“Yes. Thanks! Shan’t stay long—too much to do. Ah, your room’s just here, is it? Good! Most kind of you. Thanks!”
Rendell glanced at his companion, while waiting for him to state his business.
He was above middle height and had scanty carrot-coloured hair and grey luminous eyes. A great domed forehead bulked impressively above a lined mobile face. He was not still for a moment, but Rendell felt that this man possessed real and remarkable ability of some kind.
“Now, I’ve not long,” he began. “What’s all this about Trent? But, first of all, you must know that I’m Bickenshaw, head of Polsons.” A pause. “You know, the publishers—the publishers!” he added, swiftly and irritably, as the light of comprehension and admiration had not dawned in Rendell’s eyes.
“Oh yes, of course,” the latter said quickly. “You publish Trent’s books, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes! Well now, look here—what’s happened? Is he better, or is he still delirious?”
“I believe he’s still delirious.”
“Must have collapsed in the street,” Bickenshaw said briskly, “and so they brought him in to this hole. Why, God bless my soul, he was lunching with me a week ago and never looked better. Told me he was just going to start his new book. I thought he’d have left England before this. Well, anyway! Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t, but——”
“Never mind! Directly he’s better, you go and see him. Tell him I called. Say I came in person. Don’t forget. And mind you tell him this
He turned swiftly to Rendell and demanded:
“Have you got it?”
“No, I——”
“You’ve probably got it—and don’t know it. Heaps of people are like that. It’s my belief that
He turned, walked swiftly out of the room, followed by Rendell. At the top of the steps, however, he paused.
“You live here, I suppose? Right! Then tell him—from me—to get out of this hole. I know a first-rate nursing-home. Tell him that, will you? Thanks very much. He must get out of this hole just as soon as he can. That’s essential. Tell him I said so.”
Bickenshaw sprang down the steps, ran to his car, leapt into it, and flashed away.
Rendell returned to his room and began to pace slowly up and down. It seemed to him that his primary need, at the moment, was to obtain some degree of mental perspective. Ever since his arrival at No. 77 last evening, impressions, discoveries, mysteries, and distractions of all kinds had so enveloped him that he was wholly unable to separate the significant from the trivial. His mind was chaotic and, in the hope of introducing some principle of order, he kept repeating to himself that it was less than forty-eight hours since he had dined with Marsden and cross-examined him concerning Ivor Trent.
But the iteration of this fact only increased his perplexity, for it seemed to him that he had been at No. 77 for at least a week, and that the week had contained an extraordinary number of remarkable incidents. One thing was definite, however—his curiosity concerning Ivor Trent deepened hourly.
At this point someone began to knock on the front door, but Rendell decided that he had had enough adventures in that region. So he continued to pace the room, speculating on the possibility that—if he stayed long enough—he might become so accustomed to the knocking that he would not hear it. He encouraged himself in this hope by recalling that once, in Sydney, he had become so inured to cats wailing all night and every night in the yard outside his room that, when a new-comer complained, he was amazed to discover that these nocturnal activities remained a fact.
He was interrupted in these memories, however, by a sharp rap on the window. This was a new form of technique, and a challenging one. Rendell decided that its originator was a person of resource and so worth his attention.
He went to the front door, opened it, and announced briskly—indicating the window of his room:
“That is
“I’m most awfully sorry, but I’ve been here so long, and I really am in a hurry. Still, I do apologise.”
The man’s voice was attractive. Rendell capitulated.
“That’s all right,” he said, then, glancing at the visitor, he added: “Have you come to inquire about Trent?”
“I have. How did you guess?”
“Well, I’ve been in all the morning and I suppose a dozen people have battered on that door. I can now spot those who have come to sell things—and those who want to learn about Trent. Come in to my room for a minute.”
“That’s most kind of you.”
“As you see, it’s near the front door. Now, what can I——”
“My name’s Voyce. I’m Trent’s literary agent. I was terribly upset to see the news in the paper. I live in the country, and only saw that paragraph in the train going home, or I should have come last night. How is he?”