Trial and Error Read online

  As Farroway uttered this dictim in a flat, unimpassioned voice, Mr Todhunter could only nod. Having never met his own fatal type, Mr Todhunter could at least sympathise respectfully with the man who had, though the monologue was taking him far out of his own emotional depth.

  “At first,” pursued Farroway in the same rather dreary voice, “I struggled with myself. One does, you know. I called myself a weakling. I told myself it was ridiculous that this thing should be happening to me, of all people. I blamed myself for being more feeble than all the others whom I had despised for becoming infatuated with a woman. Then I saw that the ideas of strength and weakness were inapplicable; they had no relation to the state I was in. How can I illustrate it? Well, suppose you decide when bathing to stay under water for ten minutes. Are you a weakling if you give up after the first minute because you have no oxygen left in you? No. You can’t help it. The ideas of strength or weakness don’t apply. And that was my case.

  “Of course I knew only too well what all this meant to my family. And I’m not a wicked man. I did feel for them. But what could I do? To give Jean up was impossible—just as impossible as for the finest swimmer in the world to stay under water for more than a few minutes. Of course I was making them miserable. I knew that and hated it. But I was miserable too. Partly because I felt for them and partly through jealousy. I never knew I was jealous by nature—I never have been before—but with Jean I became an Othello. I knew it was stupid and sordid, but there again I couldn’t help myself. I was almost afraid that someone or something would deprive me of the very oxygen I was breathing.

  “And with Jean I had good reason for being jealous. For if she hasn’t been unfaithful to me so far, she will be. She can’t help it, poor girl. She can’t help wanting men, not for themselves exactly, but for exercising her power over them. And she can’t help wanting money. Oh, I’ve no illusions. Has she—how shall I put it?—offered you any encouragement yet?”

  “Yes,” said Mr Todhunter.

  Farroway nodded. “She knows I’m about squeezed dry. Poor Jean. She’s just amoral, however much she wraps it up to herself and talks highfalutin nonsense about her art. There’s no question of love. Jean simply never could love any man, because she loves only herself. She adores herself. It’s an obsession with her. I don’t suppose it’s ever entered her mind to do anything for the sake of somebody else, because she can hardly conceive the existence of anybody else apart from her.

  “You’ve heard of Sir James Bohum, the psychiatrist? Besides knowing his job, he’s an extremely intelligent man. I met him once, at some dinner. Afterwards I got him to talk a little. I remember him saying that sex is the region least accessible to examination. We’re beginning to know quite a lot about the hidden motives for our actions; but when it comes to sex we know less than paleolithic man did. The sexual choice in particular seems to have no reason and no explanation. Why does A lose his head and his reason over B? No one can say. It’s merely a fact that has to be accepted without analysis or criticism. His love for C had a softening and ennobling effect on him; his love for B makes a madman of him.

  “I told him my own theory of the fatal type, and he jumped at it. He said it looked like a chemical reaction. Taken by themselves, the two ingredients may be as harmless as you like, and they remain harmless in combination with all other substances. But mix the two together, and you get an explosion. With plenty of smoke and smell naturally. I asked him if it was possible to fight obsession, and he thought that the only way out was its sublimation into some other form—religion or something like that; but this can’t be done deliberately; it must come of itself.

  “And I know now that he’s right. I can’t do anything except wait. Perhaps a harebrained motorist will kill me. Perhaps Jean will have no more use for me and send me away. But as long as she still summons me, I shall go. On the telephone this morning I was really longing to say ‘No!’ But I couldn’t. I was powerless. Or, of course, the Other Man will come along. That’s bound to happen soon, and I’m dreading it. Because it will mean drama. If only Jean would die . . . that would be the best thing. But no such luck. She isn’t obliging enough to do that.

