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Grimwade's face changed rapidly from resignation through extreme offense to blank horror. He stared at Monk, but no words came to his brain.
"You have another idea? I thought not—neither have I." Monk sighed. "So let us think again. You said there were two visitors after Major Grey came in: one woman at about seven o'clock, and a man later on at about quarter to ten. Now, who did the woman come to see, Mr. Grim-wade, and what did she look like? And please, no cosmetic alterations for the sake of discretion!"
"No wot?"
"Tell me the truth, man!" Monk snapped. "It could become very embarrassing for your tenants if we have to investigate it for ourselves."
Grimwade glared at him, but he took the point perfectly.
"A local lady of pleasure, sir; called Mollie Ruggles," he said between his teeth. " 'Andsome piece, with red 'air. I know where she lives, but I expec' you understand it would come real gratify in' if you could see your way clear to bein' discreet about 'oo told yef she was 'ere?" His expression was comical in its effort to expunge his dislike and look appealing.
Monk hid a sour amusement—it would only alienate the man.
"I will," he agreed. It would be in his own interest
also. Prostitutes could be useful informants, if well treated. "Who did she come to see?"
"Mr. Taylor, sir; 'e lives in flat number five. She comes to see 'im quite reg'lar."
"And it was definitely her?"
"Yes sir."
"Did you take her to Mr. Taylor's door?"
"Oh no, sir. Reckon as she knows 'er way by now. And Mr. Taylor—well ..." He hunched his shoulders. "It wouldn't be tactful, now would it, sir? Not as I suppose you 'as ter be tactful, in your callin'!" he added meaningfully.
"No." Monk smiled slightly. "So you didn't leave your position when she came?"
"No sir."
"Any other women come, Mr. Grimwade?" He looked at him very directly.
Grimwade avoided his eyes.
"Do I have to make my own inquiries?" Monk threatened. "And leave detectives here to follow people?"
Grimwade was shocked. His head came up sharply.
"You wouldn't do that, sir! They're gentlemen as lives 'ere! They'd leave. They won't put up with that kind o' thing!"
"Then don't make it necessary."
"You're an 'ard man, Mr. Monk." But there was a grudging respect behind the grievance in his voice. That was small victory in itself.
"I want to find the man who killed Major Grey," Monk answered him. "Someone came into these buildings, found his way upstairs into that flat and beat Major Grey with a stick, over and over until he was dead, and then went on beating him afterwards." He saw Grimwade wincing, and felt the revulsion himself. He remembered the horror he had felt when actually standing in the room. Did walls retain memory? Could violence or hatred remain in the air after a deed was finished, and touch the sensitive, the imaginative with a shadow of the horror?
No, that was ridiculous. It was not the imaginative, but the nightmare-ridden who felt such things. He was letting his own fear, the horror of his still occasionally recurring dreams and the hollowness of his past extend into the present and warp his judgment. Let a little more time pass, a little more identity build, learn to know himself, and he would grow firmer memories in reality. His sanity would come back; he would have a past to root himself in, other emotions, and people.
Or could it be—could it possibly be that it was some sort of mixed, dreamlike, distorted recollection coming back to him? Could he be recalling snatches of the pain and fear he must have felt when the coach turned over on him, throwing him down, imprisoning him, the scream of terror as the horse fell, the cab driver flung headlong, crushed to death on the stones of the street? He must have known violent fear, and in the instant before unconsciousness, have felt sharp, even blinding pain as his bones broke. Was that what he had sensed? Had it been nothing to do with Grey at all, but his own memory returning, just a flash, a sensation, the fierceness of the feeling long before the clarity of actual perception came back?
He must learn more of himself, what he had been doing that night, where he was going, or had come from. What manner of man had he been, whom had he cared for, whom wronged, or whom owed? What had mattered to him? Every man had relationships, every man had feelings, even hungers; every man who was alive at all stirred some sort of passions in others. There must be people somewhere who had feelings about him—more than professional rivalry and resentment—surely? He could not have been so negative, of so little purpose that his whole life had left no mark on another soul.
As soon as he was off duty, he must leave Grey, stop building the pattern piece by piece of his life, and take up the few clues to his own, place them together with whatever skill he possessed.
Grimwade was still waiting for him, watching curiously, knowing that he had temporarily lost his attention.
Monk looked back at him.
