Read Online Death Knocks Three Times by Anthony Gilbert - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Gilbert
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the floor. When he pulled himself together he found his luck was altogether out. The train was by no means full but he hadn’t been fortunate enough to pick an empty carriage. There was a woman sitting in the farther corner, barricaded by The Times, and giving the impression that the abrupt arrival of such a hobbledehoy as himself was beneath her notice. John seated himself in the corner farthest away from her. He desired neither sympathy nor censure, and he nurtured the curiously old-fashioned notion diat for a single man to find himself alone for a long journey—this was a non-stop train for almost two hours—with a woman was to chance a fate worse than death. He saw, too, with rising disgust, that he was in a third-class carriage of the non-communicating variety, so he couldn’t even walk through and find his proper place. No, he was stuck with this outrageous female until the next stop, which was, in fact, Brakemouth.
When it became clear that she was no more anxious to talk to him than he to her he calmed somewhat, and presently, pulling out his cigarette case, he decided to make the best of a bad job. He had just struck a match when a determined rather masculine voice said, “This is not a smoking compartment,” an observation that shocked him so much that he let the match burn down and scorch his fingers before he could collect sufficient self-possession to say in a rather sarcastic voice, “Have you any objection to my smoking, madam?”
His companion’s cue, seeing that she was talking to a gentleman, should have been, “Not at all,” but she didn’t seem to know any of the rules of the game.
“If I had none,” said she frostily, “I should scarcely have selected a non-smoking carriage.”
No sympathy, you perceive, no sweet reasonableness, no realization of a sensitive fellow-creature’s absolute need for a cigarette at this hour of the morning. A spinster, he was convinced, and how lucky some chap, himself for example, was not to have married her.
“I almost missed the train,” he said, “otherwise, of course, I should not have entered a non-smoking compartment.”
The lady took no notice of this explanation. She was still entrenched behind The Times when the train ran out of the tunnel into which it had suddenly plunged. He was staring across at his companion, who had lowered the paper while they were in darkness.
It was Miss Pettigiew.
She looked through him and then, as though he had no existence, she laid The Times aside and produced a book from her hearty, shabby traveling bag. It had a bright orange cover and he recognized the series at once. Anger at this treatment of himself— for who was she, poor presuming faded female, to behave in so cavalier a manner to a published novelist—made him break his rule to never getting into conversation with traveling companions.
and he inquired in bland tones: “I hope the book you have today is proving more satisfactory than its predecessor.”
She lifted her long face, topped by its hideous felt basin hat, and gave him an incredulous look.
“I beg your pardon?”
He had begun to feel better. “Say It With Blood, wasn’t it? I happened to be in Garrods when you were returning it. I hope you won’t think me impertinent (not that he cared, of course) if I say I agree with every word you said about it.”
“Ah, was that the occasion? I did not recall … Indeed, I had begun to wonder if the last time we met you were in fancy dress. I pride myself on never forgetting the face of an acquaintance.”
“A very improbable solution,” he acknowledged.
Miss Pettigrew laid aside her book and folded her long powerful hands. “The trouble is,” said she calmly, “that the convincing murderers don’t waste time writing about death, they set about the business in real earnest.”
That shook him a little, he had to confess. Perhaps, he thought, she was one of these unbalanced people who, whenever a crime is reported, ring up the police and
When it became clear that she was no more anxious to talk to him than he to her he calmed somewhat, and presently, pulling out his cigarette case, he decided to make the best of a bad job. He had just struck a match when a determined rather masculine voice said, “This is not a smoking compartment,” an observation that shocked him so much that he let the match burn down and scorch his fingers before he could collect sufficient self-possession to say in a rather sarcastic voice, “Have you any objection to my smoking, madam?”
His companion’s cue, seeing that she was talking to a gentleman, should have been, “Not at all,” but she didn’t seem to know any of the rules of the game.
“If I had none,” said she frostily, “I should scarcely have selected a non-smoking carriage.”
No sympathy, you perceive, no sweet reasonableness, no realization of a sensitive fellow-creature’s absolute need for a cigarette at this hour of the morning. A spinster, he was convinced, and how lucky some chap, himself for example, was not to have married her.
“I almost missed the train,” he said, “otherwise, of course, I should not have entered a non-smoking compartment.”
The lady took no notice of this explanation. She was still entrenched behind The Times when the train ran out of the tunnel into which it had suddenly plunged. He was staring across at his companion, who had lowered the paper while they were in darkness.
It was Miss Pettigiew.
She looked through him and then, as though he had no existence, she laid The Times aside and produced a book from her hearty, shabby traveling bag. It had a bright orange cover and he recognized the series at once. Anger at this treatment of himself— for who was she, poor presuming faded female, to behave in so cavalier a manner to a published novelist—made him break his rule to never getting into conversation with traveling companions.
and he inquired in bland tones: “I hope the book you have today is proving more satisfactory than its predecessor.”
She lifted her long face, topped by its hideous felt basin hat, and gave him an incredulous look.
“I beg your pardon?”
He had begun to feel better. “Say It With Blood, wasn’t it? I happened to be in Garrods when you were returning it. I hope you won’t think me impertinent (not that he cared, of course) if I say I agree with every word you said about it.”
“Ah, was that the occasion? I did not recall … Indeed, I had begun to wonder if the last time we met you were in fancy dress. I pride myself on never forgetting the face of an acquaintance.”
“A very improbable solution,” he acknowledged.
Miss Pettigrew laid aside her book and folded her long powerful hands. “The trouble is,” said she calmly, “that the convincing murderers don’t waste time writing about death, they set about the business in real earnest.”
That shook him a little, he had to confess. Perhaps, he thought, she was one of these unbalanced people who, whenever a crime is reported, ring up the police and
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