“How nice you are,” she said slowly. “Now please get me a taxi.”
Rendell stared at her.
“Well,” she went on, “is that such a very extraordinary request?”
“But—but——” he blurted out, “the one you came in is still waiting.”
“Oh, is it? That’s all right then. Please see me into it. And, remember, I came to see
“Shall I see you again?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know anything.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll be in at three o’clock every day for the next week.”
With a swift movement she took his hand, pressed it, then turned, and he followed her out of the room.
They walked in silence to the taxi. Rendell watched it till it disappeared, then returned to his room, haunted by the image of a lovely face with frightened eyes.
Out of the maze of conflicting thoughts and emotions created by Rosalie Vivian’s visit, one fact eventually emerged—Rendell had become involved. Till his meeting with her, he had been a spectator—one whose curiosity had deepened hourly—but no more. At any moment he could have given up his room, returned to the normal, and regarded his adventures at No. 77 as amusing or intriguing incidents in a comedy which he had abandoned before its end.
This was so no longer. A tragic shadow had fallen across the comedy—and he had ceased to be a spectator. Even in terms of time, he was committed. He had promised to be in his room every day at three o’clock during the next week, but—apart from that—he was involved emotionally. He was convinced that her need was desperate, and that she had no one in whom to confide. Also, and more strangely, he was certain she was married, though, as she had not removed her gloves during her visit, this certainty was wholly intuitive.
Gradually other—and more obvious—certainties presented themselves. She was Trent’s mistress. Why, otherwise, had the knowledge that he was delirious made her hysterical with fear? As Rendell saw it, the governing facts were clear enough: she was married; she was Trent’s mistress; Trent was delirious; and therefore she was terrified.
But what was far more important, to Rendell, was the personal fact that she was unique in his experience. Till his marriage, women had been only a physical necessity, but, on that level, he had had many adventures. He was still deeply sensitive to a woman’s physical being, and yet, although Rosalie Vivian was beautiful, he could evoke no image of her figure from his memory. Her attraction was psychic, not physical. Nevertheless, Rendell made an essentially male mental note that—should he see her again—he would study her figure in detail. At present, he could remember only face, feet, and hands—and her amazingly blue, frightened eyes.
He had reached this point in his deliberations when he stumbled across a fact, hitherto overlooked, which instantly attained primary importance.
It was just understandable that Trent had lied to Marsden, to his publisher, and to his agent when telling them that he always went abroad to work. But it was far less understandable that he had told Rosalie Vivian—who was almost certainly his mistress—only last Saturday that he was leaving England the next day. She, then, like the others, was ignorant of the fact that Trent had had rooms at 77, Potiphar Street for years and had written all his books there.
“One thing’s definite,” Rendell said to himself, “if I ever see her again, the first thing I shall find out is—how long has she known Trent? The answer will tell me whether he’s an occasional liar or an habitual one. And a thing like that is always worth knowing.”
But at this point he was interrupted by a light knock on his door.
“Come in.”
A nurse appeared and said apologetically:
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but do you happen to know where Mrs. Frazer is?”
“No, I don’t, I’m afraid, but I’ll find her for you. But, tell me, how is your patient? I’ve several excellent reasons for wanting to know.”
“He’s still very excited.”
“Not delirious?”
“Very excited, I should say.”
“Well, it’s like this. His publisher and agent were talking to me this morning. Is it possible to give Mr. Trent a letter—and a message?”
“Oh no, quite impossible, I’m afraid. The doctor forbids him to see anyone or to have any letters. He was very definite about that.”
“Very well. I’ve done all I can. Would you let me know directly there’s a change in the doctor’s orders?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thanks very much. It’s awkward for me, having letters and so on. Wait a minute!” Rendell exclaimed. “I think that’s Mrs. Frazer in the hall.”
The nurse went out, and a lengthy half-whispered conversation ensued between the two women. Eventually Rendell, hearing the nurse ascending the stairs, called to Mrs. Frazer:
“Give me a minute, will you?”
She came into the room, looking tired and worried.
“I don’t want to bother you,” he began, “but, frankly, don’t you think this house is a bit noisy for an invalid?”
“I hope you haven’t been disturbed——”
“Oh, never mind about me! I’m all right—more or less. But what about Trent?”