Barraclough assumed an air of indifference.
"Did you not?" he said.
"It's a fact, I didn't. Lying in bed I was twelve minutes ago. Used some words, too, when they called me up on the 'phone. But, all said, it was worth the rush. Means a good deal of money to me."
This final remark did little to improve Barraclough's temper. However, he preserved an outward calm and said he supposed so.
"I'm tenacious," said the man. "That's what I am—tenacious."
"A fine quality."
"And pretty useful in my trade."
"Must be."
Barraclough's mind was concentrated on finding a weak spot at which to attack and already a delicate idea was maturing. In the rack above his companion's head was his suitcase, the handle projecting outward. Apparently it was unusually heavy for Barraclough had noticed with what a resonant whack it hit the carriage cushions when thrown in through the window and also that it was only lifted to its present position with an effort. If that suitcase could be persuaded to fall on its owner's head it was reasonable to suppose the result would be anesthetic. And in Barraclough's hand was a crooked stick. The association of idea is obvious.
"Going far?" came the pleasant enquiry.