the sloppy kind, as she often declared, but she would at least expect him to kiss her....
No. Leda would have to have a good deal of money, he decided....
His thoughts turned to the murder of Mr. Hardstaffe.
He smiled as he wondered how the other occupants of the railway carriage would have received the information that he was plotting to exterminate one of their fellow creatures.
âImpossible!â they would say. âWhy, heâs fifty if heâs a day, and such a mild inoffensive-looking little man. I donât believe it!â
Oh, well! He was not the first mild little man of fifty to turn his hand to murder. There had been one, not so very long ago, named Dr. Crippen.
He had been studying the history of Crippenâs crime for some weeks now, and Lord Birkenheadâs words had seemed particularly applicable to himself.
âIt seemed incredible,â he had written, âthat the little insignificant man should have been capable of such an unusually callous, calculated and cold-blooded murder.â
For, allowing for the alliterative choice of words which he, as a writer, could fully appreciate, no better sentence could be composed to describe the murder which Arnold had planned in the early hours of this morning.
When the train drew slowly into Paddington Station, he had worked out the full details of that plan. It was so simple that he laughed aloud in the taxi which took him to his modest club.
But he was not the only man who planned murder that night.
He heard the sinister wail of sirens as he stepped into his bath, but with the deliberate bravado befitting a potential murderer, he continued his toilet as if unmoved by the sound. Then came the barrage of guns.
He was knotting his tie in front of the bedroom mirror when he heard the whistle of the first bomb, and was in the bathroom when he heard the second, with no recollection of how he had got there. He flung up his arms in an instinctive movement to shield his head, and yelled aloud as the third bomb struck the building with a devastating cataclysm of noise.
He felt himself lifted up and dashed against the hideously shuddering walls, and knew no more.
CHAPTER 9
Ten days later, Arnold Smith found himself returning to Nether Naughton in a first-class carriage filled with third- class passengers.
This time he was not thinking of murder. He was entirely absorbed in wishing that the other people in the compartment would stop talking, especially the sailor in the corner who appeared to be determined to indulge in Careless Talk.
Arnold leaned back in the corner seat which an exorbitant tip had procured for him, and closed his eyes. His head ached, and he still felt rather dazed and unsure of himself.
He had only a vague recollection of his experience in Town. He had been in a building which was hit by a bomb, he knew, but after that, he had seemed to be living in a dream, in which things were not quite real.
But somewhere in his mind he was conscious of something which he could not remember, although he felt that it was important for him to do so.
As the journey lengthened, the crowd in the carriage thinned, until he was left alone for a blissful half-hour, and dozed until the train drew up at the tiny station of Nether Naughton.
He had telephoned to Leda the previous evening, to tell her of his expected arrival, but she had been out, and he had left a message with a maid. He gave up his ticket, and walked out through the station gates, expecting to see her at the wheel of his car. There was no sign of her or of anyone who might have brought a message. The thought of walking was distasteful to him, for the station was situated a mile away from the village, presumably so that its inhabitants should not be disturbed by the noise of the main-line trains.
The train had been an hour late, so he returned to the station to ascertain if Leda had called for him on time, and intended to call again later.
âWho, sir? Miss Hardstaffe,
No. Leda would have to have a good deal of money, he decided....
His thoughts turned to the murder of Mr. Hardstaffe.
He smiled as he wondered how the other occupants of the railway carriage would have received the information that he was plotting to exterminate one of their fellow creatures.
âImpossible!â they would say. âWhy, heâs fifty if heâs a day, and such a mild inoffensive-looking little man. I donât believe it!â
Oh, well! He was not the first mild little man of fifty to turn his hand to murder. There had been one, not so very long ago, named Dr. Crippen.
He had been studying the history of Crippenâs crime for some weeks now, and Lord Birkenheadâs words had seemed particularly applicable to himself.
âIt seemed incredible,â he had written, âthat the little insignificant man should have been capable of such an unusually callous, calculated and cold-blooded murder.â
For, allowing for the alliterative choice of words which he, as a writer, could fully appreciate, no better sentence could be composed to describe the murder which Arnold had planned in the early hours of this morning.
When the train drew slowly into Paddington Station, he had worked out the full details of that plan. It was so simple that he laughed aloud in the taxi which took him to his modest club.
But he was not the only man who planned murder that night.
He heard the sinister wail of sirens as he stepped into his bath, but with the deliberate bravado befitting a potential murderer, he continued his toilet as if unmoved by the sound. Then came the barrage of guns.
He was knotting his tie in front of the bedroom mirror when he heard the whistle of the first bomb, and was in the bathroom when he heard the second, with no recollection of how he had got there. He flung up his arms in an instinctive movement to shield his head, and yelled aloud as the third bomb struck the building with a devastating cataclysm of noise.
He felt himself lifted up and dashed against the hideously shuddering walls, and knew no more.
CHAPTER 9
Ten days later, Arnold Smith found himself returning to Nether Naughton in a first-class carriage filled with third- class passengers.
This time he was not thinking of murder. He was entirely absorbed in wishing that the other people in the compartment would stop talking, especially the sailor in the corner who appeared to be determined to indulge in Careless Talk.
Arnold leaned back in the corner seat which an exorbitant tip had procured for him, and closed his eyes. His head ached, and he still felt rather dazed and unsure of himself.
He had only a vague recollection of his experience in Town. He had been in a building which was hit by a bomb, he knew, but after that, he had seemed to be living in a dream, in which things were not quite real.
But somewhere in his mind he was conscious of something which he could not remember, although he felt that it was important for him to do so.
As the journey lengthened, the crowd in the carriage thinned, until he was left alone for a blissful half-hour, and dozed until the train drew up at the tiny station of Nether Naughton.
He had telephoned to Leda the previous evening, to tell her of his expected arrival, but she had been out, and he had left a message with a maid. He gave up his ticket, and walked out through the station gates, expecting to see her at the wheel of his car. There was no sign of her or of anyone who might have brought a message. The thought of walking was distasteful to him, for the station was situated a mile away from the village, presumably so that its inhabitants should not be disturbed by the noise of the main-line trains.
The train had been an hour late, so he returned to the station to ascertain if Leda had called for him on time, and intended to call again later.
âWho, sir? Miss Hardstaffe,
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