This Was Ivor Trent полностью

“Much the same, I’m afraid. The doctor has sent a nurse in.”

“But what’s wrong with him? That’s what I want to know. I saw him a few days ago and he seemed perfectly well. And what on earth is he doing here?”

“It’s the first time you’ve been here then?” Rendell inquired.

“Yes, of course. And it’s the first time he’s been here. Don’t want to be rude, but, frankly, this is not exactly Ivor Trent’s setting. He’s got a perfectly good flat of his own near Cork Street.”

“Oh, he’s a flat off Cork Street, has he?”

“Yes, had it for years. He must have been taken ill in the street. Incidentally, have you been here long?”

“No, I only came last night.”

“Only last night?” Voyce hesitated. “Don’t think me inquisitive, but do you intend to stay some time?”

“Well, I think I can say definitely,” Rendell replied, with some emphasis, “that I shall stay here as long as Trent does.”

“Then do me a favour, would you? Give him this letter, when he’s better, and ask him to write me his opinion. I’ve got to go away, but his letter would be forwarded.”

“Very well. He shall have the letter directly he’s better.”

“It’s really good of you. I’m damnably upset about this collapse of his. I can’t understand it.”

They walked together to the front door.

Just as Voyce was about to leave, Rendell said:

“By the way, Bickenshaw called about half an hour ago.”

“Did he? But of course he would! What’s he think is wrong with Trent?”

“He thinks it’s blood-pressure.”

“Oh, Bickenshaw’s got blood-pressure on the brain! Good-bye, and many thanks.”

Rendell returned to his room. The information that Trent had a flat near Cork Street, had had it for years, and, nevertheless, had written all his books at 77, Potiphar Street, so bewildered Rendell that sanity seemed to depend on ceasing to speculate any further on the mystery of Trent.

Consequently he deliberately began to analyse Voyce’s last remark—that Bickenshaw had blood-pressure on the brain—trying to determine whether authoritative medical opinion would accept the statement as a scientific one.

Arriving at no conclusion, he decided it was time for luncheon. He glanced out of the window. A sunny autumn day—he would not need an overcoat.

He took his hat and stick, went to the front door and opened it.

He was confronted by a telegraph-boy, whose hand was raised in a frustrated attempt to seize the knocker.

“Trent?”

“Oh, go to the devil!” Rendell shouted, then brushed past the astonished youth, nearly falling down the steps in his eagerness to escape—if only for an hour—from the mystery of Trent.

Rendell had no definite ideas as to where to lunch, but, finding himself on the Embankment, and discovering a restaurant with three or four tables gaily displayed on the broad pavement in front of it, he decided that luncheon in the open air was desirable, the day being mild.

Consequently he joined the half-dozen rather self-conscious persons already seated, and instantly acquired the slightly defiant air which characterised them, and which seemed to assert “one does this in Paris, so why not in London?”

Traffic shot and crashed down the Embankment, trams trailed monotonously over Battersea Bridge: tugs fussed up and down the sparkling river, wailing mysterious intentions to the initiate. An impish breeze frisked about, fluttering the table-cloths and whisking odd scraps of paper to dizzy altitudes, then incontinently abandoning them.

Two young men, at the table next to Rendell’s, were engaged in an endless and highly technical conversation, largely monopolised by the lankier of the two. On the rare occasions when he was forced to pause, the less lanky seized the opportunity to demand: “What about Flaubert?” And, as the more lanky consistently ignored this question, it was repeated perhaps a dozen times by the less.

Rendell, eventually finding this somewhat monotonous—and not wishing to revert to private speculation—transferred his attention to another table in his immediate vicinity.

Two young women were seated at it. The more talkative had a countenance vaguely suggesting a snapshot of winter, but this was compensated for to some extent by the kindred virtue of a polar clarity in her speech. She was explaining, in the briefest and clearest of terms, such mysteries as commodity prices, inflation, deflation, the gold dollar, and certain economic theories held by the U.S.S.R. Each sentence was delivered with revolver-shot precision. Her companion—a rosy-cheeked, athletic girl of about twenty—kept interpolating enthusiastically: “Oh, is that what it means? I’ve often wondered.”

Soon, Rendell bought a newspaper from a passing youth, but as the lunch edition had not yet reached Chelsea, it contained only racing information—in which he was not remotely interested.

So, his coffee being cold, owing to exposure, he rose, having decided to have a stroll round Chelsea before returning to No. 77.