught a glimpse of the narrow, pallid face of the man he had seen at the station. A low moaning noise came from the girl huddled in the chair.
Murchison placed himself between her and the newcomers, completely hiding her from their eyes with his heavy bulk.
‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘but Mr. Brangwyn's instructions are that no one is to be admitted to the flat in his absence, so I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave.’
The mulatto paused and surveyed him with an air of studied insolence that Murchison thought was probably assumed for the benefit of the onlookers, for he could hardly expect to browbeat a complete stranger by sheer weight of glare.
‘And who might you be?’
‘Mr. Brangwyn's secretary, sir; and his instructions are that no one comes into the flat in his absence, so I'd be glad if you'd go.’
‘And do you know who I am?’ The mulatto struck an attitude reminiscent of the late Henry Irving.
‘No, sir. Don't know anything about you. I only know what my instructions are - to see that no one comes into the flat in Mr. Brangwyn's absence.’
‘Do you imagine Mr. Brangwyn would have given me a key to his flat if he didn't expect me to make use of it?’
‘There are other ways of getting hold of a key than having it given to you, sir. You are a stranger to me, and I don't propose to take any chances on you. If you don't go, I'm afraid I'll have to throw you out.’
The mulatto blew his chest out and looked round at his companion. They were both tall men, and the one who appeared to be the leader of the expedition looked as if he had been an athlete before time and debauchery had taken toll of him.
‘Do you imagine you could throw us out?’ he inquired, with an unpleasant smile.
Murchison measured them with his eye. Ursula's acquaintance was considerably younger than himself, and looked active, but had not the weight to be a formidable antagonist for a man of his bulk. The other man was both bigger and heavier, and could probably give a good account of himself for a short time, but would wind quickly, if his nose was any indicator of his way of living. Between them, however, they might take some throwing out single-handed. There would certainly be a considerable mess before they were gone. There was only one way to do it, and that was to take them by surprise. Without giving the slightest hint of his intention, Murchison charged, and with an old rugby forward's trick of the shoulder took the stranger in the chest and sent him over backwards, taking his companion with him like a ninepin, and Murchison slammed the door behind them. A series of fearful bumps told of the manner in which they were descending the stairs. It was only in the dead silence that supervened that it occurred to Murchison to wonder whether any necks had been broken.
He opened the door and looked out cautiously. The heap at the bottom of the stairs lay unpleasantly quietly upon the mat just inside the street door, which stood wide open. Murchison was too experienced a fighting man to go and examine a corpse without precautions. That was the way to get a knife in the belly. He stood debating what to do until a shadow blocked the doorway and a policeman's helmet was silhouetted against the sunshine outside.
‘What's all this about, gentlemen?’ he demanded, surveying the tangle at his feet, which was at last beginning to stir feebly.
‘They tried to force an entry, constable,’ replied Murchison from the stair head, ‘and my instructions were to chuck ‘em out if they wouldn't go quietly, and I've done it; but I didn't mean to chuck ‘em down the stairs.’
‘You seem to have done it pretty thoroughly, sir,’ said the policeman, bending down and trying to disentangle the heap on the mat. Ursula's friend sat up and blinked dazedly. He looked decidedly concussed, thought Murchison. The mulatto never stirred. Murchison began to feel uneasy. Not so the policeman, who had seen alleged corpses before, and knew the symptoms. He lifted an eyelid and shoved a large thumb on the eyeball. The unconscious man sat up in a hurry and damned him heartily.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the policeman, ‘as this disturbance has taken place on private premises, it's nothing to do with me unless you call me in.’ And he looked inquiringly from one to the other as if to see whether anybody wanted to give anybody else in charge.
‘Well, I don't quite know what to do, constable,’ said Murchison. ‘This isn't my house, you see. I've only been left in charge of it, so to speak. It's for my employer to say what's to be done.’
‘I'd better have the names and addresses,’ said the policeman, getting out his notebook, to Murchison's great satisfaction, who learnt that the younger man's name was Frank Fouldes, with an address in Chelsea, and the mulatto was Hugo Astley; whereupon Murchison pricked up his ears, for the name was not unknown to him in connection with a series of lurid revelations in one of the less reputable Sabbath journals. At the time he had paid no attention to these revelations as fact, however entertaining they might be as fiction; but now that he had seen the man himself, he reckoned that there might be something in them.
‘Address, please,’ said the constable, inexorable as fate.
‘The Ritz,’ replied the man on the mat haughtily, concentrating his attention on punching the dents out of a bowler hat.
‘Which one?’ demanded the law.
‘Ritz Hotel!’ Unutterable contempt made itself heard in the voice of the speaker, who seemed perfectly oblivious of his undignified position between the policeman's boots.
‘Piccadilly or Praed Street?’
‘Praed Street,’ he said sulkily. The policeman's face was impassive; the trick was an old one to him. But it was a new one to Murchison, who gave a sudden ha-ha from the top of the stairs. Astley looked up at the sound, and there came into his face an expression so fiendish that Murchison's laugh was arrested in mid-career, leaving him open-mouthed. If ever the Prince of Darkness appeared in human form, he was sitting on the door-mat now. Murchison was prepared to believe anything of this man, even what the Sunday papers said of him.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said the policeman, ‘now, unless you're hurt, you'd better move along.’
They got up reluctantly and limped away, dusting themselves down as they went, the policeman watching them round the corner. Not until they were safely out of sight did he turn to Murchison and ask his name. For which piece of tact Murchison blessed him, for he judged that the less Hugo Astley knew about him, the better for his health.