The Clocks (13 page)

I

I
noticed when Sheila Webb slipped quietly out of the Coroner's Court. She'd given her evidence very well. She had looked nervous but not unduly nervous. Just natural, in fact. (What would Beck say? “Quite a good performance.” I could hear him say it!)

I took in the surprise finish of Doctor Rigg's evidence. (Dick Hardcastle hadn't told me that, but he must have known) and then I went after her.

“It wasn't so bad after all, was it?” I said, when I had caught her up.

“No. It was quite easy really. The coroner was very nice.” She hesitated. “What will happen next?”

“He'll adjourn the inquest—for further evidence. A fortnight probably or until they can identify the dead man.”

“You think they
will
identify him?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “They'll identify him all right. No doubt of that.”

She shivered. “It's cold today.”

It wasn't particularly cold. In fact I thought it was rather warm.

“What about an early lunch?” I suggested. “You haven't got to go back to your typewriting place, have you?”

“No. It's closed until two o'clock.”

“Come along then. How do you react to Chinese food? I see there's a little Chinese restaurant just down the street.”

Sheila looked hesitant.

“I've really got to do some shopping.”

“You can do it afterwards.”

“No, I can't—some of the shops close between one and two.”

“All right then. Will you meet me there? In half an hour's time?”

She said she would.

I went along to the seafront and sat there in a shelter. As the wind was blowing straight in from the sea, I had it to myself.

I wanted to think. It always infuriates one when other people know more about you than you know about yourself. But old Beck and Hercule Poirot and Dick Hardcastle, they all had seen quite clearly what I was now forced to admit to myself was true.

I minded about this girl—minded in a way I had never minded about a girl before.

It wasn't her beauty—she was pretty, pretty in rather an unusual way, no more. It wasn't her sex appeal—I had met that often enough—had been given the full treatment.

It was just that, almost from the first, I had recognized that she was
my
girl.

And I didn't know the first damned thing about her!

II

It was just after two o'clock that I walked into the station and asked for Dick. I found him at his desk leafing over a pile of stuff. He looked up and asked me what I had thought of the inquest.

I told him I thought it had been a very nicely managed and gentlemanly performance.

“We do this sort of thing so well in this country.”

“What did you think of the medical evidence?”

“Rather a facer. Why didn't you tell me about it?”

“You were away. Did you consult your specialist?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I believe I remember him vaguely. A lot of moustache.”

“Oceans of it,” I agreed. “He's very proud of that moustache.”

“He must be quite old.”

“Old but not gaga,” I said.

“Why did you really go to see him? Was it purely the milk of human kindness?”

“You have such a suspicious policeman's mind, Dick! It was mainly that. But I admit to curiosity, too. I wanted to hear what he had to say about our own particular setup. You see, he's always talked what I call a lot of cock about its being easy to solve a case by just sitting in your chair, bringing the tips of your fingers symmetrically together, closing your eyes and thinking. I wanted to call his bluff.”

“Did he go through that procedure for you?”

“He did.”

“And what did he say?” Dick asked with some curiosity.

“He said,” I told him, “that it must be a very
simple
murder.”

“Simple, my God!” said Hardcastle, roused. “Why simple?”

“As far as I could gather,” I said, “because the whole setup was so complex.”

Hardcastle shook his head. “I don't see it,” he said. “It sounds like one of those clever things that young people in Chelsea say, but I don't see it. Anything else?”

“Well, he told me to talk to the neighbours. I assured him we had done so.”

“The neighbours are even more important now in view of the medical evidence.”

“The presumption being that he was doped somewhere else and brought to Number 19 to be killed?”

Something familiar about the words struck me.

“That's more or less what Mrs. What's-her-name, the cat woman, said. It struck me at the time as a rather interesting remark.”

“Those cats,” said Dick, and shuddered. He went on: “We've found the weapon, by the way. Yesterday.”

“You have? Where?”

“In the cattery. Presumably thrown there by the murderer after the crime.”

“No fingerprints, I suppose?”

“Carefully wiped. And it could be anybody's knife—slightly used—recently sharpened.”

“So it goes like this. He was doped—then brought to Number 19—in a car? Or how?”

“He
could
have been brought from one of the houses with an adjoining garden.”

“Bit risky, wouldn't it have been?”

