Английский язык с Грэмом Грином. Третий человек

Paine heard it from the bottom of the stairs and came back (Пейн услышал его /шум/ с нижней части лестницы и вернулся; bottom — низ, нижняя часть). He switched on the landing light (он включил на лестничной клетке свет; to switch on — включать), and the glow under the door gave Martins his direction (и отблеск под дверью дал = указал Мартинсу его направление). He opened the door (он открыл дверь) and was smiling weakly (и слабо улыбался) as Paine turned back to take a second look at the room (когда Пейн повернулся назад, чтобы второй раз посмотреть на комнату). The eyes of a parrot chained to a perch stared beadily back at him (глаза попугая, прикованного /цепочкой/ к жердочке, уставились, как бусины, назад на него = встретили его взгляд; bead — бусина). Paine said respectfully (Пейн сказал уважительно), "We were looking for you, sir (мы искали вас, сэр). Colonel Calloway wants a word with you (полковник Кэллоуэй хочет слово = поговорить с вами)."

"I lost my way (я заблудился: «потерял мой путь»; to lose — терять)," Martins said.

"Yes, sir. We thought that was what had happened (мы подумали, что случилось именно это; to think — думать)."

collect [kq'lekt], delight [dI'laIt], compliment ['kOmplImqnt], curtsey ['kq:tsI], distinct [dIs'tINkt], irritation ["IrI'teIS(q)n], complacent [kqm'pleIs(q)nt], speculative ['spekjulqtIv], argument ['Rgjumqnt], relic ['relIk], lavatory ['lxvqt(q)rI], impede [Im'pi:d], breath [breT], continuous [kqn'tInjuqs], monologue ['mOn(q)lOg]

Martins took his pen and wrote: "From B. Dexter, author of The Lone Rider of Santa F'e," and the young man read the sentence and blotted it with a puzzled expression. As Martins sat down and started signing Benjamin Dexter's title pages, he could see in a mirror the young man showing the inscription to Crabbin. Crabbin smiled weakly and stroked his chin, up and down, up and down. "B. Dexter, B. Dexter, B. Dexter." Martins wrote rapidly—it was not after all a lie. One by one the books were collected by their owners: little half sentences of delight and compliment were dropped like curtseys—was this what it was to be a writer? Martins began to feel distinct irritation towards Benjamin Dexter. The complacent tiring pompous ass, he thought, signing the twenty-seventh copy of The Curved Prow. Every time he looked up and took another book he saw Crabbin's worried speculative gaze. The members of the Institute were beginning to go home with their spoils: the room was emptying. Suddenly in the mirror Martins saw a military policeman. He seemed to be having an argument with one of Crabbin's young henchmen. Martins thought he caught the sound of his own name. It was then he lost his nerve and with it any relic of commonsense. There was only one book left to sign: he dashed off a last "B. Dexter" and made for the door. The young man, Crabbin and the policeman stood together at the entrance.

"And this gentleman?" the policeman asked.

"It's Mr. Benjamin Dexter," the young man said.

"Lavatory. Is there a lavatory?" Martins said.

"I understood a Mr. Rollo Martins came here in one of your cars."

"A mistake. An obvious mistake."

"Second door on the left," the young man said.

Martins grabbed his coat from the cloakroom as he went and made down the stairs. On the first floor landing he heard someone mounting the stairs and looking over saw Paine—whom I had sent to identify him. He opened a door at random and shut it behind him. He could hear Paine going by. The room where he stood was in darkness: a curious moaning sound made him turn and face whatever room it was.

He could see nothing and the sound had stopped. He made a tiny movement and once more it started, like an impeded breath. He remained still and the sound died away. Outside somebody called "Mr. Dexter, Mr. Dexter." Then a new sound started. It was like somebody whispering—a long continuous monologue in the darkness. Martins said, "Is anybody there?" and the sound stopped again. He could stand no more of it. He took out his lighter. Footsteps went by and down the stairs. He scraped and scraped at the little wheel and no light came. Somebody shifted in the dark and something rattled in mid-air like a chain. He asked once more with the anger of fear, "Is anybody there?" and only the click click of metal answered him.

Martins felt desperately for a light switch first to his right hand and then to his left. He did not dare go farther because he could no longer locate his fellow occupant: the whisper, the moaning, the click had all stopped. Then he was afraid that he had lost the door and felt wildly for the knob. He was far less afraid of the police than he was of the darkness, and he had no idea of the noise he was making.