The Clocks (12 page)

“What about the tough school?” I asked.

Poirot waved aside the tough school much as he would have waved an intruding fly or mosquito.

“Violence for violence' sake? Since when has that been interesting? I have seen plenty of violence in my early career as a police officer. Bah, you might as well read a medical text book.
Tout de même,
I give American crime fiction on the whole a pretty high place. I think it is more ingenious, more imaginative than English writing. It is less atmospheric and overladen with atmosphere than most French writers. Now take Louisa O'Malley for instance.”

He dived once more for a book.

“What a model of fine scholarly writing is hers, yet what excitement, what mounting apprehension she arouses in her reader. Those brownstone mansions in New York.
Enfin what is
a brownstone mansion—I have never known? Those exclusive apartments, and soulful snobberies, and underneath, deep unsuspected seams of crime run their uncharted course. It
could
happen so, and it
does
happen so. She is very good, this Louisa O'Malley, she is very good indeed.”

He sighed, leaned back, shook his head and drank off the remainder of his tisane.

“And then—there are always the old favourites.”

Again he dived for a book.

“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,”
he murmured lovingly, and even uttered reverently the one word,
“Maître!”

“Sherlock Holmes?” I asked.

“Ah,
non, non,
not Sherlock Holmes! It is the author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, that I salute. These tales of Sherlock Holmes are in reality farfetched, full of fallacies and most artificially contrived. But the art of the writing—ah, that is entirely different. The pleasure of the language, the creation above all of that magnificent character, Dr. Watson. Ah, that was indeed a triumph.”

He sighed and shook his head and murmured, obviously by a natural association of ideas:

“
Ce cher
Hastings. My friend Hastings of whom you have often heard me speak. It is a long time since I have had news of him. What an absurdity to go and bury oneself in South America, where they are always having revolutions.”

“That's not confined to South America,” I pointed out. “They're having revolutions all over the world nowadays.”

“Let us not discuss the Bomb,” said Hercule Poirot. “If it has to be, it has to be, but let us not discuss it.”

“Actually,” I said, “I came to discuss something quite different with you.”

“Ah! You are about to be married, is that it? I am delighted,
mon cher,
delighted.”

“What on earth put that in your head, Poirot?” I asked. “Nothing of the kind.”

“It happens,” said Poirot, “it happens every day.”

“Perhaps,” I said firmly, “but not to me. Actually I came to tell you that I'd run across rather a pretty little problem in murder.”

“Indeed? A pretty problem in murder, you say? And you have brought it to
me.
Why?”

“Well—” I was slightly embarrassed. “I—I thought you might enjoy it,” I said.

Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. He caressed his moustache with a loving hand, then he spoke.

“A master,” he said, “is often kind to his dog. He goes out and throws a ball for the dog. A dog, however, is also capable of being kind to its master. A dog kills a rabbit or a rat and he brings it and lays it at his master's feet. And what does he do then? He wags his tail.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Am I wagging my tail?”

“I think you are, my friend. Yes, I think you are.”

“All right then,” I said. “And what does master say? Does he want to see doggy's rat? Does he want to know all about it?”

“Of course. Naturally. It is a crime that you think will interest me. Is that right?”

“The whole point of it is,” I said, “that it just doesn't make sense.”

“That is impossible,” said Poirot. “Everything makes sense. Everything.”

“Well, you try and make sense of this.
I
can't. Not that it's really anything to do with me. I just happened to come in on it. Mind you, it may turn out to be quite straightforward, once the dead man is identified.”

“You are talking without method or order,” said Poirot severely. “Let me beg of you to let me have the facts. You say it is a murder, yes?”

“It's a murder all right,” I assured him. “Well, here we go.”

I described to him in detail the events that had taken place at 19, Wilbraham Crescent. Hercule Poirot leant back in his chair. He closed his eyes and gently tapped with a forefinger the arm of his chair while he listened to my recital. When I finally stopped, he did not speak for a moment. Then he asked, without opening his eyes:

“Sans blague?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said.

“
Epatant,
” said Hercule Poirot. He savoured the word on his tongue and repeated it syllable by syllable. “
E-pa-tant.
” After that he continued his tapping on the arm of his chair and gently nodded his head.

“Well,” I said impatiently, after waiting a few moments more. “What have you got to say?”

“But what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to give me the solution. I've always understood
from you that it was perfectly possible to lie back in one's chair, just think about it all, and come up with the answer. That it was quite unnecessary to go and question people and run about looking for clues.”

“It is what I have always maintained.”