“It would need audacity,” Hardcastle agreed, “and it would need a very good knowledge of the neighbourhood's habits. It's more likely that he would have been brought in a car.”

“That would have been risky too. People notice a car.”

“Nobody did. But I agree that the murderer couldn't know that they wouldn't. Passersby would have noted a car stopping at Number 19 that day—”

“I wonder if they
would
notice,” I said. “Everyone's so used to cars. Unless, of course, it had been a very lush car—something unusual, but that's not likely—”

“And of course it was the lunch hour. You realize, Colin, that this brings Miss Millicent Pebmarsh back into the picture? It seems farfetched to think of an able-bodied man being stabbed by a blind woman—but if he was doped—”

“In other words ‘if he came there to be killed,' as our Mrs. Hemming put it, he arrived by appointment quite unsuspiciously, was offered a sherry or a cocktail—the Mickey Finn took effect and Miss Pebmarsh got to work. Then she washed up the Mickey Finn glass, arranged the body neatly on the floor, threw the knife into her neighbour's garden, and tripped out as usual.”

“Telephoning to the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau on the way—”

“And why should she do that? And ask particularly for Sheila Webb?”

“I wish we knew.” Hardcastle looked at me. “Does
she
know? The girl herself?”

“She says not.”

“She says not,” Hardcastle repeated tonelessly. “I'm asking you what
you
think about it?”

I didn't speak for a moment or two. What
did
I think? I had to decide right now on my course of action. The truth would come out in the end. It would do Sheila no harm if she were what I believed her to be.

With a brusque movement I pulled a postcard out of my pocket and shoved it across the table.

“Sheila got this through the post.”

Hardcastle scanned it. It was one of a series of postcards of London buildings. It represented the Central Criminal Court. Hardcastle turned it over. On the right was the address—in neat printing. Miss R. S. Webb, 14, Palmerston Road, Crowdean, Sussex. On the left-hand side, also printed, was the word REMEMBER! and below it 4:13.

“4:13,” said Hardcastle. “That was the time the clocks showed that day.” He shook his head. “A picture of the Old Bailey, the word ‘Remember' and a time—4:13. It
must
tie up with something.”

“She says she doesn't know what it means.” I added: “I believe her.”

Hardcastle nodded.

“I'm keeping this. We may get something from it.”

“I hope you do.”

There was embarrassment between us. To relieve it, I said:

“You've got a lot of bumf there.”

“All the usual. And most of it no damned good. The dead man hadn't got a criminal record, his fingerprints aren't on file. Practi
cally all this stuff is from people who claim to have recognized him.” He read:

“And of course there are all the women who recognize husbands. Women don't really seem to know what their husbands look like! There are hopeful mothers who recognize sons they have not seen for twenty years.

“And here's the list of missing persons. Nothing here likely to help us. ‘George Barlow, 65, missing from home. His wife thinks he must have lost his memory.' And a note below: ‘Owes a lot of money. Has been seen going about with a red-haired widow. Almost certain to have done a bunk.'

“Next one: ‘Professor Hargraves, expected to deliver a lecture last Tuesday. Did not turn up and sent no wire or note of excuse.'”

Hardcastle did not appear to consider Professor Hargraves seriously.

“Thought the lecture was the week before or the week after,” he said. “Probably thought he had told his housekeeper where he was going but hasn't done so. We get a lot of that.”

The buzzer on Hardcastle's table sounded. He picked up the receiver.

“Yes? … What? … Who found her? Did she give her name? … I see. Carry on.” He put down the receiver again. His face as he turned to me was a changed face. It was stern, almost vindictive.

“They've found a girl dead in a telephone box on Wilbraham Crescent,” he said.

“Dead?” I stared at him. “How?”

“Strangled. With her own scarf!”

I felt suddenly cold.

“What girl? It's not—”

Hardcastle looked at me with a cold, appraising glance that I didn't like.

“It's not your girlfriend,” he said, “if that's what you're afraid of. The constable there seems to know who she is. He says she's a girl who works in the same office as Sheila Webb. Edna Brent her name is.”

“Who found her? The constable?”

“She was found by Miss Waterhouse, the woman from Number 18. It seems she went to the box to make a telephone call as her phone was out of order and found the girl there huddled down in a heap.”

