Two young men, at the table next to Rendell’s, were engaged in an endless and highly technical conversation, largely monopolised by the lankier of the two. On the rare occasions when he was forced to pause, the less lanky seized the opportunity to demand: “What about Flaubert?” And, as the more lanky consistently ignored this question, it was repeated perhaps a dozen times by the less.
Rendell, eventually finding this somewhat monotonous—and not wishing to revert to private speculation—transferred his attention to another table in his immediate vicinity.
Two young women were seated at it. The more talkative had a countenance vaguely suggesting a snapshot of winter, but this was compensated for to some extent by the kindred virtue of a polar clarity in her speech. She was explaining, in the briefest and clearest of terms, such mysteries as commodity prices, inflation, deflation, the gold dollar, and certain economic theories held by the U.S.S.R. Each sentence was delivered with revolver-shot precision. Her companion—a rosy-cheeked, athletic girl of about twenty—kept interpolating enthusiastically: “Oh, is that what it means? I’ve often wondered.”
Soon, Rendell bought a newspaper from a passing youth, but as the lunch edition had not yet reached Chelsea, it contained only racing information—in which he was not remotely interested.
So, his coffee being cold, owing to exposure, he rose, having decided to have a stroll round Chelsea before returning to No. 77.
He wandered about, indifferent as to direction, interested or fascinated by a number of things. He encountered Chelsea Pensioners who, swiftly glimpsed, resembled moving pillar-boxes: little old-world shops nodding drowsily in the sunshine: a wooded public garden with Carlyle’s statue in the middle of it—leaves drifting idly down past the unseeing eyes of the sage. Then he lost himself in a labyrinth of little streets, now catching a glimpse of a porch of breath-taking beauty; or a charming interior with decorative people, remote and removed from the rigours of the age; or a dreaming house with an overhanging tree, surrounded by green lawns and a grey wall, serene and mature in the mellow October sunlight.
Later he found himself confronted by a tiny edifice of remarkable individuality. He paused to study it. Observing his interest, an old gentleman with silver hair and dark benevolent eyes, who wore a black velvet smoking-jacket, informed him that it was reputed to have been Henry VIII’s shooting-box, and that many earnest people hoped it was haunted.
On leaving this urbane and cultured individual, Rendell wandered on till, turning a corner, he found himself threatened by the maelstrom of the King’s Road.
He glanced at his watch. A quarter to three. He would return to No. 77 and, if possible, have an hour’s sleep—to compensate in part for a very disturbed night.
VII
The house was quiet on his return. He lit a cigarette, then, gradually, became aware of something oppressive in the atmosphere. Dismissing this sensation, by attributing it to the unwonted silence, he stood by the window, vaguely deliberating whether a view of the river was obtainable from Trent’s rooms at the top of the house.
Several minutes passed, then, being mentally idle and therefore interested in details, he noticed a taxi approaching down a deserted Potiphar Street.
He watched it aimlessly till his interest was quickened by the fact that it drew up outside the house. But although it became stationary, no one alighted. Nearly a minute passed. He saw the driver turn his head to address an invisible fare. Then the man pushed his arm back, turned the handle, and flung the door open.
A woman got out slowly. Hardly was she upright on the pavement when she glanced up at the house, then to the right, then to the left—hesitated—and finally made a movement which suggested that she was about to re-enter the taxi and drive away.
The driver, however, shut the door, and jerked twice with his left forefinger in the direction of the house.
Slowly, unwillingly, the woman approached it, pausing half-way to look again in each direction, then with sudden determination she almost ran to the top of the steps.
Rendell heard a single timid knock. If a mouse had been in the hall, it would have ignored it.
“This has got my number on it,” Rendell muttered to himself, and went into the hall.
He opened the door. Instantly an exclamation broke from him.
A beautiful but terrified face with great hunted eyes confronted him. For an endless second they stared at each other, then she began to tremble so violently that Rendell thought she was going to collapse.
Instinctively he caught her by the arm.
“Steady! It’s all right. Take your time. You’ll feel better in a minute.”
She made a lightning movement with her hand, indicating that she wanted the door closed. Rendell shut it with alacrity, then, still holding her arm, guided her to his room.
“You’d better sit down, don’t you——”
“Trent—Trent! I must see him. Now—immediately!—do you understand?”
The intensity of her tone, no less than her convulsive movements, so astonished Rendell that he stood hypnotised, staring at her.
She came nearer to him, moving her arms up and down, her fingers writhing in a frenzy of impatience.
“He’s here—he’s still here—isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s still here, but——”
“Then go! Now!”
“But I tell you no one is allowed to see him. The doctor has sent in a nurse and——”
“He’s not still delirious?”
“Yes, he is——”
Rendell broke off. She had sunk into a chair and now began to rock to and fro, her face buried in her hands.
“Delirious . . . delirious . . .”
She repeated the word as if it held her death-sentence.
By now Rendell was seriously alarmed and, which was worse, felt totally inadequate to the situation. Simultaneously, in the hinterland of his consciousness, he was dimly aware of a very disturbing quality in this woman’s beauty.
“Look here,” he broke out at last, “you can’t let yourself go like this. I tell you what you’d better do,” he went on, having no idea as to how he would end the sentence, “you’d better—well—you’d better have a drink, or something.”
A pause.
Then a laugh rang through the room. It was so unexpected, so musical, that Rendell started as if it had been an explosion.
When he recovered, he found that she was on her feet—her eyes scrutinising his features with embarrassing intensity.
“You must be a nice person. Only a nice person could have said something so stupid. Listen, listen! I’ve got to trust you. There’s something you must do for me. But promise—promise—you’ll never tell anyone.”
“I do promise.”
“Get me a piece of paper—and a pencil. Quick!”
She scribbled a word and some numbers—then tore the paper to shreds.
“No! Tell him—directly you can—that he must ring up Rosalie Vivian. Directly! Tell him it’s terribly urgent—terribly!”
Again she sank into the chair and buried her face in her hands.
“Oh no, no, no!” she moaned, “that’s no good. He’s delirious—delirious! My God, I can’t stand this—I can’t stand it another second—I——”
“For God’s sake——”
But she was on her feet again, quivering from head to foot.
“They don’t take any notice, do they—doctors, nurses!—of what a man says in delirium. They don’t, do they? They know it’s all nonsense—lies—don’t they? Do answer!”