Trial and Error by Anthony Berkeley Page A

As has been shown, it had never been Mr Todhunter’s habit to commit himself to any course of action without consulting a great number of people as to the advisability or not of his intentions, and he was going to make no exception in such a matter as murder. Having allowed his mind to be made up concerning the deed, he had now to assure himself that the proposed victim was up to sample. One must, in short, make sure.
    The first step in making sure was to pay a call at Ogilvie’s flat in Hammersmith, and this Mr Todhunter did on the day following his conversation with Wilson.
    Mr Todhunter found Ogilvie in his shirt sleeves, writing furiously. Mrs Ogilvie, a small, rather faded little woman, tittered for a moment and then vanished. Mr Todhunter politely asked Ogilvie how he was.
    â€œNot at all well,” said Ogilvie with gloom. He was a large, fleshy man, as the husbands of small, faded wives so often are; his heavy face bore now an expression even more serious than usual.
    â€œI’m very sorry to hear that,” said Mr Todhunter, taking a chair.
    â€œThis business has upset me a great deal,” pronounced Ogilvie. “You’ve heard, of course, that I’ve left the London Review ?”
    â€œYes, Ferrers told me.”
    â€œIt’s brought on my indigestion very badly.”
    â€œWorry always brings my indigestion on too,” agreed Mr Todhunter, perhaps with more sympathy for himself than for his friend.
    â€œI haven’t been able to touch meat since It Happened.”
    â€œI have to be very careful about meat too,” said Mr Todhunter with gloomy relish. “In fact my doctor says—”
    â€œEven tea—”
    â€œOnly one small glass of port—”
    â€œIt’s very upsetting,” said Ogilvie heavily, “after all these years.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do now?”
    â€œWhat can I do? I shall never get another job.”
    â€œOh,” said Mr Todhunter uneasily, “don’t say that.”
    â€œWhy not? It’s true. I’m too old. So I’ve begun a novel. After all,” said Ogilvie, the cloud of depression lifting a little, “William de Morgan didn’t begin writing his novels till he was over seventy.”
    â€œAnd you can write, at any rate . . . But what are your private feelings about the matter, Ogilvie? I understand your dismissal is only one of many.”
    â€œIt’s appalling,” asserted Ogilvie solemnly. “Upon my word, I think the man must be a lunatic. Apart from my own case, his actions have been quite unjustifiable. It seems that he’s determined to get rid of every good man in the place. I simply can’t understand it.”
    â€œPerhaps he is mad, in a way?”
    â€œI’m not at all sure that he isn’t. That seems to me the only way of accounting for it.”
    â€œIn any case,” said Mr Todhunter carefully, “quite apart, as you say, from your own case, it’s your conviction that this man Fischmann is a menace to the happiness of a great many persons, without adequate justification or even excuse?”
    â€œI certainly do. He’s caused a great deal of misery already, and he’s going on to cause more. I know of several hard cases of men he’s dismissed without the faintest reason so far as their work goes, who have wives and families and not a penny saved. What they’re going to do I can’t imagine. Luckily we’re not in that position, but the outlook is serious enough for us. Really, Todhunter, it’s pitiable that one man—one swollen-headed crook, rather—should be able to reduce a hundred people to such a state of abject terror as they are reduced to every Saturday morning. It’s enough to make one a Communist.”
    â€œAh yes,” nodded Mr Todhunter. “Saturday morning.” He ruminated. “The man ought to be shot,” he said at last in real indignation.
    â€œHe ought,