  “I’ve often thought of killing her of course. Oh, you needn’t look so startled, Todhunter,” said Farroway with a mirthless little laugh. “I suppose every man in violent love has meditated killing his beloved at one time or another. Usually over a trifle. But it wouldn’t be a trifle in Jean’s case. If ever there was a woman worth killing, it’s she. Mind you, she’s not wicked, in the sense that she doesn’t actively wish to cause pain to others. But she’s worse than wicked because she doesn’t even notice the existence of those others. It’s women of that kind—women and men—who are responsible for nine tenths of human suffering. Evil is rare. I’m inclined to think it’s a pathological phenomenon. Indifference, that’s what is terrible. . ..”

  Mr Todhunter waited, but Farroway seemed to have finished.

  “I beg your pardon,” he ventured, “but you said something about the telephone this morning. Do I understand that Miss Norwood rang you up and asked you to go round and see her?”

  Farroway looked at him dully. “Yes. Why she always does if I stay away more than a day or two. Wants to know if I’ve forgotten all about her, and don’t I love her any more, and all that sort of thing. The dog has to be kept on the lead, you see.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Mr Todhunter. He did not add that what he saw was Miss Norwood’s prudent intention to keep the one dog on its lead until the new one was safely leashed, in spite of all her promises to send it away for painless extermination.

  He rubbed his bald head in some bewilderment. What he had just heard seemed to him the most complete expression of defeatism he had ever encountered. But it had been genuine. Whether one could struggle successfully against an infatuation or not, Mr Todhunter was cautiously not prepared to say, though he had an idea that it had been done. But Farroway obviously was a defeatist, and there was no struggle in him—except the physical struggle which might follow the advent of the Other Man. And what, in his present demented state of mind, he might do then, nobody could say.

  3

  Mr Todhunter drove back to Richmond in a bitter temper.

  He had thought all that foolishness was behind him; he had never really liked the idea; now he positively detested and dreaded it. But conscience was too strong; now that the way had been so clearly shown him by which he might do a little good in the world before leaving it in a month or two’s time, conscience would not allow him to shirk it. Cursing and swearing and exceedingly unhappy, Mr Todhunter faced the necessity of killing Miss Norwood just as soon as convenient.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Although he felt himself impelled to commit murder, Mr Todhunter saw no reason to advertise the fact. He thought of all those cousins and how distressed they would be to learn that there was a murderer in the family. Without being in the least ashamed of his intentions, Mr Todhunter yet felt that he owed it to the family to keep his deed as quiet as possible.

  Somewhat at sea, therefore, Mr Todhunter expended a sum of money on the cheap editions of a great many detective stories in order to try to learn what was the best method of procedure in a case such as his. From these he gathered that so long as nobody saw you at the scene of the crime or near it and you left neither incriminating evidence of any sort nor fingerprints and had no possible motive for eliminating the victim you were absolutely certain to be caught in fiction but not so probably in real life.

  Not altogether satisfied with this conclusion, Mr Todhunter expended a further sum on a number of works of popular criminology and, swallowing his horror of the semiliterate style in which the greater number seemed to be written, studied them diligently. From these it appeared that the most successful practitioners of the art of murder (that is to say, those who have blundered far enough as to allow themselves to be suspected in the end but had yet two or three previous and perfectly safe killings to their credit) were those who fol
lowed the method of disposing of the body, preferably through fire. This, however, Mr Todhunter had no intention of doing. To kill, as mercifully as possible, and then to get away with all speed was his hope. Certainly he was going to have nothing to do with the corpse once it was dead. It was therefore to the accounts of swift, silent killings, with subsequent lack of all means of identification, that he paid the closest attention.

  And by degrees, almost to his regret and certainly to his fascinated horror, there began to form in Mr Todhunter’s mind as the summer drew on the first glimmerings of a plan.

  The first essential of this plan was that Mr Todhunter should make himself familiar not only with Miss Norwood’s Richmond home, but also with her habits when staying there; and this without rousing suspicion or allowing any third person to remember later that such enquiries had been made. After duly considering this problem Mr Todhunter decided that his best informant would be Miss Norwood herself. On the other hand, he did not wish to have anything more to do with Miss Norwood officially, so that the connection between them should appear afterwards of the slightest. It seemed to him therefore that his best plan would be somehow to waylay Miss Norwood in the open, if possible when she was out walking, stroll beside her for a few minutes and ask his question and then depart with no witness to the encounter.

