He felt fidgety and unable to settle down to anything. He was big with his theory. Presently he thought of Felix Gardener, and decided to walk round to Sloane Street and talk it over with him. He didn’t ring up. If Felix was out he would walk on down to Knightsbridge and take a bus to the Yard. He wanted exercise.
Sloane Square, that full stop between Eatonia and Chelsea, had a look of sunny friendliness. Nigel bought a carnation for his coat, sent a silly telegram to his Angela, and walked lightly onwards. Sloane Street, with its air of quality and hint of boredom, was busier than usual. Nigel felt a sudden inclination to run, to whistle, to twirl his stick round. He glanced jauntily at a shabby-genteel man, who stood looking into the furniture shop next the flat. Gardener’s windows on the first floor were open. He spoke blithely to the commissionaire, refused the lift, and ran two steps at a time up the thickly-carpeted stairs to Gardener’s door.
It was open and Nigel, without ringing, went into the little entrance hall that opened into the studio sitting-room. He was about to call out, cheerfully, and had actually drawn in his breath to do so, when he was brought up short by a woman’s voice coming from the studio room.
“If I did it,” it cried urgently, “it was for you — for you, Felix. He was your worst enemy.”
Nigel heard Gardener say slowly: “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”
The woman began to laugh.
“All for nothing!” she said, between paroxysms of choking. “Never mind — I don’t regret it. Do you hear that? But I don’t think you were worth it.”
Scarcely aware of what he did, and conscious only of cataclysmic panic, Nigel banged the front door, and heard himself shout:
“Hullo, Felix, are you at home?”
Dead silence and then a sound of footsteps, and the studio door was thrown open.
“Oh — it’s you, Nigel,” said Felix Gardener.
Nigel didn’t look at him, but beyond, into the studio, where he saw Stephanie Vaughan, very attractive, in an arm-chair by the window. She held a handkerchief to her lips.
“Why, it’s Nigel Bathgate,” she cried, with exactly the same inflexion as the one she used when she said: “Hullo, all you people,” in her first entrance in the play.
“You’ve — you’ve met before,” said Gardener.
Nigel managed to say something, even to take the hand she held out cordially towards him.
“I only came in for a second,” he told Gardener.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Miss Vaughan gaily. “You’ve come to have a boy friend chat — the sort that consists of drinks, cigarettes, long silences and a few risqué stories. I’m off, anyway, so you needn’t bother about me.”
She rose to her feet in one lithe movement. She looked Nigel full in the face, and gave him the three-cornered smile.
“Make Felix bring you to see me,” she commanded. “I rather like you, Nigel Bathgate. Felix — you hear? You’re to bring him to see me.”
“Is this your purse?” asked Gardener. Nigel saw him put it on a table near her, and knew he didn’t want to touch her hand. He opened the door to her and she floated out, still talking. Gardener followed her, shut the door, and Nigel heard her voice, very low, outside. In another second the outer door slammed, and Gardener came back into the room.
“It was decent of you to come, Nigel,” he said. “I’m all in.”
He looked it. He sat down in front of the fire and held his hands to it. Nigel saw he was shaking:
“I think you ought to see a doctor, Felix,” he ventured.
“No, no. It’s only the after-effects of shock, I imagine. I’ll be all right. Think I’ll turn in presently and try for a little sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep much.”
“Jolly sound idea. Why don’t you carry it out now? I’ll give you some aspirin and a stiff whisky, and leave you in peace.”
“Oh, in a minute. Any news?”
They had both managed to avoid speaking of Miss Vaughan. Nigel’s theory about Saint came into his mind. He smiled rather wryly to himself at the remembrance of his so recent enthusiasm. Did Gardener wonder if he had overheard anything? Nigel believed that idea had not entered his friend’s head. As Felix himself said, he was suffering from shock. Nigel forced himself to speak at random. It was hard to find anything to talk about. He who, hitherto, had barely impinged upon the edge of the theatrical world now found himself drawn into it. He felt, suddenly, as though he were surrounded by these people, as though, against his will, he was obliged to witness a play they had staged and as though he had been compelled to leave his seat in the auditorium and mingle confusedly with the action of the piece. The two men must have been silent for some time, for Nigel was startled to hear Gardener say suddenly:
“She gave her evidence well, didn’t she?”
“Who?”
“Stephanie.”
“Very well.”
Some inflexion in Nigel’s voice arrested Gardener’s attention. He looked at his friend with a kind of agony in his eyes.
“Nigel — you remember what I said. Neither of us is guilty. I gave you my word and you said you believed me.”
“I know I did,” said Nigel miserably.
“Are you beginning — to wonder?”
“Are you sure you’re right, Felix? She— Oh, Lord!”
Gardener laughed.
“You are beginning to wonder. My God, if you only knew what a heroine she is!”
“Can’t you come clean, Felix?”
“I can’t — I can’t. Not about Stephanie. Oh, well, I suppose I can’t blame you. It looks pretty damning, for both of us. What does Alleyn say about the suicide theory?”
“He tells me very little,” said Nigel.
“The verdict of the inquest was wrong,” Gardener said urgently. “It was suicide. I’ll see Alleyn myself and try and make him—” He broke off short. “He must be made to accept that it was suicide.”
“I must go. Do try and get some sleep, Felix.”
“Sleep! ‘Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.’ Ugh! There goes the actor! Good-bye, Nigel.”
“I’ll let myself out. Good-bye.”
Nigel walked sombrely downstairs and out again into Sloane Street.
He realized now that he had a terrible decision to make. Was he to tell Alleyn of the conversation he had overheard? A woman! He shied off the logical consequence of his statement, and then, despising himself, came back to it again. If he held his tongue what would happen? Would Felix, who loved her, let Saint be accused of the murder? He thought of Alleyn’s attitude towards his scruples, and suddenly realized that it was his own peace of mind that he was trying to salvage. He was in Knightsbridge, and walking down to Hyde Park Corner, when he made his decision. He had no right to withhold his knowledge. He would tell Alleyn. With a heavy heart he stopped a taxi.
“Scotland Yard,” he said.
It was not yet four o’clock when he got there, but the chief inspector was in and could see him. He went up at once.