The Clocks (15 page)

He spoke quietly, informally.

“I suppose you've all heard what has happened to Edna Brent who worked here?”

Three heads nodded violently.

“By the way, how did you hear?”

They looked at each other as if trying to decide who should be spokesman. By common consent it appeared to be the fair girl, whose name, it seemed, was Janet.

“Edna didn't come to work at two o'clock, as she should have done,” she explained.

“And Sandy Cat was very annoyed,” began the dark-haired girl, Maureen, and then stopped herself. “Miss Martindale, I mean.”

The third girl giggled. “Sandy Cat is just what we call her,” she explained.

“And not a bad name,” the inspector thought.

“She's a perfect terror when she likes,” said Maureen. “Fairly jumps on you. She asked if Edna had said anything to us about not coming back to the office this afternoon, and that she ought to have at least sent an excuse.”

The fair girl said: “I told Miss Martindale that she'd been at the inquest with the rest of us, but that we hadn't seen her afterwards and didn't know where she'd gone.”

“That was true, was it?” asked Hardcastle. “You've no idea where she did go when she left the inquest.”

“I suggested she should come and have some lunch with me,” said Maureen, “but she seemed to have something on her mind.
She said she wasn't sure that she'd bother to have any lunch. Just buy something and eat it in the office.”

“So she meant, then, to come back to the office?”

“Oh, yes, of course. We all knew we'd got to do that.”

“Have any of you noticed anything different about Edna Brent these last few days? Did she seem to you worried at all, as though she had something on her mind? Did she tell you anything to that effect? If there is anything at all you know, I must beg of you to tell me.”

They looked at each other but not in a conspiratorial manner. It seemed to be merely vague conjecture.

“She was always worried about something,” said Maureen. “She gets things muddled up, and makes mistakes. She was a bit slow in the uptake.”

“Things always seemed to happen to Edna,” said the giggler. “Remember when that stiletto heel of hers came off the other day? Just the sort of thing that
would
happen to Edna.”

“I remember,” said Hardcastle.

He remembered how the girl had stood looking down ruefully at the shoe in her hand.

“You know, I had a feeling something awful had happened this afternoon when Edna didn't get here at two o'clock,” said Janet. She nodded with a solemn face.

Hardcastle looked at her with some dislike. He always disliked people who were wise after the event. He was quite sure that the girl in question had thought nothing of the kind. Far more likely, he thought to himself, that she had said, “Edna will catch it from Sandy Cat when she does come in.”

“When did you hear what had happened?” he asked again.

They looked at each other. The giggler flushed guiltily. Her eyes shot sideways to the door into Miss Martindale's private office.

“Well, I—er—I just slipped out for a minute,” she said. “I wanted some pastries to take home and I knew they'd all be gone by the time we left. And when I got to the shop—it's on the corner and they know me quite well there—the woman said, ‘She worked at your place, didn't she, ducks?' and I said, ‘Who do you mean?' And then she said, ‘This girl they've just found dead in a telephone box.' Oh, it gave me ever such a turn! So I came rushing back and I told the others and in the end we all said we'd have to tell Miss Martindale about it, and just at that moment she came bouncing out of her office and said to us, ‘
Now
what are you doing? Not a single typewriter going.'”

The fair girl took up the saga.

“And I said, ‘Really it's not
our
fault. We've heard some terrible news about Edna, Miss Martindale.'”

“And what did Miss Martindale say or do?”

“Well, she wouldn't believe it at first,” said the brunette. “She said, ‘Nonsense. You've just been picking up some silly gossip in a shop. It must be some other girl. Why should it be Edna?' And she marched back into her room and rang up the police station and found out it
was
true.”

“But I don't see,” said Janet almost dreamily, “I don't see why
anyone
should want to kill Edna.”

“It's not as though she had a boy or anything,” said the brunette.

All three looked at Hardcastle hopefully as though he could give them the answer to the problem. He sighed. There was nothing here for him. Perhaps one of the other girls might be more helpful. And there was Sheila Webb herself.