  Feeling rather like the villian in a transpontine melodrama, Mr Todhunter duly lurked in the neighbourhood of Miss Norwood’s flat at a time when she might be expected to have recovered from her rest and be on her way to the theatre for the evening performance. For two days he did not see her at all. On the third she emerged with Farroway and instantly entered a taxi with him, while Mr Todhunter turned hurriedly away; though not before he had been able to observe that Farroway’s face was positively besotted with pleasure and that he looked like anything but a man who has just received his congé. On the fourth day Mr Todhunter’s persistence was rewarded. Miss Norwood emerged alone and looked up and down the street as if for a taxi. At some risk to his aneurism, Mr Todhunter hurried towards her.

  He was greeted by a brilliant smile and an eagerly outstretched hand.

  “Mr Todhunter! I was beginning to believe you’d quite deserted me. You’ve been very naughty—very naughty indeed. Why haven’t you rung me up about that box I promised you?” Miss Norwood, still holding Mr Todhunter’s hand, pressed it in gentle reproach.

  Mr Todhunter, finding this archness a little hard-to bear, tried to withdraw his hand, without success.

  “Oh well, I thought you were going to ring me,” he mumbled.

  “Dear me! And did you think I had nothing to do but bother you on the telephone all day? If you only knew how busy I am. All day long and every day. That’s just like you great financiers, isn’t it?”

  “What is?” asked the great financier.

  “Why, thinking that no one is ever busy but yourselves. Still,” relented Miss Norwood, “as you were coming to call on me at last, I suppose I must forgive you. But isn’t it too bad I’m going straight to the theatre. If you wanted me to dine, I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

  With a manful effort Mr Todhunter snatched away his hand. Anxiety that someone might see them lingering thus on Miss Norwood’s doorstep caused him to lose his head a little.

  “No,” he blurted out. “I’m dining at home. I just happened to be passing.”

  For a moment Miss Norwood looked disconcerted. Then she burst into a peal of laughter, which may or may not have sounded a little forced.

  “Oh, you are refreshing. That’s what I like about you. You’re different. Most men would have jumped at the chance of saying they were coming to call on me, you know.”

  “Would they?” said Mr Todhunter obtusely. “Why?”

  Miss Norwood’s huge eyes narrowed slightly. “Why, because . . . oh, never mind why, if you can’t see. Well, I mustn’t keep you, then, Mr Todhunter. Though perhaps if you aren’t in a very great hurry, you could spare just a few seconds to call me a taxi?”

  “I’m not in a hurry at all,” responded Mr Todhunter, more gallantly. “And I should be much honoured if you would allow me to escort you to the theatre.”

  “I’m afraid,” said the lady coldly, “that would be a great bore for you?”

  Mr Todhunter, suppressing a strong wish to shake her, summoned up a hypocritical smile. “I thought we were to be friends, Jean?” he asked, looking as fatuous as he could.

  Miss Norwood melted instantly. “You still want to be? I was beginning to think . . . You know, Mr Todhunter, you puzzle me.”

  “Do I?” Mr Todhunter, in a fever to be gone, began to edge nervously along the pavement. Miss Norwood was compelled to follow him. “Er—how is that?”

  “Well, I can’t quite make you out. The other day, after lunch, I thought we understood each other so well. But today ... you’re different.”

  “Am I?” said Mr Todhunter, quickening his pace. “I don’t feel different. That is to say—er—my admiration for you has not decreased in any way.”

  Miss Norwood uttered another peal of laughter, causing Mr Todhunter to look round anxiously in case the attention of any passerby might have been attracted.

  “No, no,” laughed Miss Norwood. “You mustn’t try to pay compliments. That isn’t your line at all. Your line is blunt, brutal candour. That’s what sweeps us poor weak women off our feet, you know.”

