The Clocks (3 page)

“W
here do we go?” I asked Dick Hardcastle.

He spoke to the driver.

“Cavendish Secretarial Bureau. It's on Palace Street, up towards the Esplanade on the right.”

“Yes, sir.”

The car drew away. There was quite a little crowd by now, staring with fascinated interest. The orange cat was still sitting on the gatepost of Diana Lodge next door. He was no longer washing his face but was sitting up very straight, lashing his tail slightly, and gazing over the heads of the crowd with that complete disdain for the human race that is the special prerogative of cats and camels.

“The Secretarial Bureau, and then the cleaning woman, in that order,” said Hardcastle, “because the time is getting on.” He glanced at his watch. “After four o'clock.” He paused before adding, “Rather an attractive girl?”

“Quite,” I said.

He cast an amused look in my direction.

“But she told a very remarkable story. The sooner it's checked up on, the better.”

“You don't think that she—”

He cut me short.

“I'm always interested in people who find bodies.”

“But that girl was half mad with fright! If you had heard the way she was screaming….”

He gave me another of his quizzical looks and repeated that she was a very attractive girl.

“And how did you come to be wandering about in Wilbraham Crescent, Colin? Admiring our genteel Victorian architecture? Or had you a purpose?”

“I had a purpose. I was looking for Number 61—and I couldn't find it. Possibly it doesn't exist?”

“It exists all right. The numbers go up to—88, I think.”

“But look here, Dick, when I came to Number 28, Wilbraham Crescent just petered out.”

“It's always puzzling to strangers. If you'd turned to the right up Albany Road and then turned to the right again you'd have found yourself in the other half of Wilbraham Crescent. It's built back to back, you see. The gardens back on each other.”

“I see,” I said, when he had explained this peculiar geography at length. “Like those Squares and Gardens in London. Onslow Square, isn't it? Or Cadogan. You start down one side of a square, and then it suddenly becomes a Place or Gardens. Even taxis are frequently baffled. Anyway, there
is
a 61. Any idea who lives there?”

“61? Let me see … Yes, that would be Bland the builder.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “That's bad.”

“You don't want a builder?”

“No. I don't fancy a builder at all. Unless—perhaps he's only just come here recently—just started up?”

“Bland was born here, I think. He's certainly a local man—been in business for years.”

“Very disappointing.”

“He's a very bad builder,” said Hardcastle encouragingly. “Uses pretty poor materials. Puts up the kind of houses that look more or less all right until you live in them, then everything falls down or goes wrong. Sails fairly near the wind sometimes. Sharp practice—but just manages to get away with it.”

“It's no good tempting me, Dick. The man I want would almost certainly be a pillar of rectitude.”

“Bland came into a lot of money about a year ago—or rather his wife did. She's a Canadian, came over here in the war and met Bland. Her family didn't want her to marry him, and more or less cut her off when she did. Then last year a great-uncle died, his only son had been killed in an air crash and what with war casualties and one thing and another, Mrs. Bland was the only one left of the family. So he left his money to her. Just saved Bland from going bankrupt, I believe.”

“You seem to know a lot about Mr. Bland.”

“Oh that—well, you see, the Inland Revenue are always interested when a man suddenly gets rich overnight. They wonder if he's been doing a little fiddling and salting away—so they check up. They checked and it was all O.K.”

“In any case,” I said, “I'm not interested in a man who has suddenly got rich. It's not the kind of setup that I'm looking for.”

“No? You've had that, haven't you?”

I nodded.

“And finished with it? Or—not finished with it?”

“It's something of a story,” I said evasively. “Are we dining together tonight as planned—or will this business put paid to that?”

“No, that will be all right. At the moment the first thing to do is set the machinery in motion. We want to find out all about Mr. Curry. In all probability once we know just who he is and what he does, we'll have a pretty good idea as to who wanted him out of the way.” He looked out of the window. “Here we are.”

The Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau was situated in the main shopping street, called rather grandly Palace Street. It had been adapted, like many other of the establishments there, from a Victorian house. To the right of it a similar house displayed the legend Edwin Glen, Artist Photographer. Specialist, Children's Photographs, Wedding Groups, etc. In support of this statement the window was filled with enlargements of all sizes and ages of children, from babies to six-year-olds. These presumably were to lure in fond mammas. A few couples were also represented. Bashful looking young men with smiling girls. On the other side of the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau were the offices of an old-established and old-fashioned coal merchant. Beyond that again the original old-fashioned houses had been pulled down and a glittering three-storey building proclaimed itself as the Orient Café and Restaurant.

Hardcastle and I walked up the four steps, passed through the open front door and obeying the legend on a door on the right which said “Please Enter,” entered. It was a good-sized room, and three young women were typing with assiduity. Two of them continued to type, paying no attention to the entrance of strangers. The third one who was typing at a table with a telephone, directly opposite the door, stopped and looked at us inquiringly. She ap
peared to be sucking a sweet of some kind. Having arranged it in a convenient position in her mouth, she inquired in faintly adenoidal tones:

“Can I help you?”

“Miss Martindale?” said Hardcastle.

“I think she's engaged at the moment on the telephone—” At that moment there was a click and the girl picked up the telephone receiver and fiddled with a switch, and said: “Two gentlemen to see you, Miss Martindale.” She looked at us and asked, “Can I have your names, please?”

“Hardcastle,” said Dick.

“A Mr. Hardcastle, Miss Martindale.” She replaced the receiver and rose. “This way, please,” she said, going to a door which bore the name
MISS MARTINDALE
on a brass plate. She opened the door, flattened herself against it to let us pass, said, “Mr. Hardcastle,” and shut the door behind us.

Miss Martindale looked up at us from a large desk behind which she was sitting. She was an efficient-looking woman of about fifty with a pompadour of pale red hair and an alert glance.

She looked from one to the other of us.

“Mr. Hardcastle?”

Dick took out one of his official cards and handed it to her. I effaced myself by taking an upright chair near the door.

Miss Martindale's sandy eyebrows rose in surprise and a certain amount of displeasure.

“Detective Inspector Hardcastle? What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“I have come to you to ask for a little information, Miss Martindale. I think you may be able to help me.”

From his tone of voice, I judged that Dick was going to play it in a roundabout way, exerting charm. I was rather doubtful myself whether Miss Martindale would be amenable to charm. She was of the type that the French label so aptly a
femme formidable.

I was studying the general layout. On the walls above Miss Martindale's desk was hung a collection of signed photographs. I recognized one as that of Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, detective writer, with whom I was slightly acquainted.
Sincerely yours, Ariadne Oliver,
was written across it in a bold black hand.
Yours gratefully, Garry Gregson
adorned another photograph of a thriller writer who had died about sixteen years ago.
Yours ever, Miriam
adorned the photograph of Miriam Hogg, a woman writer who specialized in romance. Sex was represented by a photograph of a timid-looking balding man, signed in tiny writing,
Gratefully, Armand Levine.
There was a sameness about these trophies. The men mostly held pipes and wore tweeds, the women looked earnest and tended to fade into furs.

Whilst I was using my eyes, Hardcastle was proceeding with his questions.

“I believe you employ a girl called Sheila Webb?”

“That is correct. I am afraid she is not here at present—at least—”

She touched a buzzer and spoke to the outer office.

“Edna, has Sheila Webb come back?”

“No, Miss Martindale, not yet.”

Miss Martindale switched off.

“She went out on an assignment earlier this afternoon,” she explained. “I thought she might have been back by now. It is possible she has gone on to the Curlew Hotel at the end of the Esplanade where she had an appointment at five o'clock.”

“I see,” said Hardcastle. “Can you tell me something about Miss Sheila Webb?”

“I can't tell you very much,” said Miss Martindale. “She has been here for—let me see, yes, I should say close on a year now. Her work has proved quite satisfactory.”

