This Was Ivor Trent полностью

It was a large oblong room with pale green distempered walls, which were entirely bare. The uneven boards were stained black. There was no carpet, but several rugs of varying sizes formed a geometrical design on the floor. In a corner was a divan bed. Near the window stood a writing-desk and within arm’s length was a row of dictionaries, ranged on a shelf fastened to the wall. A card index-cabinet, numerous bookcases, a typewriting-table, and a compactom were arranged with mathematical exactitude. Order predominated—every effect was calculated. There was nothing to offend, and nothing to distract—nothing to charm, and nothing to repel. Logic had frozen everything into a final unity.

“Didn’t expect to see a room like this, I’ll warrant. No more don’t I, as you might say. All his doing—not mine. Did everything himself, he did. Stained them boards, distempered them walls, brings his own furniture! And all as cool as you like. Say-nothing sort, he is. Does for himself, too. Yes, believe it or not, I never come in here. Makes his own bed! I said to him once, I said: ‘Some woman’s missed a treasure in you—what a husband you’d make,’ Lor, he did give me a look.”

She laughed noisily, then went on:

“Sure he’s expectin’ you? Precious few come to see him.”

Rendell said nothing, hoping she’d go.

“You’re looking at that gas-fire—and well you might! Ever see such a big one in all your born days? Well, I daresay he wants it. A colder-looking feller I never did see. Fair gives me the shivers to look at him. But that there gas-fire! I have to laugh whenever I see it. It’s what they call an Oxo size in the shops.”

A slight movement at the open door made them both turn. Wrayburn stood in the entrance surveying them with passionless enmity.

The landlady crossed to him, talking noisily, but two swift movements of his hand towards the stairs were too contemptuous to be ignored. Her chatter died and she went out, looking over her shoulder at him with an expression of frightened astonishment.

While she descended the stairs laboriously, Wrayburn stood in the doorway listening. When all was still, he said to Rendell:

“Now that the hoofs of that animal can no longer be heard, we can sit down. You’re not in a hurry, are you? You’re not! That’s all right then.”

He pressed his hand to his forehead and stood motionless with closed eyes.

“I say!” Rendell exclaimed. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

“The vibrations of that quadruped are disruptive,” Wrayburn replied slowly. “Also, it’s cold. You think it’s cold, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Rendell lied, finding the evening a pleasantly warm one. “But tell me this,” he went on. “Are you sure you’re not overworking?”

“I am not working. I finished a bout with the world a few weeks ago. A bout with the world is my term for a job, you understand. I’ve saved some money. When it’s gone, I shall re-enter the arena—probably.”

The pause before the last word, and its emphasis, isolated it in much the same manner as a spot-light gives prominence to one figure in a crowd.

Rendell glanced at his companion, not knowing what to say. Wrayburn had stretched himself limply in the arm-chair opposite him, but the tightly-clenched hands testified to some act of inner compulsion—some rallying of the will.

Two or three minutes passed in silence.

Suddenly Wrayburn leaned towards the fire and rubbed his hands. The light had returned to his eyes. He then consulted his watch and announced:

“Eight minutes past eight. That means we’ve the whole evening. That’s satisfactory, very satisfactory.”

“Time seems to interest you very much,” Rendell remarked. “I’ve noticed it before.”

Wrayburn flushed swiftly, making a convulsive movement with his whole body.

“Time, my good man, is something that has to be organised—like bouts with the world, money, landladies, and other horrors. But before we go on to something else,” he added, with lightning rapidity, “I want to make one or two statements about Ivor Trent. Just one minute, though.”

Wrayburn removed his shoes, put on slippers, then offered Rendell a cigarette.

Now, this last action surprised the latter, for he knew that Wrayburn never smoked, and disliked others doing so in his presence. Also Rendell noted that the cigarette offered was a specimen of the brand he preferred.

“Thanks very much, Wrayburn. You notice everything—even the kind I smoke. Really good of you.”

“And now,” Wrayburn began, with that flick of the hand which signified the dismissal of a subject, “I want to warn you not to form opinions of Trent on those preposterous friends of his you are meeting.”

“Why on earth not?” Rendell demanded.

“Because they represent his time-killing activities.”

“Time-killing activities!” Rendell echoed.