).
Martins said over his second quick drink (Мартинс сказал, опрокинув рюмку: «над своим вторым быстрым напитком»), "I'm sorry (извините; sorry — сожалеющий), but he was the best friend I ever had (но он был лучшим другом, который когда-либо у меня был)."
I couldn't resist saying (я не мог сопротивляться тому, чтобы сказать = не мог не сказать), knowing what I knew (зная то, что я знал), and because I was anxious to vex him (и потому что я хотел рассердить его; anxious — сильно желающий; to vex — досаждать, раздражать; возмущать, сердить)—one learns a lot that way (узнаешь много таким путем), "That sounds like a cheap novelette (это звучит как дешевый романчик)."
He said quickly (он быстро сказал), "I write cheap novelettes (я пишу дешевые романчики)."
I had learnt something anyway (я узнал что-то в любом случае; to learn — выучить; узнать). Until he had had a third drink (пока он не выпил третью рюмку), I was under the impression that he wasn't an easy talker (я был под впечатлением, что он не был разговорчивым человеком: «легким говорителем»): but I felt fairly certain (но я чувствовал совершенно уверенным = был совершенно уверен; fairly — красиво, мило; должным образом; довольно; в некоторой степени, ср.: a fairly easy problem — довольно простая задачка) that he was one of those (что он был один из тех) who turn unpleasant after their fourth glass (кто становится неприятным после своего четвертого стакана).
complete [kqm'pli:t], participant [pq'tIsIp(q)nt], unobtrusive ['Anqb'tru:sIv], hesitate ['hezIteIt], officer ['OfIsq], exorbitant [Ig'zO:bIt(q)nt], couple [kApl], chocolate ['tSOklqt], liqueur ['lIkjuq], improve [Im'pru:v], cognac ['kOnjxk], objection [qb'GekS(q)n], caviar ['kxvIa:], expense [Ik'spens], account [q'kaunt], anxious ['xNkSqs], novelette ["nOv(q)'let], unpleasant [An'pleznt]
One's file, you know, is never quite complete: a case is never really closed, even after a century when all the participants are dead. So I followed Martins: I knew the other three: I wanted to know the stranger. I caught him up by his taxi and said, "I haven't any transport. Would you give me a lift into town?"
"Of course," he said. I knew the driver of my jeep would spot me as we came out and follow us unobtrusively. As we drove away I noticed he never looked behind—it's nearly always the fake mourners and the fake lovers who take that last look, who wait waving on platforms, instead of clearing quickly out, not looking back. Is it perhaps that they love themselves so much and want to keep themselves in the sight of others, even of the dead?