It was a narrow street and his glimpse of the houses was not invigorating. They belonged to the later Victorian age, and seemed mutely to protest against their survival. At the end of the street, and facing it, stood a tall house with a flight of steep steps leading to the front door.
The taxi drew up with a jerk of finality.
“Here you are!” the driver exclaimed, as if he had materialised the house to gratify an eccentric whim of Rendell’s. “Here you are. Number 77.”
“Good!”
Rendell got out, then said:
“Wait, will you? I don’t suppose I’ll be long.”
The driver fumbled for his pipe.
“Right you are, sir.”
Rendell ran up the steps, then gave three resonant blows with the knocker.
III
A minute passed, during which he regretted having knocked so vigorously. He had forgotten that the house held a man who was seriously ill. But when another minute had passed, the necessity for knocking again presented itself. Rendell raised the knocker and gave three timorous taps which evoked no response. After a suitable interval, he knocked again, then—later—again. Nothing! Finally he became exasperated. “After all, I might be the doctor for all they know,” he muttered to himself, then seizing the knocker he gave a series of resounding blows.
A minute later the door was opened by a man, but as the hall was dimly lit, Rendell could not see him distinctly. He was about to inquire concerning Trent, when the man said irritably:
“My wife’s out. I know nothing about the rooms. That’s her business, not mine—thank God! Now you’ve arrived with your luggage, and she’s not here. Well, I can’t help it. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“When will your wife return?”
“Oh, don’t ask me! Always dragging me into her wretched affairs! This letting rooms is a ridiculous hobby of hers. I’m far too busy with important affairs to give it a thought. Far too busy, I assure you. And she won’t be letting rooms much longer. Fine activity for Captain Frazer’s wife!”
He became very erect as he uttered the last sentence in a tone of hysterical intensity.
Rendell said nothing. Curiosity and astonishment contended within him for supremacy. But Captain Frazer went on almost immediately:
“Well, you’d better come in, I take it!” he exclaimed with remarkable irritation. “I suppose you know which your room is, don’t you? It can only be this one here. All the others are let, she tells me. Not that I want to know.”
“Very well, I’ll come in.”
“You’ll want your luggage, I take it?”
Frazer’s tone would have been insolent if a quaver of weakness had not deprived it of every positive quality.
“I’ll tell the driver to bring it in.”
Rendell turned and walked to the taxi. He was about to enter the house under false pretences—and was duly elated by that knowledge. The possibility of adventure stirred him. He’d take a room in the house in which Ivor Trent was ill—and see what happened.
Two minutes later his luggage had been deposited in the first room on the right. Rendell paid the driver, and then found himself alone with Captain Frazer.
The latter’s appearance interested him. He was tall, thin almost to emaciation, with a narrow worn-out face and scanty mouse-coloured hair. Dark eyes looked spitefully at the world from the cavernous depths in which they were buried. His suit was old and shiny, but evidently it was tended with sedulous care. Prominent creases of Euclidean exactitude triumphed down the trousers. His bearing was immensely military in moments of dignity, but during relapses he made a number of staccato gestures which served to emphasise his irritability.
Also, Rendell soon discovered that on occasions Frazer developed a nervous facial contraction. When especially agitated, his right eye produced a series of very rapid and highly disconcerting winks.
“Well, I can discuss arrangements with your wife later,” Rendell said at last. “In the meantime, I want to know how Mr. Trent is.”
“How did you know he was here?”
Frazer shot the question at him.
“It’s in the paper.”
“Have you got one? Where? Let’s have a look.”
He seized the paper and scanned the brief paragraph eagerly.
“Ah, that’s all right,” he muttered to himself. “That’s all right. Trent!” he exclaimed, drawing himself to his full height and regarding Rendell with motionless dignity. “He’s just the same.”
“You mean, he is still delirious?”
“Raving. He’s worse to-night.”
Rendell was about to ask another question, when a gramophone of peculiar virulence was put on in a room above. Simultaneously someone in the upper regions began shouting instructions to a man who was noisily descending the stairs.
“Swine!” exclaimed Frazer, banging the door violently. “I tell you it’s impossible for me to go on living in this house—impossible!”
“Are these noises normal then?” Rendell inquired, feeling that he might as well know.
“Oh, there’s always a hell of a row. Damn the place! Damn it!”
“But don’t these people know that Trent’s ill?”
“Trent? Oh, he’s at the top of the house. He’s all right. He’s got his own rooms up there—had ’em for years.”
“For years!” Rendell echoed.
“Yes, why not?”
“There’s no reason, of course.”
Silence ensued. Rendell said nothing, as he was thinking intently. He wanted to learn all that Frazer knew about Trent and was considering the most efficient technique for eliciting it. Frazer remained silent, as he was scrutinising Rendell with great curiosity.
Now, in appearance, Rendell was everything that Frazer would like to have been. He was tall, powerful, with bronzed features and fearless eyes. His clothes were of excellent quality. Independence and a general atmosphere of purpose and assurance invested him.
The form that Frazer’s admiration assumed was a desire to impress Rendell with his own importance. He decided that to reveal his knowledge of a distinguished man like Trent was the quickest shortcut to this end.
“Trent’s had rooms here for years. In fact, he’s written all his books in them.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Certain? Of course I’m certain! You don’t doubt my word, I take it.”
“I asked the question,” Rendell said slowly, “because I dined with a man last night who has known Trent for a very long time, and he told me that Trent had written every one of his books abroad.”
“It’s a lie! Absolute lie! I tell you that on the honour of an officer.” An impressive pause. “Trent’s had those rooms at the top of the house for ten years at least. He comes here to write. He lives alone up there for a year or more, turns night into day, writes his book—and clears off. Then, about two years later, he comes back to write another.”
“That’s extremely interesting. You see——”
“Oh I know a lot of interesting people—a lot, I can assure you! Don’t bring ’em here though. Not to this hole. I used to mix with writers and artists—till my wife suddenly took it into her head to turn the place into a common lodging-house. Yes! A common lodging-house!” He shouted the words. “That’s what she’s brought me to. Till then, I mixed only with distinguished people. This house was full of them.”
Then, after a very brief pause, he added in a confidential whisper:
“Excuse me. I must go and telephone a man. It’s most important. I—I shan’t be very long. You don’t mind, I take it.”