The Clocks Page 3

  “What about the rest of the room?”

  “There are about three or four different sets of prints in the room, all women’s, I should say. The contents of the pockets are on the table.”

  By an indication of his head he drew attention to a small pile of things on a table. Hardcastle went over and looked at them. There was a notecase containing seven pounds ten, a little loose change, a silk pocket handkerchief, unmarked, a small box of digestive pills and a printed card. Hardcastle bent to look at it.

  Mr. R. H. Curry,

  Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Co. Ltd

  7, Denvers Street,

  London, W2.

  Hardcastle came back to the sofa where Miss Pebmarsh sat.

  “Were you by any chance expecting someone from an insurance company to call upon you?”

  “Insurance company? No, certainly not.”

  “The Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Company,” said Hardcastle.

  Miss Pebmarsh shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it,” she said.

  “You were not contemplating taking out insurance of any kind?”

  “No, I was not. I am insured against fire and burglary with the Jove Insurance Company which has a branch here. I carry no personal insurance. I have no family or near relations so I see no point in insuring my life.”

  “I see,” said Hardcastle. “Does the name of Curry mean anything to you? Mr. R. H. Curry?” He was watching her closely. He saw no reaction in her face.

  “Curry,” she repeated the name, then shook her head. “It’s not a very usual name, is it? No, I don’t think I’ve heard the name or known anyone of that name. Is that the name of the man who is dead?”

  “It would seem possible,” said Hardcastle.

  Miss Pebmarsh hesitated a moment. Then she said:

  “Do you want me to—to—touch—”

  He was quick to understand her.

  “Would you, Miss Pebmarsh? If it’s not asking too much of you, that is? I’m not very knowledgeable in these matters, but your fingers will probably tell you more accurately what a person looks like than you would know by description.”

  “Exactly,” said Miss Pebmarsh. “I agree it is not a very pleasant thing to have to do but I am quite willing to do it if you think it might be a help to you.”

  “Thank you,” said Hardcastle. “If you will let me guide you—”

  He took her round the sofa, indicated to her to kneel down, then gently guided her hands to the dead man’s face. She was very calm, displaying no emotion. Her fingers traced the hair, the ears, lingering a moment behind the left ear, the line of the nose, mouth and chin. Then she shook her head and got up.

  “I have a clear idea what he would look like,” she said, “but I am quite sure that it is no one I have seen or known.”

  The fingerprint man had packed up his kit and gone out of the room. He stuck his head back in.

  “They’ve come for him,” he said, indicating the body. “All right to take him away?”

  “Right,” said Inspector Hardcastle. “Just come and sit over here, will you, Miss Pebmarsh?”

  He established her in a corner chair. Two men came into the room. The removal of the late Mr. Curry was rapid and professional. Hardcastle went out to the gate and then returned to the sitting room. He sat down near Miss Pebmarsh.

  “This is an extraordinary business, Miss Pebmarsh,” he said. “I’d like to run over the main points with you and see if I’ve got it right. Correct me if I am wrong. You expected no visitors today, you’ve made no inquiries re insurance of any kind and you have received no letter from anyone stating that a representative of an insurance company was going to call upon you today. Is that correct?”

  “Quite correct.”

  “You did not need the services of a shorthand typist or stenographer and you did not ring up the Cavendish Bureau or request that one should be here at three o’clock.”

  “That again is correct.”

  “When you left the house at approximately 1:30, there were in this room only two clocks, the cuckoo clock and the grandfather clock. No others.”

  About to reply, Miss Pebmarsh checked herself.

  “If I am to be absolutely accurate, I could not swear to that statement. Not having my sight I would not notice the absence or presence of anything not usually in the room. That is to say, the last time I can be sure of the contents of this room was when I dusted it early this morning. Everything then was in its place. I usually do this room myself as cleaning women are apt to be careless with ornaments.”

  “Did you leave the house at all this morning?”

  “Yes. I went at ten o’clock as usual to the Aaronberg Institute. I have classes there until twelve fifteen. I returned here at about quarter to one, made myself some scrambled eggs in the kitchen and a cup of tea and went out again, as I have said, at half past one. I ate my meal in the kitchen, by the way, and did not come into this room.”

  “I see,” said Hardcastle. “So while you can say definitely that at ten o’clock this morning there were no superfluous clocks here, they could possibly have been introduced some time during the morning.”

  “As to that you would have to ask my cleaning woman, Mrs. Curtin. She comes here about ten and usually leaves about twelve o’clock. She lives at 17, Dipper Street.”

  “Thank you, Miss Pebmarsh. Now we are left with these following facts and this is where I want you to give me any ideas or suggestions that occur to you. At some time during today four clocks were brought here. The hands of these four clocks were set at thirteen minutes past four. Now does that time suggest anything to you?”

  “Thirteen minutes past four.” Miss Pebmarsh shook her head. “Nothing at all.”

  “Now we pass from the clocks to the dead man. It seems unlikely that he would have been let in by your cleaning woman and left in the house by her unless you had told her you were expecting him, but that we can learn from her. He came here presumably to see you for some reason, either a business one or a private one. Between one thirty and two forty-five he was stabbed and killed. If he came here by appointment, you say you know nothing of it. Presumably he was connected with insurance—but there again you cannot help us. The door was unlocked so he could have come in and sat down to wait for you—but why?”

  “The whole thing’s daft,” said Miss Pebmarsh impatiently. “So you think that this—what’s-his-name Curry—brought those clocks with him?”

  “There’s no sign of a container anywhere,” said Hardcastle. “He could hardly have brought four clocks in his pockets. Now Miss Pebmarsh, think very carefully. Is there any association in your mind, any suggestion you could possibly make about anything to do with clocks, or if not with clocks, say with time. 4:13. Thirteen minutes past four?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve been trying to say to myself that it is the work of a lunatic or that somebody came to the wrong house. But even that doesn’t really explain anything. No, Inspector, I can’t help you.”

  A young constable looked in. Hardcastle went to join him in the hall and from there went down to the gate. He spoke for a few minutes to the men.

  “You can take the young lady home now,” he said, “14 Palmerston Road is the address.”

  He went back and into the dining room. Through the open door to the kitchen he could hear Miss Pebmarsh busy at the sink. He stood in the doorway.

  “I shall want to take those clocks, Miss Pebmarsh. I’ll leave you a receipt for them.”

  “That will be quite all right, Inspector—they don’t belong to me—”

  Hardcastle turned to Sheila Webb.

  “You can go home now, Miss Webb. The police car will take you.”

  Sheila and Colin rose.

  “Just see her into the car, will you, Colin?” said Hardcastle as he pulled a chair to the table and started to scribble a receipt.

  Colin and Sheila went out and started down the path. Sheila paused suddenly.

  “My g
loves—I left them—”

  “I’ll get them.”

  “No—I know just where I put them. I don’t mind now—now that they’ve taken it away.”

  She ran back and rejoined him a moment or two later.

  “I’m sorry I was so silly—before.”

  “Anybody would have been,” said Colin.

  Hardcastle joined them as Sheila entered the car. Then, as it drove away, he turned to the young constable.

  “I want those clocks in the sitting room packed up carefully—all except the cuckoo clock on the wall and the big grandfather clock.”

  He gave a few more directions and then turned to his friend.

  “I’m going places. Want to come?”

  “Suits me,” said Colin.

  Four

  COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

  “Where 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 appeared 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?”