This Was Ivor Trent полностью

“How?” I repeated. “A newspaper—the inquest! Get me the newspaper.”

I did not hear her go or return. I found a newspaper in my hand, and flattened it on the desk—but I could not read it.

“You read it,” I said to her.

A gas-filled room . . . even the cracks in the floor plugged. . . . Rendell.

“Read again what Rendell said.”

Elsa read slowly.

“‘I blame myself bitterly for not seeing him more often. I knew he was lonely, but I failed him. As I said earlier, Wrayburn, apparently, had no relatives, but I shall, of course, make myself responsible for the funeral.’”

I do not know how long the silence continued after she stopped reading, but at last I heard her say:

“I must go now.”

“Have you talked to Rendell?”

“No.”

“See him—tell him about us.”

“Very well, and now I must go.”

She turned and walked towards the door.

Just as she reached it, I said:

“So you will come with me when I leave here?”

“Yes.”

“You will tell no one, and come with me?”

“Yes, whenever you like.”

She went out, closing the door noiselessly.

Next Sunday, I leave here with Elsa.

It will be eight weeks next Sunday since I came to this house: since I collapsed when Mrs. Frazer opened the front door: since I saw Him loom out of the fog on the Embankment.

I remember every detail of that Sunday—eight weeks ago.

I left my flat soon after six o’clock. For an hour I had stood by the window in the sitting-room, looking down at the fog-shrouded street. No one was to be seen. Every sound was muffled. The city had become its own ghost.

I stood motionless, watching my thoughts.

I had told everyone I was going abroad for a year to write a book. Rosalie had begged me not to leave her. She was certain she would tell Vivian, if I went. Her fear made her almost hysterical, but I scarcely heard what she said.

For over a year a theme for a novel had challenged my imagination. For months, the bee-hive of my subconscious mind had been at work on it. The period of inner elaboration was over. Now I must write it.

I was excited, eager to escape to solitude, but, nevertheless, I was afraid. I knew that, unless a miracle happened, it would be my last book. I had reached a final frontier. I stood at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Also, I had been ill recently. The tension of my nerves had become unendurable. I could feel the foundation of my will trembling.

These were some of the thoughts I watched—as I stood motionless, looking down into the fog.

But they were followed by other thoughts—fantastic projects which flashed across my mind, each offering a final intoxication before I went to Potiphar Street and to solitude.

One suggested I should ring up Vera and tell her to come to the flat. I had not seen her for months. I should hear her gasp of astonishment when she recognised my voice on the telephone. She would indignantly refuse to come—and half an hour later she would arrive.

Or I would ring Rosalie, see her once more, and tell her how wholly I had deceived her. Or I would make Rosalie and Vera both come to the flat, and then I would tell them everything. I would telephone Vivian—and Wrayburn. I would make them all come. Or I would ring up people I had not seen for years, who had reason to remember me.

These were some of the projects which flashed and faded in my mind as I stood by that window—eight weeks ago.

But, deeper than all, was the knowledge that I had reached the end of a road—the beginning of which had been my desertion of Elsa.

But the remnant of my will rebelled against this knowledge. My plans were made and I was determined to execute them. My luggage was piled in the hall. I was to leave at about six o’clock.

I remember the church bells beginning to ring out over the spectral city.

Suddenly someone said the taxi was waiting. I started violently, for I had not heard the servant enter the room.

I went into the hall, put on my overcoat, then looked round the flat for the last time. Just as I was going the telephone bell rang. I told the servant to say I was away, then I went down to the street.

I told the driver to take the luggage to 77 Potiphar Street, and to tell Mrs. Frazer that I should arrive at about nine o’clock.

I watched the taxi disappear, then groped through the fog to Piccadilly. Soon after I reached Leicester Square I lost myself in a desert of drifting desolation.

At last, I found myself in the Strand, and, some minutes later, I reached that tavern.

It was empty, but before long two men entered.

Marsden . . . Rendell . . . the sound of my own name . . . the story of Two Lives and a Destiny.

I overheard every word they said, as I sat huddled in my corner, too weak to move. Then, directly I could, I stumbled out into the fog and groped my way to Chelsea.

Sentences from the conversation I had overheard drifted through my mind, but they seemed to relate to someone else—some stranger who had stolen my name.

A new consciousness seemed to possess me, a strange terrible clarity which lit mysterious horizons.