“It’s a lie! Absolute lie! I tell you that on the honour of an officer.” An impressive pause. “Trent’s had those rooms at the top of the house for ten years at least. He comes here to write. He lives alone up there for a year or more, turns night into day, writes his book—and clears off. Then, about two years later, he comes back to write another.”
“That’s extremely interesting. You see——”
“Oh I know a lot of interesting people—a lot, I can assure you! Don’t bring ’em here though. Not to this
Then, after a very brief pause, he added in a confidential whisper:
“Excuse me. I must go and telephone a man. It’s most important. I—I shan’t be very long. You don’t mind, I take it.”
“No, that’s all right. See you later, perhaps.”
“Certainly—certainly. Matter of only a few minutes, you understand. But important—important!”
He disappeared with remarkable celerity.
Rendell welcomed privacy. The events of the last five minutes had been so unexpected, so intriguing, that he felt he was in some strange region where the improbable was the usual. But, discovering that so many mysteries clamoured for attention simultaneously, he decided to dismiss all of them in the hope that, eventually, they would range themselves in order of significance.
He took off his overcoat, then looked round the room.
It was large, high-pitched, and had a bay window. Most of the furniture was ancient, battered, but solid. It had evidently encountered a number of second-hand dealers, and seemed depressed by the premonition that—at the next visit—its value would be assessed, not as furniture, but as wood.
There were exceptions, however. The carpet, though faded, had clearly been bought by someone who demanded a correspondence between their aspirations and their surroundings. The same quality distinguished a little red chair whose jauntiness time had failed wholly to obliterate. Also, by the wall farthest from the window stood a divan. The majority of the furniture seemed to demand a brass bedstead, in order to rivet the apartment to the category of a bed-sitting-room in a lodging-house, but the presence of the divan triumphantly asserted individuality. Altogether, the room represented a compromise between dead orthodoxy and the spirit of revolt.
Rend ell assessed it pretty accurately. He had lived in all sorts of surroundings in all parts of the world and so was an expert in his degree.
“Not too bad—for a week or so,” he said to himself. “Draughts—certain. Mice—probable. Anyway, it will do. That is, if it’s vacant. Have to see what Mrs. Frazer says.”
He struck a match and turned on the gas fire. No hiss of escaping gas greeted his listening ear. He blew out the match, then sought—and found—a meter. He produced a shilling and inserted it.
“The last tenant was clearly no altruist,” he muttered, then sat in an arm-chair and reviewed his situation. His summary dealt only with facts.
Here he was in a room on the ground floor of 77, Potiphar Street, Chelsea. Ivor Trent was seriously ill in a room at the top of the house. He, Rendell, had impulsively decided to take the room he was in—if it were free. Also, and above all, he had learned certain facts from Captain Frazer relating to Trent which were in direct opposition to those given him last night by Marsden. And Frazer, like Marsden, had known Trent for years!
Here was mystery—definite mystery—but he had no time to explore it now. For the moment, he accepted Marsden’s account as the true one. Frazer was clearly eccentric. Possibly Mrs. Frazer’s arrival would provide additional data. In the meantime——
But at this point Captain Frazer returned.
“I talked to my man. Satisfactory, quite satisfactory! I have a business deal with him—just a little idea of mine, but it came off, it came off. I’d have been back before, but I ran into the doctor——”
“Trent’s doctor?” Rendell interrupted.
“Yes, yes. He’s just gone. Trent’s still delirious, but has lucid moments. That was the doctor’s phrase—lucid moments. Trent refuses to be moved from here. That’s very good—excellent in fact. They wanted to take him to a nursing home. Damned nonsense!”
“Does the doctor think he’s dangerously ill?”
“Didn’t say—doesn’t know. Says Trent keeps raving about some man he’s seen. Nerves, that’s all, just nerves.”
Frazer paused, then added explosively:
“Why, I myself—do you know—sometimes suffer from nerves. Not often, but sometimes.”
He looked down at Rendell, his features tense and his right eye winking with remarkable rapidity.
“Well, I suppose we all do at times,” Rendell said calmly, imagining he would pacify him.