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.
“That’s uncle,” Rummy explained, “been here every day, so they say, since his wife died twenty-five years ago. But never mind about him. How’s Mr. Trent?”
“Somewhat better, I’m told.”
“That’s something, anyway. Funny his being taken queer like that.”
“Very,” Rendell agreed. “I’ll have a glass of sherry. What are you going to have?”
“I’ll have a packet of cigarettes, if you don’t mind.”
She got his drink, then, as a number of men entered the bar, she was busy for some minutes.
Rendell amused himself by watching the expressions of the men she was serving. Most of them looked at her with varying degrees of appetite. One calculated her points with the cynical appraisement of long experience: another adopted a confidential air implying intimacy: a third inquired loudly as to her activities the night before, guffawing answers to his own questions: a fourth leered at her, believing he was smiling: while the fifth stared at her breasts with an expression of leaden apathy. All were over fifty. There were not more than three young men in the crowded bar.
Having served their drinks, Rummy returned to Rendell.
“Yes, funny being taken queer like that,” she began, picking up their conversation where they had dropped it. “Did give me a shock when I saw that paragraph. Couldn’t believe it. Quite upset me, it did.”
“Did you know where he lived, Rummy?”
“No. I didn’t know anything about him—really. Just knew his name and that he wrote books. That’s all. Sometimes he wouldn’t come in for months together.”
While she spoke, she wiped the counter, or emptied an ash-tray, or rinsed a glass in a hidden receptacle, or polished it till it was ready for use. But she performed these activities automatically, giving Rendell her essential attention. Also, while she talked, she glanced round mechanically, noting arrivals and departures, distributing salutations—and frequently darted away to execute an order or to receive payment.
“Yours is a hell of a life, Rummy!” Rendell exclaimed when she returned after her sixth trip to a customer.
“Oh well, it’s a job. You last about twelve years in a bar, you know—if you’re lucky.”
“And then?”
“Well, if you’re in a place like this, and you want to stay on, you become a dispensing barmaid.”
“A what!”
“Dispensing barmaid. You know—you’re not in a public bar like this, you’re in a bar behind, and serve the waiters who come with orders from the café.”
“That must be pretty uproarious, I imagine. What do they pay you?”
“Twenty-six shillings a week. But there’s tips, of course.”
“There would need to be. And what time do you start?”
Rummy laughed gaily.
“Well, I never! You’re just like Mr. Trent. He always wanted to know everything about my job. Ask questions, and listen for hours—sometimes he would.”
“Well, and what time do you start?”
“Nine thirty. You see, all these racks here have to be scrubbed each morning. We do two hours charing first thing. Look at my hands! And then there’s requisitions and stock to check, and one thing and another.”
“Tell me this—do you have all the drinks you’re stood?”
“Oh no—couldn’t! We keep one under the counter and produce it for the customer to see. Then, later, we take the money. Some of them give us money. Sometimes we say we’d rather have cigarettes—like I did to you.”
Again she laughed.
Rendell gazed at her in silence. Here she was, in this bar—young, attractive, virginal—for hours every day, surrounded by smoke, laughter, coarse jokes. A human target!
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“I was thinking that it’s a hell of a world, Rummy.”
“Well, really, I shall begin to think you are Mr. Trent in a minute! He used to say it was a hell of a world. And the questions he used to ask me! You’ve no idea.”
“Didn’t talk about himself much, then?”
“Oh no! He’s not like the others. He’s strong, so he doesn’t have to tell you all his troubles, like most of them. I never guessed he was so well known. The paper said eminent.”
“Ever read any of his books?”
“Yes, I read one. He knows everything, if you ask me.
Rendell got off the stool and held out his hand.
“I must go, but I’ll come again.”