If he intended to murder Webber, Habershon concealed his intention from himself. At their last meeting, fourteen years previously, he had attacked Webber with his fists — in the curious conviction that the man who was conscious of being in the right always won. He was so right and Webber was so wrong that he was surprised when his blow was returned. Webber was six inches taller and forty pounds heavier, and Habershon had taken to his bed for three days.
“The man might attack me again!” That was the way Habershon explained to himself that he must pocket the revolver he had carried in the Kaiser’s war — a foolish act if he had intended murder, as the revolver was registered in his name.
He had turned up about nine. He ran his car into Webber’s garden and switched off the lights — odd behavior if he intended only a few minutes of unfriendly conversation. By the time he reached the front door, it had been opened.
“Good evening!” said Webber coldly, as to a stranger who has taken a liberty.
“I want to talk to you, Webber.”
“My hat, it’s Arnold Habershon! Come in, old man.”
In the hall, Habershon recognized an oak chest that had once been his own — more accurately, his wife’s. That was disconcerting.
Webber ushered him into the sitting-room. Habershon recognized the carpet, the writing table, the chairs, the cabinet. He was thrown out of his stride.
“But this is her furniture!” he exclaimed and immediately wished he had not said it.
“Yes. I managed to save it. Your moral claim is unassailable. You can have it all if you like.”
“Thanks, I don’t want it.” Slow-brained, he could not disentangle himself from the riddle of the furniture. “I was told you had sold it.”
“I pawned it. For my fare to Canada. But I was back in three months. One of my lines turned up trumps. I got a man to finance me over here — he’s my senior partner now — and we never looked back. I returned to Canada for our firm for four years — came home for good last summer. I warehoused it while I was away.” Webber was becoming genial. “You’ve done pretty well, too, haven’t you?”
Habershon let a silence hang.
“Webber, I did not come here to indulge in small talk. I came to ask certain questions. If you feel inclined to answer them, I will not inflict my society on you for any longer than is necessary.”
“I’ll answer any questions you like.” Webber’s tone was indifferent. “But I’m damn well not going to play up to that stagey stuff. Fourteen years ago! If we have to talk about it, we needn’t turn on the slow music. Have a drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Then you’ll have some coffee to show that we both intend to behave ourselves. I’ve just cooked it.”
As ever, he was glib and effective and as stupidly handsome as he had been at twenty-five.
“Very well. Thanks.” There was the coffee layout on the writing table. “The Ashwinden set!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. But I’m afraid there are only two cups left and I keep the other in the cabinet.”
Webber rose to fetch the other cup. The set had been one of the wedding presents from her father, who had designed it himself for Ashwinden’s. The pot was intact and the milk jug and the sugar bowl. He had never really liked that set. It was futuristic — a tower motif with a castellated top, broad and heavy and inappropriate. The metal lid of the milk jug would pop up on its counterpoise like a jack-in-the-box. Isobel had been very fond of it, out of affection for her father, so Habershon had made himself like it too. But he did not like it now. He was almost pleased when Webber babbled:
“By the way, that set isn’t as valuable as we all thought. I declared it at a hundred and fifty pounds, but the warehouse people refused to accept it at more than twenty. D’you take milk?”
“Yes, please.”
Webber poured, the pot in one hand, the milk jug in the other. The familiar action of the lid reminded Habershon vividly of Isobel, fanning his smouldering hatred of Webber.
Webber was facing him across the writing table, leaning forward on his left elbow.
“As you want to talk about things, Habershon, perhaps you’ll let me begin. Your making her take her furniture was a mistake. It kept reminding her that she had walked out on you — with the result that she very soon walked out on me — which was bad for all three of us.”
“Bad for you, Webber? When she left you and took that flat by herself? Before you answer, let me tell you that she wrote to me only once. While she was in that flat. Saying, among other things not complimentary to you, that she was sending you money. I have brought the letter with me. Here it is.” He stretched over the table and put it within the other’s reach. “You may read it.”
“It’s of no interest.” Webber made no move to pick up the letter. “I’ll take anything from you, Habershon. You can make out a case that I injured you by seducing your wife. The seduction element is wholly mythical, but let it stand. She did send me money. She said she wanted to pay back some of the money I had given her.”
Habershon shrugged. Webber continued:
“She had given me the furniture, verbally. I intended to look after it until she asked for it back. I didn’t regard it as mine until after she — until after her death. At that time I was darned nearly penniless — a state you’ve never experienced. And as it was true she had cleaned me out, and as she wanted to repay, I accepted the offer.”
“Knowing that she had no income? Knowing how she was getting the money to pay you? Knowing that she was driven to drugs to overcome her revulsion?”
The answer came in words which — true or not — may not be spoken of a woman to a man who has loved her.
“Revulsion my foot! You surely didn’t imagine that you were the first — by dozens!”
If Habershon had acted deliberately he would have fumbled with the gun and would almost certainly have missed his mark. He drew and fired across the table in a single instinctive movement.
He felt the sensation of being beside himself — of watching himself, and with vast approval. He put the revolver back in his pocket, went to the door, turned off the light. He swaggered across the hall, opened the front door. He was about to shut it when the light in the hall offended his mood. He left Webber’s home in darkness, banging the door behind him. A moment later he was banging the door of his car. He revved up the engine, making a din.
He drove to London in a leisurely manner, savoring life for the first time in fourteen years. He was no longer a rabbit — no longer a dried pea and a cold codfish — no longer nourishing a parched little soul on its own bitterness.
On his way through London he passed through the West End. The lights welcomed him. In Piccadilly he slowed down. A woman, young and springy, smiled at him as if he were her own age. He stopped and she got in and told him where to drive.
It was after midnight when he left her. The engine had grown cold, sputtered when he used the starter. At the second attempt it started.
“Good lord! I left Isobel’s letter on that writing table!”
Again he stood beside himself, beyond morality and beyond fear. The police would easily track him through that letter.
He must go back for it.
If the police were already in the bungalow he would be no worse off. There was not even any particular need to hurry.
As before, he ran the car into the garden, went up to the front door before he realized that he would be unable to open it. Back to the car for a tire lever with which to force an entry.