  “Is it?” Mr Todhunter removed his dreadful hat and surrepitiously passed a handkerchief over his pate. “Um . . . I didn’t know. Er—you have a house in Richmond, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” replied Miss Norwood, a little surprised. “Why?”

  “I live in Richmond too. I thought,” said Mr Todhunter desperately, “as we lived in the same district, we might perhaps meet sometime.”

  “I should adore to. Why don’t you come to lunch with me on Sunday? Or supper, if you like?”

  “On Sunday?” This did not suit Mr Todhunter’s book at all, and he hurriedly sought for an excuse. “Er—no, I’m afraid I can’t on Sunday, but . . . that is, where exactly is your house?”

  “It’s on the river. Too sweet. The garden runs right along the bank. People climb out of punts and picnic on the lawn. Everyone tells me I ought to have it fenced off, but I think one should be generous, don’t you? I mean, if it gives people pleasure to come and picnic on my lawn, I feel I ought to let them; so long as they don’t do any actual damage. I ought to warn you, I’m quite a Communist. Are you terribly shocked?”

  “Not at all. I’m a bit of a Communist myself,” replied Mr Todhunter, disconcertingly but quite unintentionally so. To tell the truth, Mr Todhunter was unaccustomed to escorting lovely and extremely smartly dressed women on foot about the West End of London, and the glances which every single passerby threw at his companion were upsetting him. To his nervousness it seemed that everyone must recognise her and that the contrast between her exquisiteness and his own uncouthness must be so marked as to remain in each person’s memory, with subsequent identification in the witness box. And yet, as Mr Todhunter well knew from his reading, taxicab rides are as easily traced as footprints in the snow.

  He tried to concentrate on his purpose.

  “Er—so your house is on the river? Mine isn’t. But I often go on the river. I expect I’ve passed it frequently. Where exactly is it?”

  Miss Norwood described its precise location, and Mr Todhunter, who knew the river fairly well, was able to recognise it without difficulty. He said as much.

  “You often go on the river?” commented Miss Norwood. “Why don’t you pick me up one day? I adore being punted.”

  “I should be charmed. Perhaps,” said Mr Todhunter slowly, for an idea had just occurred to him, “if I happened to see you sitting in the garden one evening. . . ?”

  “I’m at the theatre every evening.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I meant, one Sunday evening. . .”

  “There’s usually such a crowd on Sundays,” sighed Miss Norwood. She glanced at her
escort, and the crestfallen expression on his face made her take a sudden decision. The man looked hot. It was a pity for Miss Norwood that she could not read behind the expression to the cause of it, or she would certainly not have altered certain arrangements of her own to fit in with her new admirer’s obvious wish.

  “But as a matter of fact,” she went on, “just as it happens, next Sunday evening I shall be quite alone. And when I’m alone in the evening, I always sit in my own special nook that I had made just to be alone in. It’s a little corner with a few roses and lovely perfumed flowers, quite hidden from everywhere except a tiny view out over the river and backed by a long pergola that I had made out of the ruins of an old barn. It’s just too, too perfect. So perhaps,” continued Miss Norwood archly, “if you were to find yourself at a loose end next Sunday evening, Mr Todhunter, and happened to be on the river and thought you might like to see me and have a talk in the moonlight . . . well, all you’d have to do would be to land on my lawn and walk up through the garden, keeping just a little left, till you came to my corner—that’s all.”

  “I hope very much,” said Mr Todhunter, masking his jubilation with an excessive solemnity, “that I shall be able to be there.”

  Miss Norwood looked as if she would have liked something a little more definite than this, and for a moment a hard, calculating look came into her face. The next instant it had gone; but not before Mr Todhunter, who had happened to glance round at just that second, had had time to catch it.

  “It would be nice,” said Miss Norwood wistfully, “to be alone for once, just with a friend—a real friend . . . to talk . . . to open one’s heart for once. . .’’