“Must have collapsed in the street,” Bickenshaw said briskly, “and so they brought him in to this hole. Why, God bless my soul, he was lunching with me a week ago and never looked better. Told me he was just going to start his new book. I thought he’d have left England before this. Well, anyway! Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t, but——”
“Never mind! Directly he’s better, you go and see him. Tell him I called. Say I came in person. Don’t forget. And mind you tell him this from me. What’s wrong with him is blood-pressure. Everyone has it—I’ve got it myself. And it plays queer tricks at times. But you tell him—from me—not to worry. Just say that I said it’s only blood-pressure.”
He turned swiftly to Rendell and demanded:
“Have you got it?”
“No, I——”
“You’ve probably got it—and don’t know it. Heaps of people are like that. It’s my belief that everybody has got it. Now, I must get on.”
He turned, walked swiftly out of the room, followed by Rendell. At the top of the steps, however, he paused.
“You live here, I suppose? Right! Then tell him—from me—to get out of this hole. I know a first-rate nursing-home. Tell him that, will you? Thanks very much. He must get out of this hole just as soon as he can. That’s essential. Tell him I said so.”
Bickenshaw sprang down the steps, ran to his car, leapt into it, and flashed away.
Rendell returned to his room and began to pace slowly up and down. It seemed to him that his primary need, at the moment, was to obtain some degree of mental perspective. Ever since his arrival at No. 77 last evening, impressions, discoveries, mysteries, and distractions of all kinds had so enveloped him that he was wholly unable to separate the significant from the trivial. His mind was chaotic and, in the hope of introducing some principle of order, he kept repeating to himself that it was less than forty-eight hours since he had dined with Marsden and cross-examined him concerning Ivor Trent.
But the iteration of this fact only increased his perplexity, for it seemed to him that he had been at No. 77 for at least a week, and that the week had contained an extraordinary number of remarkable incidents. One thing was definite, however—his curiosity concerning Ivor Trent deepened hourly.
At this point someone began to knock on the front door, but Rendell decided that he had had enough adventures in that region. So he continued to pace the room, speculating on the possibility that—if he stayed long enough—he might become so accustomed to the knocking that he would not hear it. He encouraged himself in this hope by recalling that once, in Sydney, he had become so inured to cats wailing all night and every night in the yard outside his room that, when a new-comer complained, he was amazed to discover that these nocturnal activities remained a fact.
He was interrupted in these memories, however, by a sharp rap on the window. This was a new form of technique, and a challenging one. Rendell decided that its originator was a person of resource and so worth his attention.
He went to the front door, opened it, and announced briskly—indicating the window of his room:
“That is not the servants’ room. It happens to be mine.”
“I’m most awfully sorry, but I’ve been here so long, and I really am in a hurry. Still, I do apologise.”
The man’s voice was attractive. Rendell capitulated.
“That’s all right,” he said, then, glancing at the visitor, he added: “Have you come to inquire about Trent?”
“I have. How did you guess?”
“Well, I’ve been in all the morning and I suppose a dozen people have battered on that door. I can now spot those who have come to sell things—and those who want to learn about Trent. Come in to my room for a minute.”
“That’s most kind of you.”
“As you see, it’s near the front door. Now, what can I——”
“My name’s Voyce. I’m Trent’s literary agent. I was terribly upset to see the news in the paper. I live in the country, and only saw that paragraph in the train going home, or I should have come last night. How is he?”
“Much the same, I’m afraid. The doctor has sent a nurse in.”
“But what’s wrong with him? That’s what I want to know. I saw him a few days ago and he seemed perfectly well. And what on earth is he doing here?”
“It’s the first time you’ve been here then?” Rendell inquired.
“Yes, of course. And it’s the first time he’s been here. Don’t want to be rude, but, frankly, this is not exactly Ivor Trent’s setting. He’s got a perfectly good flat of his own near Cork Street.”
“Oh, he’s a flat off Cork Street, has he?”
“Yes, had it for years. He must have been taken ill in the street. Incidentally, have you been here long?”
“No, I only came last night.”
“Only last night?” Voyce hesitated. “Don’t think me inquisitive, but do you intend to stay some time?”
“Well, I think I can say definitely,” Rendell replied, with some emphasis, “that I shall stay here as long as Trent does.”
“Then do me a favour, would you? Give him this letter, when he’s better, and ask him to write me his opinion. I’ve got to go away, but his letter would be forwarded.”
“Very well. He shall have the letter directly he’s better.”
“It’s really good of you. I’m damnably upset about this collapse of his. I can’t understand it.”
They walked together to the front door.
Just as Voyce was about to leave, Rendell said:
“By the way, Bickenshaw called about half an hour ago.”
“Did he? But of course he would! What’s he think is wrong with Trent?”
“He thinks it’s blood-pressure.”
“Oh, Bickenshaw’s got blood-pressure on the brain! Good-bye, and many thanks.”
Rendell returned to his room. The information that Trent had a flat near Cork Street, had had it for years, and, nevertheless, had written all his books at 77, Potiphar Street, so bewildered Rendell that sanity seemed to depend on ceasing to speculate any further on the mystery of Trent.
Consequently he deliberately began to analyse Voyce’s last remark—that Bickenshaw had blood-pressure on the brain—trying to determine whether authoritative medical opinion would accept the statement as a scientific one.
Arriving at no conclusion, he decided it was time for luncheon. He glanced out of the window. A sunny autumn day—he would not need an overcoat.
He took his hat and stick, went to the front door and opened it.
He was confronted by a telegraph-boy, whose hand was raised in a frustrated attempt to seize the knocker.
“Trent?”
“Oh, go to the devil!” Rendell shouted, then brushed past the astonished youth, nearly falling down the steps in his eagerness to escape—if only for an hour—from the mystery of Trent.
VI
Rendell had no definite ideas as to where to lunch, but, finding himself on the Embankment, and discovering a restaurant with three or four tables gaily displayed on the broad pavement in front of it, he decided that luncheon in the open air was desirable, the day being mild.
Consequently he joined the half-dozen rather self-conscious persons already seated, and instantly acquired the slightly defiant air which characterised them, and which seemed to assert “one does this in Paris, so why not in London?”
Traffic shot and crashed down the Embankment, trams trailed monotonously over Battersea Bridge: tugs fussed up and down the sparkling river, wailing mysterious intentions to the initiate. An impish breeze frisked about, fluttering the table-cloths and whisking odd scraps of paper to dizzy altitudes, then incontinently abandoning them.