The door opened and a police constable said:

“Doctor Rigg telephoned that he's on his way, sir. He'll meet you at Wilbraham Crescent.”

I
t was an hour and a half later and Detective Inspector Hardcastle sat down behind his desk and accepted with relief an official cup of tea. His face still held its bleak, angry look.

“Excuse me, sir, Pierce would like a word with you.”

Hardcastle roused himself.

“Pierce? Oh, all right. Send him in.”

Pierce entered, a nervous-looking young constable.

“Excuse me, sir, I thought per'aps as I ought to tell you.”

“Yes? Tell me what?”

“It was after the inquest, sir. I was on duty at the door. This girl—this girl that's been killed. She—she spoke to me.”

“Spoke to you, did she? What did she say?”

“She wanted to have a word with you, sir.”

Hardcastle sat up, suddenly alert.

“She wanted to have a word with me? Did she say why?”

“Not exactly, sir. I'm sorry, sir, if I—if I ought to have done
something about it. I asked her if she could give me a message or—or if perhaps she could come to the station later on. You see, you were busy with the chief constable and the coroner and I thought—”

“Damn!” said Hardcastle, under his breath. “Couldn't you have told her just to wait until I was free?”

“I'm sorry, sir.” The young man flushed. “I suppose if I'd known, I ought to have done so. But I didn't think it was anything important. I don't think
she
thought it was important. It was just something she said she was worried about.”

“Worried?” said Hardcastle. He was silent for quite a minute turning over in his mind certain facts. This was the girl he had passed in the street when he was going to Mrs. Lawton's house, the girl who had wanted to see Sheila Webb. The girl who had recognized him as she passed him and had hesitated a moment as though uncertain whether to stop him or not. She'd had something on her mind. Yes, that was it. Something on her mind. He'd slipped up. He'd not been quick enough on the ball. Filled with his own purpose of finding out a little more about Sheila Webb's background, he had overlooked a valuable point. The girl had been worried? Why? Now, probably, they'd never know why.

“Go on, Pierce,” he said, “tell me all you can remember.” He added kindly, for he was a fair man: “You couldn't know that it was important.”

It wasn't, he knew, any good to pass on his own anger and frustration by blaming it on the boy. How should the boy have known? Part of his training was to uphold discipline, to make sure that his superiors were only accosted at the proper times and in the proper places. If the girl had said it was important or urgent, that would
have been different. But she hadn't been, he thought, remembering his first view of her in the office, that kind of girl. A slow thinker. A girl probably distrustful of her own mental processes.

“Can you remember exactly what happened, and what she said to you, Pierce?” he asked.

Pierce was looking at him with a kind of eager gratitude.

“Well, sir, she just come up to me when everyone was leaving and she sort of hesitated a moment and looked round just as though she were looking for someone. Not you, sir, I don't think. Somebody else. Then she come up to me and said could she speak to the police officer, and she said the one that had given evidence. So, as I said, I saw you were busy with the chief constable so I explained to her that you were engaged just now, could she give me a message or contact you later at the station. And I think she said that would do quite well. I said was it anything particular….”

“Yes?” Hardcastle leaned forward.

“And she said well not really. It was just something, she said, that she didn't see how it could have been the way she'd said it was.”

“She didn't see how what she said could have been like that?” Hardcastle repeated.

“That's right, sir. I'm not sure of the exact words. Perhaps it was: ‘I don't see how what she said can have been true.' She was frowning and looking puzzled-like. But when I asked her, she said it wasn't really important.”

Not really important, the girl had said. The same girl who had been found not long afterwards strangled in a telephone box….

“Was anybody near you at the time she was talking to you?” he asked.

“Well, there were a good many people, sir, filing out, you
know. There'd been a lot of people attending the inquest. It's caused quite a stir, this murder has, what with the way the Press have taken it up and all.”

“You don't remember anyone in particular who was near you at the time—any of the people who'd given evidence, for instance?”

“I'm afraid I don't recall anyone in particular, sir.”

“Well,” said Hardcastle, “it can't be helped. All right, Pierce, if you remember anything further, come to me at once with it.”