“Well, I'm calling your bluff,” I said. “I've given you the facts, and now I want the answer.”

“Just like that, hein? But then there is a lot more to be known,
mon ami.
We are only at the
beginning
of the facts. Is that not so?”

“I still want you to come up with
something.
”

“I see.” He reflected a moment. “One thing is certain,” he pronounced. “It must be a very simple crime.”

“Simple?” I demanded in some astonishment.

“Naturally.”

“Why must it be simple?”

“Because it appears so complex. If it has necessarily to appear complex, it
must
be simple. You comprehend that?”

“I don't really know that I do.”

“Curious,” mused Poirot, “what you have told me—I think—yes, there is something familiar to me there. Now where—when—have I come across something … ” He paused.

“Your memory,” I said, “must be one vast reservoir of crimes. But you can't possibly remember them all, can you?”

“Unfortunately no,” said Poirot, “but from time to time these reminiscences are helpful. There was a soap boiler, I remember, once, at Liège. He poisoned his wife in order to marry a blonde stenographer. The crime made a pattern. Later, much later, that pattern recurred. I recognized it. This time it was an affair of a kidnapped Pekinese dog, but the
pattern
was the same. I looked for
the equivalent of the blonde stenographer and the soap boiler, and
voilà!
That is the kind of thing. And here again in what you have told me I have that feeling of recognition.”

“Clocks?” I suggested hopefully. “Bogus insurance agents?”

“No, no,” Poirot shook his head.

“Blind women?”

“No, no, no. Do not confuse me.”

“I'm disappointed in you, Poirot,” I said. “I thought you'd give me the answer straight away.”

“But, my friend, at present you have presented me only with a
pattern.
There are many more things to find out. Presumably this man will be identified. In that kind of thing the police are excellent. They have their criminal records, they can advertise the man's picture, they have access to a list of missing persons, there is scientific examination of the dead man's clothing, and so on and so on. Oh, yes, there are a hundred other ways and means at their disposal. Undoubtedly, this man will be identified.”

“So there's nothing to do at the moment. Is that what you think?”

“There is always something to do,” said Hercule Poirot, severely.

“Such as?”

He wagged an emphatic forefinger at me.

“Talk to the neighbours,” he said.

“I've done that,” I said. “I went with Hardcastle when he was questioning them. They don't know anything useful.”

“Ah, tcha, tcha, that is what
you
think. But I assure you, that cannot be so. You go to them, you ask them: ‘Have you seen anything suspicious?' and they say no, and you think that that is all
there is to it. But that is not what I mean when I say talk to the neighbours. I say
talk
to them. Let them talk to
you.
And from their conversation always, somewhere, you will find a clue. They may be talking about their gardens or their pets or their hairdressing or their dressmaker, or their friends, or the kind of food they like. Always somewhere there will be a word that sheds light. You say there was nothing in those conversations that was useful. I say that cannot be so. If you could repeat them to me word for word….”

“Well, that's practically what I can do,” I said. “I took shorthand transcripts of what was said, acting in my role of assistant police officer. I've had them transcribed and typed and I've brought them along to you. Here they are.”

“Ah, but you are a good boy, you are a very good boy indeed! What you have done is exactly right. Exactly.
Je vous remercie infiniment.
”

I felt quite embarrassed.

“Have you any more suggestions?” I asked.

“Yes, always I have suggestions. There is this girl. You can talk to this girl. Go and see her. Already you are friends, are you not? Have you not clasped her in your arms when she flew from the house in terror?”

“You've been affected by reading Garry Gregson,” I said. “You've caught the melodramatic style.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Poirot admitted. “One gets infected, it is true, by the style of a work that one has been reading.”

“As for the girl—” I said, then paused.

Poirot looked at me inquiringly.

“Yes?” he said.

“I shouldn't like—I don't want….”

“Ah, so that is it. At the back of your mind you think she is concerned somehow in this case.”

“No, I don't. It was absolutely pure chance that she happened to be there.”

“No, no,
mon ami,
it was not pure chance. You know that very well. You've told me so. She was asked for over the telephone. Asked for specially.”

“But she doesn't know why.”

“You cannot be sure that she does not know why. Very likely she
does
know why and is hiding the fact.”

“I don't think so,” I said obstinately.

“It is even possible you may find out why by talking to her, even if she herself does not realize the truth.”

“I don't see very well how—I mean—I hardly know her.”

Hercule Poirot shut his eyes again.

“There is a time,” he said, “in the course of an attraction between two persons of the opposite sex, when that particular statement is bound to be true. She is an attractive girl, I suppose?”

