“No, that’s all right. See you later, perhaps.”
“Certainly—certainly. Matter of only a few minutes, you understand. But important—important!”
He disappeared with remarkable celerity.
Rendell welcomed privacy. The events of the last five minutes had been so unexpected, so intriguing, that he felt he was in some strange region where the improbable was the usual. But, discovering that so many mysteries clamoured for attention simultaneously, he decided to dismiss all of them in the hope that, eventually, they would range themselves in order of significance.
He took off his overcoat, then looked round the room.
It was large, high-pitched, and had a bay window. Most of the furniture was ancient, battered, but solid. It had evidently encountered a number of second-hand dealers, and seemed depressed by the premonition that—at the next visit—its value would be assessed, not as furniture, but as wood.
There were exceptions, however. The carpet, though faded, had clearly been bought by someone who demanded a correspondence between their aspirations and their surroundings. The same quality distinguished a little red chair whose jauntiness time had failed wholly to obliterate. Also, by the wall farthest from the window stood a divan. The majority of the furniture seemed to demand a brass bedstead, in order to rivet the apartment to the category of a bed-sitting-room in a lodging-house, but the presence of the divan triumphantly asserted individuality. Altogether, the room represented a compromise between dead orthodoxy and the spirit of revolt.
Rend ell assessed it pretty accurately. He had lived in all sorts of surroundings in all parts of the world and so was an expert in his degree.
“Not too bad—for a week or so,” he said to himself. “Draughts—certain. Mice—probable. Anyway, it will do. That is, if it’s vacant. Have to see what Mrs. Frazer says.”
He struck a match and turned on the gas fire. No hiss of escaping gas greeted his listening ear. He blew out the match, then sought—and found—a meter. He produced a shilling and inserted it.
“The last tenant was clearly no altruist,” he muttered, then sat in an arm-chair and reviewed his situation. His summary dealt only with facts.
Here he was in a room on the ground floor of 77, Potiphar Street, Chelsea. Ivor Trent was seriously ill in a room at the top of the house. He, Rendell, had impulsively decided to take the room he was in—if it were free. Also, and above all, he had learned certain facts from Captain Frazer relating to Trent which were in direct opposition to those given him last night by Marsden. And Frazer, like Marsden, had known Trent for years!
Here was mystery—definite mystery—but he had no time to explore it now. For the moment, he accepted Marsden’s account as the true one. Frazer was clearly eccentric. Possibly Mrs. Frazer’s arrival would provide additional data. In the meantime——
But at this point Captain Frazer returned.
“I talked to my man. Satisfactory, quite satisfactory! I have a business deal with him—just a little idea of mine, but it came off, it came off. I’d have been back before, but I ran into the doctor——”
“Trent’s doctor?” Rendell interrupted.
“Yes, yes. He’s just gone. Trent’s still delirious, but has lucid moments. That was the doctor’s phrase—lucid moments. Trent refuses to be moved from here. That’s very good—excellent in fact. They wanted to take him to a nursing home. Damned nonsense!”
“Does the doctor think he’s dangerously ill?”
“Didn’t say—doesn’t know. Says Trent keeps raving about some man he’s seen. Nerves, that’s all, just nerves.”
Frazer paused, then added explosively:
“Why, I myself—do you know—sometimes suffer from nerves. Not often, but sometimes.”
He looked down at Rendell, his features tense and his right eye winking with remarkable rapidity.
“Well, I suppose we all do at times,” Rendell said calmly, imagining he would pacify him.
“No—we—do—not!” Frazer exclaimed. “But, if one is humiliated, day in, day out, then one does suffer from nerves. You understand, I take it. Why, I——”
He broke off, made a movement enjoining silence, then went swiftly to the door, opened it a few inches, and listened.
“Ah, here she is! Always punctual! Always to the minute! She isn’t a woman—she’s an alarm clock. I’ll clear out. Say you don’t know where I am.”
He slipped out of the room and almost immediately the front door banged.
Two minutes later Mrs. Frazer came into the room.
IV
Rendell rose and they surveyed one another for some moments in silence.
Mrs. Frazer was a total contrast to her husband. She was sturdily built, still handsome—although her features were coarsened by overwork and worry—but resolution and capability surrounded her like an aura.
Her scrutiny of Rendell evidently culminated in a favourable impression, for her first remark did not relate to his presence.
“Was that my husband went out just now?”
“Yes. You must wonder who I am and what I’m doing here. It’s like this. I came to inquire about Mr. Trent and——”
“How did you know he was here?” she interrupted.
“It’s in to-night’s paper.”
He picked it up and showed her the paragraph.
“I see,” she said at last. “That’s my husband’s doing.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Rendell replied, greatly mystified.
“He’s friendly with an out-of-work journalist. He must have told him about Mr. Trent. And now he’ll share with him whatever the paper paid for the paragraph. Did you tell him it was in to-night’s paper?”
“Yes, I told him.”
“I see.” There was immense resignation in her tone. After a pause, she added: “And did he go and ring someone up soon after you had told him?”
“He did,” Rendell replied.
“That was the journalist. And now he’s gone to meet him—to drink the money. Well, if there’s trouble, it’s not my doing.”
“I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Frazer. My name is Rendell. I’m a mining engineer and am at a loose end at the moment. I came here to-night to inquire about Mr. Trent. Your husband imagined I had booked a room and had come to claim it. I had done nothing of the kind, of course. But, finding this room vacant, it would—as it happens—suit my plans to take it. That is, if it’s available, of course—and if you are agreeable.”
She looked at him narrowly for some moments before she asked:
“Are you a friend of Mr. Trent’s?”
“No. I’ve never even seen him. I’m interested in him, that’s all.”
“Well, the room’s free, and you may as well have it as anyone else.”
They discussed terms and arrangements. Finally Rendell said:
“That’s settled then. I don’t know how long I shall be here. And now, if you’re not busy for a minute, I’d like to ask you one or two questions about Mr. Trent.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Were you expecting him last night?”
“Yes. He was coming here for several months to work.”
“Does he always come here to work?”
“Yes, always,” Mrs. Frazer replied. “He’s had the rooms at the top of the house for years and years. He’s written all his books up there. Why do you want to know?”
“For two reasons. I’m interested in his books—and I was told that he always wrote them abroad. What—exactly—happened last night?”
Mrs. Frazer looked over her shoulder towards the door, then took a step nearer Rendell.