“Do you know where she worked before she came to you?”

“I dare say I could find out for you if you specially want the information, Inspector Hardcastle. Her references will be filed somewhere. As far as I can remember offhand, she was formerly employed in London and had quite a good reference from her employers there. I think, but I am not sure, that it was some business firm—estate agents possibly, that she worked for.”

“You say she is good at her job?”

“Fully adequate,” said Miss Martindale, who was clearly not one to be lavish with praise.

“Not first class?”

“No, I should not say that. She has good average speed and is tolerably well-educated. She is a careful and accurate typist.”

“Do you know her personally, apart from your official relations?”

“No. She lives, I believe, with an aunt.” Here Miss Martindale got slightly restive. “May I ask, Inspector Hardcastle,
why
you are asking all these questions? Has the girl got herself into trouble in any way?”

“I would not quite say that, Miss Martindale. Do you know a Miss Millicent Pebmarsh?”

“Pebmarsh,” said Miss Martindale, wrinkling her sandy brows. “Now when—oh, of course. It was to Miss Pebmarsh's house that Sheila went this afternoon. The appointment was for three o'clock.”

“How was that appointment made, Miss Martindale?”

“By telephone. Miss Pebmarsh rang up and said she wanted the services of a shorthand typist and would I send her Miss Webb.”

“She asked for Sheila Webb particularly?”

“Yes.”

“What time was this call put through?”

Miss Martindale reflected for a moment.

“It came through to me direct. That would mean that it was in the lunch hour. As near as possible I would say that it was about ten minutes to two. Before two o'clock at all events. Ah yes, I see I made a note on my pad. It was 1:49 precisely.”

“It was Miss Pebmarsh herself who spoke to you?” Miss Martindale looked a little surprised.

“I presume so.”

“But you didn't recognize her voice? You don't know her personally?”

“No. I don't know her. She said that she was Miss Millicent Pebmarsh, gave me her address, a number in Wilbraham Crescent. Then, as I say, she asked for Sheila Webb, if she was free, to come to her at three o'clock.”

It was a clear, definite statement. I thought that Miss Martindale would make an excellent witness.

“If you would kindly tell me what all this is about?” said Miss Martindale with slight impatience.

“Well, you see, Miss Martindale, Miss Pebmarsh herself denies making any such call.”

Miss Martindale stared.

“Indeed! How extraordinary.”

“You, on the other hand, say such a call
was
made, but you
cannot say definitely that it was Miss Pebmarsh who made that call.”

“No, of course I can't say definitely. I don't know the woman. But really, I can't see the point of doing such a thing. Was it a hoax of some kind?”

“Rather more than that,” said Hardcastle. “Did this Miss Pebmarsh—or whoever it was—give any reason for wanting Miss Sheila Webb particularly?”

Miss Martindale reflected a moment.

“I think she said that Sheila Webb had done work for her before.”

“And is that in fact so?”

“Sheila said she had no recollection of having done anything for Miss Pebmarsh. But that is not quite conclusive, Inspector. After all, the girls go out so often to different people at different places that they would be unlikely to remember if it had taken place some months ago. Sheila wasn't very definite on the point. She only said that she couldn't remember having been there. But really, Inspector, even if this was a hoax, I cannot see where your interest comes in?”

“I am just coming to that. When Miss Webb arrived at 19, Wilbraham Crescent she walked into the house and into the sitting room. She has told me that those were the directions given her. You agree?”

“Quite right,” said Miss Martindale. “Miss Pebmarsh said that she might be a little late in getting home and that Sheila was to go in and wait.”

“When Miss Webb went into the sitting room,” continued Hardcastle, “she found a dead man lying on the floor.”

Miss Martindale stared at him. For a moment she could hardly find her voice.

“Did you say a
dead man,
Inspector?”

“A murdered man,” said Hardcastle. “Stabbed, actually.”