Left alone he made an effort to subdue his rising anger and self-condemnation. That girl, that rabbity-looking girl, had known something. No, perhaps not put it as high as
known,
but she had seen something, heard something. Something that had worried her; and the worry had been intensified after attending the inquest. What could it have been? Something in the evidence? Something, in all probability, in Sheila Webb's evidence? Had she gone to Sheila's aunt's house two days before on purpose to see Sheila? Surely she could have talked to Sheila at the office? Why did she want to see her privately? Did she know something about Sheila Webb that perplexed her? Did she want to ask Sheila for an explanation of whatever it was, somewhere in private—not in front of the other girls? It looked that way. It certainly looked like it.

He dismissed Pierce. Then he gave a few directions to Sergeant Cray.

“What do you think the girl went to Wilbraham Crescent
for?
” Sergeant Cray asked.

“I've been wondering about that,” said Hardcastle. “It's possible, of course, that she just suffered from curiosity—wanted to see what the place looked like. There's nothing unusual about that—half the population of Crowdean seems to feel the same.”

“Don't we know it,” said Sergeant Cray with feeling.

“On the other hand,” said Hardcastle slowly, “she may have gone to see someone who lived there….”

When Sergeant Cray had gone out again, Hardcastle wrote down three numbers on his blotting pad.

“20,” he wrote, and put a query after it. He added: “19?” and then “18?” He wrote names to correspond. Hemming, Pebmarsh, Waterhouse. The three houses in the higher crescent were out of it. To visit one of them Edna Brent would not have gone along the lower road at all.

Hardcastle studied the three possibilities.

He took No. 20 first. The knife used in the original murder had been found there. It seemed more likely that the knife had been thrown there from the garden of No. 19 but they didn't
know
that it had. It
could
have been thrust into the shrubbery by the owner of No. 20 herself. When questioned, Mrs. Hemming's only reaction had been indignation. “How wicked of someone to throw a nasty knife like that at my cats!” she had said. How did Mrs. Hemming connect up with Edna Brent? She didn't, Inspector Hardcastle decided. He went on to consider Miss Pebmarsh.

Had Edna Brent gone to Wilbraham Crescent to call on Miss Pebmarsh? Miss Pebmarsh had given evidence at the inquest. Had there been something in that evidence which had aroused disbelief in Edna? But she had been worried
before
the inquest. Had she already known something about Miss Pebmarsh? Had she known, for instance, that there was a link of some kind between Miss Pebmarsh and Sheila Webb? That would fit in with her words to Pierce. “It couldn't have been true what she said.”

“Conjecture, all conjecture,” he thought angrily.

And No. 18? Miss Waterhouse had found the body. Inspector Hardcastle was professionally prejudiced against people who found bodies. Finding the body avoided so many difficulties for a murderer—it saved the hazards of arranging an alibi, it accounted for any overlooked fingerprints. In many ways it was a cast-iron position—with one proviso only. There must be no obvious motive. There was certainly no apparent motive for Miss Waterhouse to do away with little Edna Brent. Miss Waterhouse had not given evidence at the inquest. She might have been there, though. Did Edna perhaps have some reason for knowing, or believing, that it was Miss Waterhouse who had impersonated Miss Pebmarsh over the telephone and asked for a shorthand typist to be sent to No. 19?

More conjecture.

And there was, of course, Sheila Webb herself….

Hardcastle's hand went to the telephone. He got on to the hotel where Colin Lamb was staying. Presently he got Colin himself on the wire.

“Hardcastle here—what time was it when you lunched with Sheila Webb today?”

There was a pause before Colin answered:

“How do you know that we lunched together?”

“A damned good guess. You did, didn't you?”

“Why shouldn't I have lunch with her?”

“No reason at all. I'm merely asking you the time. Did you go off to lunch straight from the inquest?”

“No. She had shopping to do. We met at the Chinese place in Market Street at one o'clock.”

“I see.”

Hardcastle looked down his notes. Edna Brent had died between 12:30 and one o'clock.

“Don't you want to know what we had for lunch?”

“Keep your hair on. I just wanted the exact time. For the record.”

“I see. It's like that.”

There was a pause. Hardcastle said, endeavouring to ease the strain:

“If you're not doing anything this evening—”

The other interrupted.

“I'm off. Just packing up. I found a message waiting for me. I've got to go abroad.”

“When will you be back?”

“That's anybody's guess. A week at least—perhaps longer—possibly never!”

“Bad luck—or isn't it?”

“I'm not sure,” said Colin, and rang off.