“I never had such a shock in my life—never! It must have been about nine o’clock—somewhere about. I happened to be in the hall—luckily. Suddenly, I heard someone beating on the front door, beating desperately with clenched fists. I was fright-ended, and I’m not easily frightened.”
She broke off, but almost immediately she went on breathlessly:
“I opened the door. He looked like a ghost with great staring eyes—I said something—I don’t know what—and he fell to the ground, senseless. I thought he had dropped dead.”
“Well—and then?” Rendell asked, after a long pause.
“Two of the men in the house carried him up to his room and put him on the bed. He began to rave. I couldn’t make out what he said. Something about a man he had seen—some man who had appeared out of the fog on the Embankment. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to leave him. He was terribly excited. Kept wanting to go to the window and look out. He leapt about till I thought he’d have a fit. So I stayed with him—and got someone to telephone the doctor. It was terrible.”
“You’d better sit down, don’t you think?”
She sank mechanically into the chair Rendell placed by her side.
“All to-day it’s been the same,” she went on. “I had to go out a quarter of an hour ago—but it was the first time to-day. The doctor wanted him to go to a nursing home, but the mere idea made him terribly angry. So the doctor has sent in a nurse. She’s with him now.”
“Has he ever been ill here before?”
“Never! I can’t believe it! I never thought to see him like this.”
“I can understand you’re upset,” Rendell said slowly. “After all, you’ve known him a long time.”
“He’s been a friend to me. More than once I should have been sold up if it hadn’t been for him. My husband invested all the money he had in this house and filled it with a lot of crazy people—artists, and I don’t know what not. A year later, we were nearly ruined. Mr. Trent stayed on, and helped us out, else we shouldn’t be here now.”
Then, with a swift return to her normal methodical manner, she rose, looked keenly round the room, then said:
“Now, are you sure you’ve everything you want? If not, just tell me. And I’d better explain that several of the lodgers here are not my choice. But nowadays, you take what you can get—or what you have to. All of them are in arrears with their rent—and some of them haven’t paid a farthing for weeks. And what can I do? Throw them out—and get others like them?”
She paused, then added:
“If my husband asks you to pay him the rent—or to lend him money—please don’t do either. Can I rely on you for that?”
“You can count on me.”
She walked towards the door, then paused and turned to him.
“You can’t blame him, really. It was that war that did for him. Only his body survived it, if you know what I mean. There’s plenty like him—more or less.”
The door closed behind her.
Rendell began to pace up and down the room. Finally, he decided to go and dine at a local restaurant and think things over.
V
Before Rendell had been at 77, Potiphar Street, for twenty hours, he found it difficult to believe that any doctor could allow a man who was seriously ill to stay there—however determined his patient might be to remain.
A number of incidents, none conducive to Rendell’s personal comfort, created this opinion. Most of the lodgers were noisy, some presumably never went to bed, and two returned home in the small hours, having either forgotten their latch-keys or being in no condition to manipulate them. It seemed to Rendell that hardly had peace descended when it was rudely banished by certain early risers who clattered about their rooms, then rushed down the stairs, and finally banged the front door behind them as if to indicate that they had left the house for ever in a furious passion.
Half an hour after the last of these Lear-like departures, a maid was heard continually ascending the stairs bearing breakfast-trays. More than once she paused to shout details of certain forgotten articles towards the abyss of the basement. Rendell soon learned that her name was Mary, for a gentleman in the upper regions shouted it twice, then inquired in no half-hearted manner as to the likely time at which he might expect his shaving water.
At nine o’clock a gramophone in the room above emitted a colourful lament in a tone of impressive richness, power, and volume.
From ten o’clock onwards, various persons delivered a series of blows with the front-door knocker. These summonses were ignored, usually, by the inmates of No. 77—a fact which inspired the person on the doorstep to a more variegated and a more strenuous performance.
As the window of Rendell’s room afforded an intimate view of the steep steps leading to the front door, he was able to study the appearance of the person demanding attention, while, simultaneously, he was deafened by the anvil-like blows of the knocker. On several occasions, in desperation, he went to the door himself, imagining that by dismissing the disturber of his peace it might return to him.
He found, however, that it was only necessary to open the front door of No. 77 in order to find himself confronted by victims of the economic earthquake. One ex-Service man wanted to sell him a writing-block. Another produced an album containing specimens of Christmas-cards which—Rendell was assured—were bankrupt stock, and so were going considerably under cost. Finally, an ex-officer appeared who was hawking ladies’ underwear. The man was about Rendell’s age, belonged to the same class, and was obviously entirely genuine. He explained briefly that he was doing this as it was literally and absolutely the only activity he had been able to find.
Rendell gave him a ten-shilling note—and let the next comer knock, till the man’s arm refused to perform that function any longer.
But at twelve o’clock, when Rendell happened to be standing at the window—watching three little girls dancing with perfect enjoyment to the strains of a barrel-organ—a large car drew up. Instantly a man leapt out of it, ran up the narrow stone path leading to the house, sprang up the steps, and gave three brisk authoritative raps with the knocker.
Rendell felt instinctively that this visitor must not be kept waiting. He went to the door.
“I answered your knock,” he explained, “as they’re not too good here at attending to visitors.”
The man glanced down the narrow hall, then at Rendell, in considerable perplexity.
“Care to come into my room for a minute?” Rendell suggested, feeling it incumbent on him to make an effort to placate this visitor, who was clearly an important one.
“Yes. Thanks! Shan’t stay long—too much to do. Ah, your room’s just here, is it? Good! Most kind of you. Thanks!”
Rendell glanced at his companion, while waiting for him to state his business.
He was above middle height and had scanty carrot-coloured hair and grey luminous eyes. A great domed forehead bulked impressively above a lined mobile face. He was not still for a moment, but Rendell felt that this man possessed real and remarkable ability of some kind.
“Now, I’ve not long,” he began. “What’s all this about Trent? But, first of all, you must know that I’m Bickenshaw, head of Polsons.” A pause. “You know, the publishers—the publishers!” he added, swiftly and irritably, as the light of comprehension and admiration had not dawned in Rendell’s eyes.
“Oh yes, of course,” the latter said quickly. “You publish Trent’s books, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes! Well now, look here—what’s happened? Is he better, or is he still delirious?”
“I believe he’s still delirious.”