“Well—yes,” I said. “Quite attractive.”

“You will talk to her,” Poirot ordered, “because you are already friends, and you will go again and see this blind woman with some excuse. And you will talk to
her.
And you will go to the typewriting bureau on the pretence perhaps of having some manuscript typed. You will make friends, perhaps, with one of the other young ladies who works there. You will talk to all these people and then you will come and see me again and you will tell me all the things that they will say.”

“Have mercy!” I said.

“Not at all,” said Poirot, “you will enjoy it.”

“You don't seem to realize that I've got my own work to do.”

“You will work all the better for having a certain amount of relaxation,” Poirot assured me.

I got up and laughed.

“Well,” I said, “you're the doctor! Any more words of wisdom for me? What do you feel about this strange business of the clocks?”

Poirot leaned back in his chair again and closed his eyes.

The words he spoke were quite unexpected.

He opened his eyes again and nodded his head.

“Do you understand?” he said.

“Quotation from ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter,'
Alice Through the Looking Glass.
”

“Exactly. For the moment, that is the best I can do for you,
mon cher.
Reflect upon it.”

T
he inquest was well attended by the general public. Thrilled by a murder in their midst, Crowdean turned out with eager hopes of sensational disclosures. The proceedings, however, were as dry as they could be. Sheila Webb need not have dreaded her ordeal, it was over in a couple of minutes.

There had been a telephone message to the Cavendish Bureau directing her to go to 19, Wilbraham Crescent. She had gone, acting as told to do, by entering the sitting room. She had found the dead man there and had screamed and rushed out of the house to summon assistance. There were no questions or elaborations. Miss Martindale, who also gave evidence, was questioned for an even shorter time. She had received a message purporting to be from Miss Pebmarsh asking her to send a shorthand typist, preferably Miss Sheila Webb, to 19, Wilbraham Crescent, and giving certain directions. She had noted down the exact time of the telephone call as 1:49. That disposed of Miss Martindale.

Miss Pebmarsh, called next, denied categorically that she had asked for
any
typist to be sent to her that day from the Cavendish Bureau. Detective Inspector Hardcastle made a short emotionless statement. On receipt of a telephone call, he had gone to 19, Wilbraham Crescent where he had found the body of a dead man. The coroner then asked him:

“Have you been able to identify the dead man?”

“Not as yet, sir. For that reason, I would ask for this inquest to be adjourned.”

“Quite so.”

Then came the medical evidence. Doctor Rigg, the police surgeon, having described himself and his qualifications, told of his arrival at 19, Wilbraham Crescent, and of his examination of the dead man.

“Can you give us an approximate idea of the time of death, Doctor?”

“I examined him at half past three. I should put the time of death as between half past one and half past two.”

“You cannot put it nearer than that?”

“I should prefer not to do so. At a guess, the most likely time would be two o'clock or rather earlier, but there are many factors which have to be taken into account. Age, state of health, and so on.”

“You performed an autopsy?”

“I did.”

“The cause of death?”

“The man had been stabbed with a thin, sharp knife. Something in the nature, perhaps, of a French cooking knife with a tapering blade. The point of the knife entered … ” Here the doctor
became technical as he explained the exact position where the knife had entered the heart.

“Would death have been instantaneous?”

“It would have occurred within a very few minutes.”

“The man would not have cried out or struggled?”

“Not under the circumstances in which he was stabbed.”

“Will you explain to us, Doctor, what you mean by that phrase?”

“I made an examination of certain organs and made certain tests. I would say that when he was killed he was in a state of coma due to the administration of a drug.”

“Can you tell us what this drug was, Doctor?”

“Yes. It was chloral hydrate.”

“Can you tell how this was adminstered?”

“I should say presumably in alcohol of some kind. The effect of chloral hydrate is very rapid.”

“Known in certain quarters as a Mickey Finn, I believe,” murmured the coroner.

“That is quite correct,” said Doctor Rigg. “He would drink the liquid unsuspectingly, and a few moments later he would reel over and fall unconscious.”

“And he was stabbed, in your opinion, while unconscious?”

“That is my belief. It would account for there being no sign of a struggle and for his peaceful appearance.”

“How long after becoming unconscious was he killed?”

“That I cannot say with any accuracy. There again it depends on the personal idiosyncrasy of the victim. He would certainly not come round under half an hour and it might be a good deal more than that.”

“Thank you, Doctor Rigg. Have you any evidence as to when this man last had a meal?”

“He had not lunched if that is what you mean. He had eaten no solid food for at least four hours.”

“Thank you, Doctor Rigg. I think that is all.”

