This Was Ivor Trent полностью

Everything about his clothes was incredibly neat. The fawn suit, the long-pointed soft collar, the dark tie, links—everything—suggested a deliberate choice—calculated to create a certain general effect. He looked like a fastidious student. He was probably about thirty.

Rendell’s aversion increased. The narrow face with its dark pointed beard; the mauve vein clearly discernible on each temple; the slender hands with their tapering fingers, and, chiefly, the glacial aura which invested him, all contributed to foster Rendell’s dislike. Also he objected to a mole on his right eyebrow—which he had just detected.

At last an order was given to the waiter. It consisted of eggs. Minute directions as to their preparation followed, and the waiter was not permitted to withdraw until his repetition of his instructions was correct to the last detail.

“My name is Denis Wrayburn.”

The very articulate pedantic tone increased Rendell’s irritability.

“I don’t know that I’m particularly interested,” he began, then broke off in obedience to a quick gesture from Wrayburn.

“Would you mind having this chair? It’s in a draught.” A pause. Then Wrayburn added, stabbing his right forefinger towards Rendell: “Say if you do mind, of course.”

To Rendell’s great astonishment, he rose, pushed his plate, etc., across the table, then seated himself in the draught Wrayburn had vacated.

“I have just come from 77, Potiphar Street,” he announced, pausing between each word as if to suggest that every action of his had a special significance.

“From Potiphar Street!”

“To look for you. No—please!” A restraining hand was raised. “Let me explain. It will be quicker. I found there two extremely stupid persons: Peter Marsden and Vera Thornton. Both excited, both incoherent. By cross-examination I elicited that they were in your room, and that their information concerning Trent had come from you. They said you were dining out and returning early. I knew, therefore, that you would dine locally. I made them describe you, and then I came here.”

“And why did you imagine I should be here?”

“They said you were going for a walk. In Chelsea, that usually means the Embankment. Anyway, does it matter? You are Rendell, and I have found you.”

The coolness with which it was assumed that Rendell would not resent this intrusion lacked insolence, for it was absolute. Rendell was annoyed at not being irritated.

“I have not come to chatter,” Wrayburn went on. “I’m not in the least interested in the fact that Trent’s had rooms in that house for years without telling his friends. I leave that to Peter and Vera to discuss.” He used their Christian names with withering emphasis. “I’ve come here to see just what sort of a person you are.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful. I’m——”

But as Wrayburn actually writhed at such a commonplace attempt at satire, Rendell broke off, feeling a trifle stupid—greatly to his secret irritation.

Nevertheless, he looked sharply at Wrayburn, seeking legitimate fuel for his anger—and finding it. Wrayburn’s attitude was offensive. He sat very upright, and, although his glance met Rendell’s, his head was slightly averted. The effect was inquisitorial and Rendell resented it.

“If you would rather be alone,” Wrayburn said slowly, emphasising each word, “say so now. Personally, I doubt it. You think you’re a lonely person.”

Rendell did not reply immediately. Wrayburn’s remark showed clearly that he was determined to define their relations from the outset. He would sever them—or dominate them. It was for Rendell to choose, once and finally. And the latter was too interested in this odd individual to dismiss him.

“You said I was a lonely person, I suppose, because Marsden told you so.”

“He did not tell me so. He told me that you had taken a room at No. 77 on impulse—although you do not know Trent. Well, that is the sort of thing a person does who thinks he is lonely. That is, of course, if he can afford it—which you can.”

“I see. You’re an expert in loneliness. Is that it?”

A flush passed over Wrayburn’s features. It came—and went—instantly. His voice was even more controlled and even more pedantic when he replied:

“I am an expert in detecting people who think they are lonely. One moment! Here are my eggs.”

A scrutiny of them, and a cross-examination of the waiter, followed. Then Wrayburn began to eat—in the manner of one performing an occult rite. Several minutes passed in silence. Eventually Rendell realised that Wrayburn had not the slightest intention of resuming conversation till he had finished.

He glanced at him again, though inwardly ashamed of the interest this odd person had created in him. Rendell had been to a lot of places and met numbers of people, but nowhere had he encountered anyone in the least like Wrayburn. Of that he was certain. Appearance, speech, personality—all were unique. Nevertheless, he disliked him, and felt uneasy in his presence.