“That is a point, certainly,” I agreed.
We dropped the matter of our final destination for the moment and got down to working out details for our removal. In the morning, we decided, we would first of all acquire a truck—a capacious truck—and between us we made a list of the essentials we would put into it. If we could finish the stocking-up, we would start on our way the next evening; if not—and the list was growing to a length which made this appear much the more likely—we would risk another night in London and get away the following day.
It was close on midnight when we had finished adding our own secondary wants to the list of musts. The result resembled a department-store catalogue. But if it had done no more than serve to take our minds off ourselves for the evening, it would have been worth the trouble.
Josella yawned and stood up.
“Sleepy,” she said. “And silk sheets waiting on an ecstatic bed.”
She seemed to float across the thick carpet. With her hand on the doorknob she stopped, and turned to regard herself solemnly in a long mirror.
“Some things were fun,” she said, and kissed her hand to her reflection.
“Good night, you vain, sweet vision,” I said.
She turned with a small smile and then vanished through the door like a mist drifting away.
I poured out a final drop of the superb brandy, warmed it in my hands, and sipped it.
“Never—never again now will you see a sight like that,” I told myself. “Sic transit…”
And then, before I should become utterly morbid, I took myself to my more modest bed.
* * *
—
I was stretched in comfort on the edge of sleep when there came a knocking at the door.
“Bill,” said Josella’s voice. “Come quickly. There’s a light!”
“What sort of a light?” I inquired, struggling out of bed.
“Outside. Come and look.”
She was standing in the passage, wrapped in the sort of garment that could have belonged only to the owner of that remarkable bedroom.
“Good God!” I said nervously.
“Don’t be a fool,” she said irritably. “Come and look at that light.”
A light there certainly was. Looking out of her window toward what I judged to be the northeast, I could see a bright beam like that of a searchlight pointed unwaveringly upward.
“That must mean there’s somebody else there who can see,” she said.
“It must,” I agreed.
I tried to locate the source of it, but in the surrounding darkness I was unable to decide. No great distance away, I was sure, and seeming to start in mid-air—which probably meant that it was mounted on a high building. I hesitated.
“Better leave it till tomorrow,” I decided.
The idea of trying to find our way to it through the dark streets was far from attractive. And it was just possible—highly unlikely, but just possible—that it was a trap. Even a blind man who was clever, and desperate enough, might be able to wire such a thing up by touch.
I found a nail file and squatted down with my eye on the level of the window sill. With the point of the file I drew a careful line in the paint, marking the exact direction of the beam’s source. Then I went back to my room.
I lay awake for an hour or more. Night magnified the quiet of the city, making the sounds which broke it the more desolate. From time to time voices rose from the street, sharp and brittle with hysteria. Once there was a freezing scream which seemed to revel horribly in its release from sanity. Somewhere not far away there was a sobbing that went on endlessly, hopelessly. Twice I heard the sharp reports of single pistol shots… I gave heartfelt thanks to whatever it was that had brought Josella and me together for companionship.