“That sounds like Marsden. I’ll ask him in. That is, if you have no objection.”
“Just as you like, I’m completely indifferent.”
Rendell opened the door, but, finding that the maid who happened to be in the hall was about to respond to a knock, he said to her:
“If that’s Mr. Marsden, show him in here, will you?”
A moment afterwards Marsden appeared. He stood in the doorway, supported by crutches, gazing from one to the other in considerable perplexity.
“You’re Vera Thornton,” he said at last. “I can understand your being here. But what on earth are you doing, Rendell—and whose room is this?”
“Mine,” Rendell replied. “Let’s take those things, then you can sit down and have a cigarette.”
Marsden allowed himself to be relieved of his crutches, then sank into a chair and accepted the cigarette Rendell offered him. But during these operations his sharp little eyes did not cease to regard Rendell with a hint of disapproval.
“Your room!” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing in this hole? Why, good God! they can’t even answer the door.”
Rendell explained briefly the impulse which had prompted him to come to No. 77 the night before; the manner of his reception, and his sudden decision to take the room. In extenuation of his eccentricity in so doing, he pointed out to Marsden that his action was really no more than a sequel to their conversation during dinner on the previous Sunday.
He ended by saying:
“The fact that I dragged you out in the fog to dine and talk about a man I don’t know was a pretty good indication that I was mentally and emotionally unemployed. Well, I still am. I had to clear out of the club: I came to inquire about Trent: I found this room vacant and I took it. It’s not really as odd as it sounds.”
Marsden immediately asked a number of questions—the answers to which only necessitated restatements of the explanation already given. Rendell made them mechanically, while secretly trying to determine whether or not to reveal to Marsden any of the strange information he had amassed during his brief residence at No. 77.
He had longer to ponder this problem than he could have anticipated, as Marsden suddenly transferred his attention to Vera Thornton. Rendell, therefore, continued his private deliberations, but even so, he did not fail to notice that Marsden possessed one manner for men and another for women. Vera Thornton’s presence transformed him. He spoke in a higher key, with great animation, referred frequently to his literary activities, and generally represented his life as a brilliant and dashing affair—which brought him into intimate contact with everyone and everything worth while.
Rendell was amused, but grateful. He had time to reach a decision—subject to the answers to certain questions, which he now proceeded to ask.
“Your plans haven’t changed, Marsden, I suppose? You’re going to be in town for some weeks?”
“Yes, why?”
“I only wondered. So you’ll be coming here to inquire about Trent pretty often, naturally.”
“I shall be coming to see him. I’ve no doubt whatever that he’s already asked for me, but they’re in such a muddle in this house that I’ve not been told.”
Rendell hesitated. Marsden would be visiting the house frequently. He’d learn Trent’s secret from Captain Frazer or his wife. Well, then, he might as well tell him.
“Yes, they’re very casual here,” he said lightly. “But I expect you’ve known the house and its ways for a long time.”
“Do you mind telling me—exactly—what you’re talking about?”
There was lofty patronage in Marsden’s tone. Although he addressed Rendell, he looked at Vera Thornton.
“I said that I expect you’ve known the house, and its ways, for a long time,” Rendell repeated. “Not a very surprising statement—as Trent has had rooms at the top of this house for the last ten years.”
“Why, you must be——”
But Vera Thornton had risen and was staring at Rendell.
“For the last ten years!” she exclaimed.
“Yes—he’s written all his books here.”
Marsden could restrain himself no longer.
“My dear Rendell, I don’t want to be offensive, but you really are talking the most fantastic nonsense. Ivor Trent is an old friend of mine, a very old friend—as you know perfectly well—and I do really rather think I know something about his movements.”
“Yes, I know you think you do,” Rendell replied curtly, “but the point is—you don’t.”
“But, my good man——”
“I’m not arguing, Marsden. Ask Captain Frazer, or his wife, if you don’t choose to believe me. You’ll find one or other of them downstairs.”
“But he told me himself, only last week——”
“That he was going abroad on Sunday to write his new book,” Rendell cut in. “I’m quite sure he did. He told his publisher and his agent just what he told you. Well, it was a lie.”
“Look here!” Marsden shouted, “Trent’s a friend of mine and——”
“It was a lie,” Rendell interrupted. “He was coming here. Every two or three years he comes here, and stays here for months—writing. They expected him to arrive about nine o’clock on Sunday night. He’d sent his luggage by taxi in advance. Well, he did arrive at about nine o’clock—and collapsed directly the front door was opened. Now, those are facts—which you can confirm. And you can make what you can of them.”
They stared at him in silence. Fully a minute passed, then Rendell went on:
“I suggest you see Mrs. Frazer and cross-examine her yourself. You can see her here, if you like. I’m going for a walk and then I shall dine—and come back early. You’ll excuse my leaving you, but I’ve had enough of Ivor Trent for one day.”
He nodded to Marsden, bowed to Vera Thornton, then left them together.
IX
A surging wind which rose occasionally to a squall, hurtling drops of stinging rain, buffeted Rendell directly he left the house. He turned up the collar of his overcoat, then swung along, surrendering to the exaltation of physical exertion. Soon the rapid movement, the resistance of the wind—which attained almost gale intensity when he reached the Embankment—deprived him of all sense of identity. He ceased to be Rendelclass="underline" he was a man fighting with the wind.
The Embankment was deserted. A low-lying moon—now hidden, now revealed by routed battalions of flying clouds—intermittently illuminated the scene. Whirlwind confusion claimed everything. Leaves leapt fantastically upward; lights quivered; houses cowered back in the shadows. The pulse of the sea raged in the turbulent river.
Rendell battled on through the derisive fury of the wind for half an hour, then, encountering a sudden onslaught of icy hail, he turned and was blown back to Chelsea in ten minutes.
He hurried into the first restaurant he found, which stood in a narrow street, a public garden being between it and the Embankment. He closed the door with difficulty, then looked round blinking—the sound of the wind in his ears, and the darkness of the night in his eyes.
Gradually the room ceased to be a blur. Objects began to emerge. First, several black tables lit by candles in silver sticks, then a warm-coloured floor, and finally white walls on which hung various brass articles reflecting the candle-light.
All the tables were occupied, but having caught a glimpse through a narrow archway at the back of the shadowy forms of other diners, he walked through the room—only to discover that the two or three tables at the rear were also occupied. Noticing, however, a corkscrew stairway leading to mysterious regions above, he mounted it—passing several candles, set in various nooks and crannies, each of which flickered wastefully in the draught.