would just come into my room and sit on the bed and talk to me.’
Again he covered his face. When he took away his hands Wexford expected to see tears on his cheeks, for he had spoken that last sentence on a sob, but he was quite calm, even relieved, it appeared, at having so nearly got it all off his chest.
‘Presently I heard her come upstairs,’ he said. ‘I willed her to come in. I exercised all the power of my will. God knows how I stopped myself crying out to her. Her bedroom door closed and I heard her begin to run a bath. In that moment I forgot who I was, my age, my position, my duty to my wife. I put on my dressing gown and went upstairs. I knew what I was going to say to Katje, that I smelt gas and thought it was coming from her room. Of course I couldn’t smellgas. All that was coming from her room was the faint sound of music from her radio.
‘I knocked and she called to me to come in. She was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine. I didn’t have to say anything about gas. It sounds incredible but I didn’t speak a word. She smiled at me and put out her arms …’
Abruptly he stopped speaking. Like an old-fashioned novel, Wexford thought. If it were written down, asterisks would come at this point. Quentin Nightingale’s asterisks were a sudden burning flush that threw into sharpness the whiteness of his hair and his moustache, ageing him. Fumbling for words and getting no help from the chief inspector, he said:
‘There were—well, other times. Not many. There was the night before last. I went up to Katje at about a quarter past eleven. I didn’t know whether Elizabeth had come in. I wasn’t thinking about Elizabeth. Katje and I—well, I stayed with her all night. It was Palmer walking about on the floor below that awakened me. I sensed something was wrong, so I got up and dressed and found him on the terrace.’
‘A pity you didn’t tell us all this before,’ Wexford said, frowning.
‘Put yourself in my place. Would you have?’
Wexford shrugged. ‘That’s beside the point.’ He was at a loss to account for his feelings. An alibi had been destroyed and a more convincing one had replaced it. Normally, when this occurred, he felt anger at the wasted time, relief at progress made. His present unease wasn’t normal and briefly he questioned himself. Then he knew. He was allowing himself something indefensible, personal involvement. What he felt for Quentin Nightingale was envy. Stiffly he got up.
‘This will have to be corroborated, Mr Nightingale,’ he said in a cold hard voice.
Pale again, Quentin said, ‘I realised you would want to ask Katje. It won’t embarrass her. She’s strange, unique. She’s … Oh, I’m wasting your time. I’m sorry.’
Wexford went upstairs. When he reached the first floor he paused for a second outside the door of Quentin Nightingale’s bedroom and then, as he turned towards the top flight and began to mount, he heard music coming from above. It gave substance, near-reality to the unpermitted dream his envy of Nightingale had evoked. A soft, throaty voice was singing the number one song in the pop charts, singing of love. A passionate longing, bitter and savage, to recapture for one hour the youth he had lost engulfed Wexford. And suddenly growing old seemed the only tragedy of life, the pain beside which every other pain dwindled into insignificance. Mature, wise, usually philosophical, he wanted to cry aloud, ‘It isn’t fair!’
He came to the door and rapped on it sharply. The music should have stopped. Instead the voice welled and trembled on a vibrant note and she came to the door and let him in.
Her pink dress had white frills like a nightgown, and like a nightgown it was cut low to show milk-white half-moons and shoulders where even the bones looked soft. She smiled at him, her sea-blue eyes full of laughter. Quentin Nightingale had had all this, easily, without argument. So had the waiter at the Olive and Dove. So had how many
Again he covered his face. When he took away his hands Wexford expected to see tears on his cheeks, for he had spoken that last sentence on a sob, but he was quite calm, even relieved, it appeared, at having so nearly got it all off his chest.
‘Presently I heard her come upstairs,’ he said. ‘I willed her to come in. I exercised all the power of my will. God knows how I stopped myself crying out to her. Her bedroom door closed and I heard her begin to run a bath. In that moment I forgot who I was, my age, my position, my duty to my wife. I put on my dressing gown and went upstairs. I knew what I was going to say to Katje, that I smelt gas and thought it was coming from her room. Of course I couldn’t smellgas. All that was coming from her room was the faint sound of music from her radio.
‘I knocked and she called to me to come in. She was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine. I didn’t have to say anything about gas. It sounds incredible but I didn’t speak a word. She smiled at me and put out her arms …’
Abruptly he stopped speaking. Like an old-fashioned novel, Wexford thought. If it were written down, asterisks would come at this point. Quentin Nightingale’s asterisks were a sudden burning flush that threw into sharpness the whiteness of his hair and his moustache, ageing him. Fumbling for words and getting no help from the chief inspector, he said:
‘There were—well, other times. Not many. There was the night before last. I went up to Katje at about a quarter past eleven. I didn’t know whether Elizabeth had come in. I wasn’t thinking about Elizabeth. Katje and I—well, I stayed with her all night. It was Palmer walking about on the floor below that awakened me. I sensed something was wrong, so I got up and dressed and found him on the terrace.’
‘A pity you didn’t tell us all this before,’ Wexford said, frowning.
‘Put yourself in my place. Would you have?’
Wexford shrugged. ‘That’s beside the point.’ He was at a loss to account for his feelings. An alibi had been destroyed and a more convincing one had replaced it. Normally, when this occurred, he felt anger at the wasted time, relief at progress made. His present unease wasn’t normal and briefly he questioned himself. Then he knew. He was allowing himself something indefensible, personal involvement. What he felt for Quentin Nightingale was envy. Stiffly he got up.
‘This will have to be corroborated, Mr Nightingale,’ he said in a cold hard voice.
Pale again, Quentin said, ‘I realised you would want to ask Katje. It won’t embarrass her. She’s strange, unique. She’s … Oh, I’m wasting your time. I’m sorry.’
Wexford went upstairs. When he reached the first floor he paused for a second outside the door of Quentin Nightingale’s bedroom and then, as he turned towards the top flight and began to mount, he heard music coming from above. It gave substance, near-reality to the unpermitted dream his envy of Nightingale had evoked. A soft, throaty voice was singing the number one song in the pop charts, singing of love. A passionate longing, bitter and savage, to recapture for one hour the youth he had lost engulfed Wexford. And suddenly growing old seemed the only tragedy of life, the pain beside which every other pain dwindled into insignificance. Mature, wise, usually philosophical, he wanted to cry aloud, ‘It isn’t fair!’
He came to the door and rapped on it sharply. The music should have stopped. Instead the voice welled and trembled on a vibrant note and she came to the door and let him in.
Her pink dress had white frills like a nightgown, and like a nightgown it was cut low to show milk-white half-moons and shoulders where even the bones looked soft. She smiled at him, her sea-blue eyes full of laughter. Quentin Nightingale had had all this, easily, without argument. So had the waiter at the Olive and Dove. So had how many
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