"Do you really mean. . .?" the detective began incredulously; Beavis had given up the attempt at writing. He said, "I don't know what you are talking about. Where did this happen? When? What was it you think you saw?"
As Rowe looked at the photograph it came back in vivid patches: he said, "Wonderful Mrs -- Mrs Bellairs. It was her house. A séance." Suddenly he saw a thin beautiful hand blood-stained. He said, "Why. . . Dr Forester was there. He told us the man was dead. They sent for the police."
"The same Dr Forester?"
"The same one."
"And they let you go?"
"No, I escaped."
"Somebody helped you?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
The past was swimming back to him, as though now that there was nothing to fear the guard had been removed from the gate. Anna's brother had helped him; he saw the exhilarated young face and felt the blow on his knuckles. He wasn't going to betray him. He said, "I don't remember that."
The little plump man sighed. "This isn't for us, Beavis," he said, "we'd better take him across to 59." He put a call through to someone called Prentice. "We turn 'em in to you," he complained, "but how often do you turn them in to us?" Then they accompanied Rowe across the big collegiate court-yard under the high grey block; the trams twanged on the Embankment, and pigeons' droppings gave a farm-yard air to the sandbags stacked around. He didn't care a damn that they walked on either side of him, an obvious escort; he was a free man still and he hadn't committed murder, and his memory was coming back at every step. He said suddenly, "It was the cake he wanted," and laughed.
"Keep your cake for Prentice," the little man said sourly. "He's the surrealist round here."
They came to an almost identical room in another block, where a man in a tweed suit with a drooping grey Edwardian moustache sat on the edge of a chair as though it were a shooting-stick. "This is Mr Arthur Rowe we've been advertising for," the detective said and laid the file on the table. "At least he says he is. No identity card. Says he's been in a nursing home with loss of memory. We are the lucky fellows who've set his memory going again. Such a memory. We ought to set up a clinic. You'll be interested to hear he saw Cost murdered."
"Now that is interesting," Mr Prentice said with middle-aged courtesy. "Not my Mr Cost?"
"Yes. And a Dr Forester attended the death."
"My Dr Forester."
"It seems likely. This gentleman has been a patient of his."
"Take a chair, Mr Rowe. . . and you, Graves."
"Not me. You like the fantastic. I don't. I'll leave you Beavis, in case you want any notes taken." He turned at the door and said, "Pleasant nightmares to you."
"Nice chap, Graves," Mr Prentice said. He leant forward as though he were going to offer a hip flask. The smell of good tweeds came across the table. "Now would you say it was a good nursing home?"
"So long as you didn't quarrel with the doctor."
"Ha, ha. . . exactly. And then?"
"You might find yourself in the sick bay for violent cases."
"Wonderful," Mr Prentice said, stroking his long moustache. "One can't help admiring. . . You wouldn't have any complaints to make?"
"They treated me very well."
"Yes, I was afraid so. You see, if only someone would complain -- they are all voluntary patients -- one might be able to have a look at the place. I've been wanting to for a long time."
"When you get in the sick bay it's too late. If you aren't mad, they can soon make you mad." In his blind fight he had temporarily forgotten Stone. He felt a sense of guilt, remembering the tired voice behind the door. He said, "They've got a man in there now. He's not violent."
"A difference of opinion with our Dr Forester?"
"He said he saw the doctor and Poole -- he's the attendant -- doing something in the dark in Poole's room. He told them he was looking for a window from which he could enfilade --" Rowe broke off. "He is a little mad, but quite gentle, not violent."
"Go on," Mr Prentice said.
"He thought the Germans were in occupation of a little island in a pond. He said he'd seen them digging in."
"And he told the doctor that?"
"Yes." Rowe implored him, "Can't you get him out? They've put him in a strait-jacket, but he wouldn't hurt a soul. . ."
"Well," Mr Prentice said, "we must think carefully." He stroked his moustache with a milking movement. "We must look all round the subject, mustn't we?"
"He'll go really mad. . ."
"Poor fellow," Mr Prentice said unconvincingly. There was a merciless quality in his gentleness. He switched, "And Poole?"
"He came to me once -- I don't know how long ago -- and wanted a cake I'd won. There was an air-raid on. I have an idea that he tried to kill me because I wouldn't give him the cake. It was made with real eggs. Do you think I'm mad too?" he asked with anxiety.
Mr Prentice said thoughtfully, "I wouldn't say so. Life can be very odd. Oh, very odd. You should read more history. Silkworms, you know, were smuggled out of China in a hollow walking-stick. One can't really mention the places diamond-smugglers use. And at this very moment I'm looking -- oh, most anxiously -- for something which may not be much bigger than a diamond. A cake. . . very good, why not? But he didn't kill you."
"There are so many blanks," Rowe said.
"Where was it he came to see you?"
"I don't remember. There are years and years of my life I still can't remember."
"We forget very easily," Mr Prentice said, "what gives us pain."
"I almost wish I were a criminal, so that there could be a record of me here."
Mr Prentice said gently, "We are doing very well, very well. Now let's go back to the murder of -- Cost. Of course that might have been staged to send you into hiding, to stop you coming to us. But what came next? Apparently you didn't go into hiding and you didn't come to us. And what was it you knew. . . or we knew?" He put his hands flat on the table and said, "It's a beautiful problem. One could almost put it into algebraic terms. Just tell me all you told Graves."
He described again what he could remember: the crowded room and the light going out and a voice talking and fear. . .
"Graves didn't appreciate all that, I dare say," Mr Prentice said, clasping his bony knees and rocking slightly. "Poor Graves -- the passionate crimes of railway porters are his spiritual province. In this branch our interests have to be rather more bizarre. And so he distrusts us -- really distrusts us."
He began turning the pages of the file rather as he might have turned over a family album, quizzically. "Are you a student of human nature, Mr Rowe?"
"I don't know what I am."
"This face for instance. . ."
It was the photograph over which Rowe had hesitated: he hesitated again.
"What profession do you think he followed?" Mr Prentice asked.