“Anyway, she’s very intelligent. She knows several languages and has a job in the foreign department of a bank. Did you know? And she reads a lot. She knew my work quite well. She really is very intelligent—attractive too. I’m seeing her again tomorrow. In fact, I mean to see her pretty often.”
A long silence, then Marsden suddenly exclaimed:
“Look here, Rendell! I’d like to ask you a straight question.”
“Go right ahead.”
“
“No.”
“Never seen him?”
“No.”
Marsden hesitated, then risked it.
“And your story as to why you came here is a true one and omits nothing?”
“Yes.”
“Well, all I can say is that the whole damned thing from first to last is the most extraordinary business I’ve ever run into.”
He rose, collected his crutches, then announced with great emphasis:
“But one thing is certain. I’m going to get to the bottom of all this. I’m going to find out why Trent’s been here for years and told none of his friends. I’ve made up my mind about that. I’m going to find out.”
Rendell rose and got Marsden’s overcoat.
“Well, I don’t want to discourage you,” he said slowly, “but I’ve a feeling that you won’t find it an easy job. Still, I wish you luck. I’ll be seeing you before long, I expect.”
When Marsden had gone, Rendell looked round the room, surprised to find himself alone. Soon, however, he found he was restless and irritable, and in a manner hitherto unknown.
Sentences from the many conversations he had had since his arrival at No. 77, nearly forty-eight hours ago, shot across his memory. Then, one after another, he seemed to see Rosalie Vivian, Vera Thornton, and Denis Wrayburn. He felt that each was a character from a different drama, in each of which he was destined to become involved. Yet, from another angle, the whole situation was fantastic. These people were strangers to him. He had met them owing to a sudden interest in Ivor Trent—a man he did not know and had not seen—a man who was lying ill upstairs in this impossible house.
But it was useless to speculate about him. It would be comparable to an attempt to assemble a jig-saw puzzle, of which many of the sections were missing.
He stood motionless, staring into the fire, amazed by the extent to which his curiosity had been captured by Trent. He felt that now—at this actual moment—he must take some action that might produce additional data concerning him. Otherwise, he would spend the evening in a mental cul-de-sac. He must find someone who knew Trent. His conversation with the servant had revealed that none of the present lodgers had met him. There was nothing to be learned therefore from them.
He drew the curtain apart and looked out. The sky glimmered with the light of a hidden moon. The pavements were wet but the rain had ceased. Rendell decided to go and have a drink somewhere before dinner.
Then he remembered the barmaid who had called to ask about Trent. Rummy! Yes, that was what she was called, and she served in the long bar of the Cosmopolitan. He would go there and see what happened.
He left the house, walked quickly towards the King’s Road, half regretting that the decision to visit Rummy necessitated going to the West End. Already he had become subject to the illusion, which Chelsea creates, that its unique atmosphere removes it from the common categories of town, country, or suburb. Physically, London may be near, but—psychically—it is far removed. It is true that the foundations of this illusion tremble once the King’s Road is encountered. The unending roar of that long narrow thoroughfare disturbs the calm certainties of even the ripest Chelsea residents. Rendell, however, preserved a remnant of illusion by taking a taxi on reaching the King’s Road, telling the driver to go to the Cosmopolitan.
On arrival, he glanced through the glass door before entering. Rummy was on duty, and Rendell believed that, had he known nothing of her, he would have detected her superiority to her surroundings. The other barmaids were typical—Rummy was individual. The contour and expression of the face, the line of the figure, every movement, indefinably asserted the possession of some quality which had triumphantly survived its environment.
He went to the bar and seated himself on a high stool. Rummy went to take his order.
“Well, you don’t remember me?”
She looked up at him quickly.
“Yes I do. You’re the gentleman I saw at Potiphar Street yesterday. Nice of you to come so soon.” She smiled, then added: “Didn’t think you’d come yet a bit—even if you came at all.”
A man a few yards to Rendell’s right rapped the counter and Rummy went to attend to him.
“How much, m’dear?”
“What! You going, uncle? Short visit to-night. Let’s see. One and nine.”
“I’m not very well, m’dear. It’s me knees.”
Rendell glanced at him. He was stout, heavily built, with a bulky head and projecting teeth.
“It’s me knees,” he repeated. “Otherwise—all right. There you are, m’dear.”
He went out slowly, leaning heavily on his stick.