“Were Sheila Webb and Edna Brent particular friends?” he asked.

They looked at each other vaguely.

“Not special, I don't think.”

“Where is Miss Webb, by the way?”

He was told that Sheila Webb was at the Curlew Hotel, attending on Professor Purdy.

P
rofessor Purdy sounded irritated as he broke off dictating and answered the telephone.

“Who? What? You mean he is here
now?
Well, ask him if tomorrow will do?—Oh, very well—very well—Tell him to come up.”

“Always something,” he said with vexation. “How can one ever be expected to do any serious work with these constant interruptions.” He looked with mild displeasure at Sheila Webb and said: “Now where were we, my dear?”

Sheila was about to reply when there was a knock at the door. Professor Purdy brought himself back with some difficulty from the chronological difficulties of approximately three thousand years ago.

“Yes?” he said testily, “yes, come in, what is it? I may say I mentioned particularly that I was
not
to be disturbed this afternoon.”

“I'm very sorry, sir, very sorry indeed that it has been necessary to do so. Good evening, Miss Webb.”

Sheila Webb had risen to her feet, setting aside her notebook. Hardcastle wondered if he only fancied that he saw sudden apprehension come into her eyes.

“Well, what is it?” said the professor again, sharply.

“I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle, as Miss Webb here will tell you.”

“Quite,” said the professor. “Quite.”

“What I really wanted was a few words with Miss Webb.”

“Can't you wait? It is really
most
awkward at this moment. Most awkward. We were just at a critical point. Miss Webb will be disengaged in about a quarter of an hour—oh, well, perhaps half an hour. Something like that. Oh, dear me, is it six o'clock
already?
”

“I'm very sorry, Professor Purdy,” Hardcastle's tone was firm.

“Oh, very well, very well. What is it—some motoring offence, I suppose? How very officious these traffic wardens are. One insisted the other day that I had left my car four and a half hours at a parking meter. I'm sure that could not possibly be so.”

“It's a little more serious than a parking offence, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. And you don't have a car, do you, my dear?” He looked vaguely at Sheila Webb. “Yes, I remember, you come here by bus. Well, Inspector, what is it?”

“It's about a girl called Edna Brent.” He turned to Sheila Webb. “I expect you've heard about it.”

She stared at him. Beautiful eyes. Cornflower-blue eyes. Eyes that reminded him of someone.

“Edna Brent, did you say?” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yes, I know her, of course. What about her?”

“I see the news hasn't got to you yet. Where did you lunch, Miss Webb?”

Colour came up in her cheeks.

“I lunched with a friend at the Ho Tung restaurant, if—if it's really any business of yours.”

“You didn't go on afterwards to the office?”

“To the Cavendish Bureau, you mean? I called in there and was told it had been arranged that I was to come straight here to Professor Purdy at half past two.”

“That's right,” said the professor, nodding his head. “
Half past two.
And we have been working here ever since. Ever since. Dear me, I should have ordered tea. I am very sorry, Miss Webb, I'm afraid you must have missed having your tea. You should have reminded me.”

“Oh, it didn't matter, Professor Purdy, it didn't matter at all.”

“Very remiss of me,” said the professor, “very remiss. But there. I mustn't interrupt, since the inspector wants to ask you some questions.”

“So you don't know what's happened to Edna Brent?”

“
Happened
to her?” asked Sheila, sharply, her voice rising. “Happened to her? What do you mean? Has she had an accident or something—been run over?”

“Very dangerous, all this speeding,” put in the professor.

“Yes,” said Hardcastle, “something's happened to her.” He paused and then said, putting it as brutally as possible, “She was strangled about half past twelve, in a telephone box.”

“In a telephone box?” said the professor, rising to the occasion by showing some interest.

Sheila Webb said nothing. She stared at him. Her mouth
opened slightly, her eyes widened. “Either this is the first you've heard of it or you're a damn' good actress,” thought Hardcastle to himself.

