“’E wants to see the murders,” explained Flossie’s mother.
She spoke as if it were the most reasonable of boyish desires, but it sounded to me impracticable. Homicides do not publish formal programmes of their intended activities. I had no notion what murders were scheduled for to-day.
“’E always reads up all the murders in the Sunday paper,” went on the parent, throwing light on the matter.
“Oh, I understand,” I said. “Then Madame Tussaud’s is the spot he wants. They’ve got all the murderers.”
“Naw!” said Cecil.
“It’s the places ’e wants to see,” said Flossie’s mother, amiably tolerant of my density. “The places where all them murders was committed. ’E’s clipped out the addresses and ’e wants to be able to tell ’is friends when he gets back that ’e’s seen ’em.”
A profound relief surged over me.
“Why, we can do the whole thing in a cab,” I cried. “We can stay in a cab from start to finish. No need to leave the cab at all.”
“Or a bus?”
“Not a bus,” I said firmly. I was quite decided on a cab—one with blinds that would pull down, if possible.