The coroner then looked round and said:

“The inquest will be adjourned for a fortnight, until September 28th.”

The inquest concluded, people began to move out of the court. Edna Brent who, with most of the other girls at the Cavendish Bureau, had been present, hesitated as she got outside the door. The Cavendish Secretarial Bureau had been closed for the morning. Maureen West, one of the other girls, spoke to her.

“What about it, Edna? Shall we go to the Bluebird for lunch? We've got heaps of time. At any rate,
you
have.”

“I haven't got any more time than you have,” said Edna in an injured voice. “Sandy Cat told me I'd better take the first interval for lunch. Mean of her. I thought I'd get a good extra hour for shopping and things.”

“Just like Sandy Cat,” said Maureen. “Mean as hell, isn't she? We open up again at two and we've all got to be there. Are you looking for anyone?”

“Only Sheila. I didn't see her come out.”

“She went away earlier,” said Maureen, “after she'd finished giving her evidence. She went off with a young man—but I didn't see who he was. Are you coming?”

Edna still hovered uncertainly, and said, “You go on—I've got shopping to do anyway.”

Maureen and another girl went off together. Edna lingered.
Finally she nerved herself to speak to the fair-haired young policeman who stood at the entrance.

“Could I go in again?” she murmured timidly, “and speak to—to the one who came to the office—Inspector something.”

“Inspector Hardcastle?”

“That's right. The one who was giving evidence this morning.”

“Well—” the young policeman looked into the court and observed the inspector in deep consultation with the coroner and with the chief constable of the county.

“He looks busy at the moment, miss,” he said. “If you called round at the station later, or if you'd like to give me a message … Is it anything important?”

“Oh, it doesn't matter really,” said Edna. “It's—well—just that I don't see how what she said could have been true because I mean … ” She turned away, still frowning perplexedly.

She wandered away from the Cornmarket and along the High Street. She was still frowning perplexedly and trying to think. Thinking had never been Edna's strong point. The more she tried to get things clear in her mind, the more muddled her mind became.

Once she said aloud:

“But it couldn't have been like that … It couldn't have been like she said….”

Suddenly, with an air of one making a resolution, she turned off from the High Street and along Albany Road in the direction of Wilbraham Crescent.

Since the day that the Press had announced that a murder had been committed at 19, Wilbraham Crescent, large numbers of people had gathered in front of the house every day to have a good
look at it. The fascination mere bricks and mortar can have for the general public under certain circumstances is a truly mysterious thing. For the first twenty-four hours a policeman had been stationed there to pass people along in an authoritative manner. Since then interest had lessened; but had still not ceased entirely. Tradesmen's delivery vans would slacken speed a little as they passed, women wheeling prams would come to a four or five minute stop on the opposite pavement and stare their eyes out as they contemplated Miss Pebmarsh's neat residence. Shopping women with baskets would pause with avid eyes and exchange pleasurable gossip with friends.

“That's the house—that one there….”

“The body was in the sitting room … No, I think the sitting room's the room at the front, the one on the left….”

“The grocer's man told me it was the one on the right.”

“Well, of course it might be, I've been into Number 10 once and there, I distinctly remember the
dining
room was on the right, and the sitting room was on the left….”

“It doesn't look a bit as though there had been a murder done there, does it … ?”

“The girl, I believe, came out of the gate screaming her head off….”

“They say she's not been right in her head since … Terrible shock, of course….”

“He broke in by a back window, so they say. He was putting the silver in a bag when this girl came in and found him there….”

“The poor woman who owns the house, she's
blind,
poor soul. So, of course,
she
couldn't know what was going on.”

“Oh, but she wasn't
there
at the time….”

“Oh, I thought she
was.
I thought she was upstairs and heard him. Oh, dear, I
must
get on to the shops.”

These and similar conversations went on most of the time. Drawn as though by a magnet, the most unlikely people arrived in Wilbraham Crescent, paused, stared, and then passed on, some inner need satisfied.

Here, still puzzling in her mind, Edna Brent found herself jostling a small group of five or six people who were engaged in the favourite pastime of looking at the murder house.

Edna, always suggestible, stared also.

So that was the house where it happened! Net curtains in the windows. Looked ever so nice. And yet a man had been killed there. Killed with a kitchen knife. An ordinary kitchen knife. Nearly everybody had got a kitchen knife….

Mesmerized by the behaviour of the people round her, Edna, too, stared and ceased to think….

She had almost forgotten what had brought her here….

She started when a voice spoke in her ear.

She turned her head in surprised recognition.