“Dear, dear,” said the professor. “Strangled in a telephone box. That seems
very
extraordinary to me. Very extraordinary. Not the sort of place I would choose myself. I mean, if I were to do such a thing. No, indeed. Well, well. Poor girl. Most unfortunate for her.”

“Edna—
killed!
But why?”

“Did you know, Miss Webb, that Edna Brent was very anxious to see you the day before yesterday, that she came to your aunt's house, and waited for some time for you to come back?”

“My fault again,” said the professor guiltily. “I kept Miss Webb very late that evening, I remember. Very late indeed. I really still feel very apologetic about it. You
must
always remind me of the time, my dear. You really must.”

“My aunt told me about that,” said Sheila, “but I didn't know it was anything special. Was it? Was Edna in trouble of any kind?”

“We don't know,” said the inspector. “We probably never shall know. Unless
you
can tell us?”

“
I
tell you? How should I know?”

“You might have had some idea, perhaps, of what Edna Brent wanted to see you about?”

She shook her head. “I've no idea, no idea at all.”

“Hasn't she hinted anything to you, spoken to you in the office at all about whatever the trouble was?”

“No. No, indeed she hasn't—hadn't—I wasn't at the office at all yesterday. I had to go over to Landis Bay to one of our authors for the whole day.”

“You didn't think that she'd been worried lately?”

“Well, Edna always looked worried or puzzled. She had a very—what shall I say—diffident, uncertain kind of mind. I mean, she was never quite sure that what she thought of doing was the right thing or not. She missed out two whole pages in typing Armand Levine's book once and she was terribly worried about what to do then, because she'd sent it off to him before she realized what had happened.”

“I see. And she asked you all your advice as to what she should do about it?”

“Yes. I told her she'd better write a note to him quickly because people don't always start reading their typescript at once for correction. She could write and say what had happened and ask him not to complain to Miss Martindale. But she said she didn't quite like to do that.”

“She usually came and asked for advice when one of these problems arose?”

“Oh, yes, always. But the trouble was, of course, that we didn't always all agree as to what she should do. Then she got puzzled again.”

“So it would be quite natural that she should come to one of you if she
had
a problem? It happened quite frequently?”

“Yes. Yes, it did.”

“You don't think it might have been something more serious this time?”

“I don't suppose so. What sort of serious thing could it be?”

Was Sheila Webb, the inspector wondered, quite as much at ease as she tried to appear?”

“I don't know what she wanted to talk to me about,” she went on, speaking faster and rather breathlessly. “I've no idea. And I
certainly can't imagine why she wanted to come out to my aunt's house and speak to me
there.
”

“It would seem, wouldn't it, that it was something she did not want to speak to you about at the Cavendish Bureau? Before the other girls, shall we say? Something, perhaps, that she felt ought to be kept private between you and her. Could that have been the case?”

“I think it's very unlikely. I'm sure it couldn't have been at all like that.” Her breath came quickly.

“So you can't help me, Miss Webb?”

“No. I'm sorry. I'm
very
sorry about Edna, but I don't know anything that could help you.”

“Nothing that might have a connection or a tie-up with what happened on the 9th of September?”

“You mean—that man—that man in Wilbraham Crescent?”

“That's what I mean.”

“How could it have been? What
could
Edna have known about that?”

“Nothing very important, perhaps,” said the inspector, “but
something.
And anything would help.
Anything,
however small.” He paused. “The telephone box where she was killed was in Wilbraham Crescent. Does that convey anything to you, Miss Webb?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Were you yourself in Wilbraham Crescent today?”

“No, I wasn't,” she said vehemently. “I never went near it. I'm beginning to feel that it's a horrible place. I wish I'd never gone there in the first place, I wish I'd never got mixed up in all this. Why did they send for me, ask for me specially, that day? Why did
Edna have to get killed near there? You
must
find out, Inspector, you must, you
must!
”

“We mean to find out, Miss Webb,” the inspector said. There was a faint menace in his voice as he went on: “I can assure you of that.”

“You're trembling, my dear,” said Professor Purdy. “I think, I really
do
think that you ought to have a glass of sherry.”