household—she would never be suspected. He was so much enthralled by this notion that the elevator reached the fourth floor before he realized it, and the Old Party had disappeared as the gates clashed to again. He alighted hurriedly on the floor above, jumped into a downgoing elevator and reached the library in time to overhear her conversation with the assistant.
There were a good many people standing at the desk, some of whom must have been there before her arrival. But the meek British quality of lining up apparently found no favor with her. Pulling a bright scarlet book out of her satchel she thrust it at the attendant who, to John’s surprise, didn’t say pertly that some people didn’t understand about taking their turn, but accepted the book with a cheerful, “And what did you think of this. Miss Petti-grew?”
“Deplorable,” said Miss Pettigrew, in a voice that matched her nose. “I could have solved the crime far more quickly myselL In fact, I had done so by page forty.”
“It’s going very well,” said the girl in the same cheerful voice.
“In fact,” continued the formidable old woman, “if it were really so simple I should be inclined to commit a murder myself.”
“There was someone on the radio the other day saying murders were ever so simple, really, and the police ought to do something about it.”
“Naturally murder is simple, with weapons on all sides.” Miss Pettigrew sounded contemptuous. “Why writers of detective stories have to employ mysterious poisons or sealed rooms or blowpipes which I understand are not easily to be acquired even at a universal store like this one, when bricks, bread-knives, coal-hammers and pairs of scissors are to be had for the asking and are at least as efficacious, proves my contention that the average murderer is a very foolish fellow. What I intended to imply was diat concealment of crime is nothing so simple as these writers imagine.”
By now several of the waiting subscribers were frankly listening. The Old Party clearly had something, John Sherren decided. He had often heard this type of conversation before, and had always
remained completely unimpressed, but he felt that Miss Pettigrew not only believed in herself, but had the power to make other people believe in her also.
“No,” she continued, taking a book from the assistant’s hand and glancing at the last few pages, “murder is neither so easily conceived nor so successfully committed as these amateurs, these dabblers in criminology, would have one believe. If they were, I, like most people, should probably commit at least one murder.”
“You don’t expect us to believe that. Miss Pettigrew,” giggled the girl behind the counter, with the air of humoring an eccentric customer.
“No?” The old woman’s voice was as sharp as an icicle. “It may surprise you to hear that when I make statements I expect them to be accepted at their face value. You must have lived a singularly narrow or unobservant life if you cannot think of at least one person whom it would be a philanthropic act to destroy. I personally can think of two or three with no trouble at all.”
John Sherren was all this time rooted to the spot in a kind of horrified fascination. He didn’t like the old woman—but he was enthralled by her.
Miss Pettigrew then selected a book without any help or paying any attention to the assistant’s recommendation and moved away.
“She knows her own mind,” observed John to the girl behind the counter.
“She’s a character. She was a governess once and all I can say is, thank goodness I was born in a time when people went to school.”
“What was the name of the book whe brought back?”
“Say It With Blood.” She produced a copy.
Then he remembered why he had come and asked about One Fair May Morning.
“It’s not asked for much,” said the girl, candidly.
John was touched to the quick. “It’s rather above the heads of the multitude, I suppose,” he
There were a good many people standing at the desk, some of whom must have been there before her arrival. But the meek British quality of lining up apparently found no favor with her. Pulling a bright scarlet book out of her satchel she thrust it at the attendant who, to John’s surprise, didn’t say pertly that some people didn’t understand about taking their turn, but accepted the book with a cheerful, “And what did you think of this. Miss Petti-grew?”
“Deplorable,” said Miss Pettigrew, in a voice that matched her nose. “I could have solved the crime far more quickly myselL In fact, I had done so by page forty.”
“It’s going very well,” said the girl in the same cheerful voice.
“In fact,” continued the formidable old woman, “if it were really so simple I should be inclined to commit a murder myself.”
“There was someone on the radio the other day saying murders were ever so simple, really, and the police ought to do something about it.”
“Naturally murder is simple, with weapons on all sides.” Miss Pettigrew sounded contemptuous. “Why writers of detective stories have to employ mysterious poisons or sealed rooms or blowpipes which I understand are not easily to be acquired even at a universal store like this one, when bricks, bread-knives, coal-hammers and pairs of scissors are to be had for the asking and are at least as efficacious, proves my contention that the average murderer is a very foolish fellow. What I intended to imply was diat concealment of crime is nothing so simple as these writers imagine.”
By now several of the waiting subscribers were frankly listening. The Old Party clearly had something, John Sherren decided. He had often heard this type of conversation before, and had always
remained completely unimpressed, but he felt that Miss Pettigrew not only believed in herself, but had the power to make other people believe in her also.
“No,” she continued, taking a book from the assistant’s hand and glancing at the last few pages, “murder is neither so easily conceived nor so successfully committed as these amateurs, these dabblers in criminology, would have one believe. If they were, I, like most people, should probably commit at least one murder.”
“You don’t expect us to believe that. Miss Pettigrew,” giggled the girl behind the counter, with the air of humoring an eccentric customer.
“No?” The old woman’s voice was as sharp as an icicle. “It may surprise you to hear that when I make statements I expect them to be accepted at their face value. You must have lived a singularly narrow or unobservant life if you cannot think of at least one person whom it would be a philanthropic act to destroy. I personally can think of two or three with no trouble at all.”
John Sherren was all this time rooted to the spot in a kind of horrified fascination. He didn’t like the old woman—but he was enthralled by her.
Miss Pettigrew then selected a book without any help or paying any attention to the assistant’s recommendation and moved away.
“She knows her own mind,” observed John to the girl behind the counter.
“She’s a character. She was a governess once and all I can say is, thank goodness I was born in a time when people went to school.”
“What was the name of the book whe brought back?”
“Say It With Blood.” She produced a copy.
Then he remembered why he had come and asked about One Fair May Morning.
“It’s not asked for much,” said the girl, candidly.
John was touched to the quick. “It’s rather above the heads of the multitude, I suppose,” he
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