The Clocks Read online

  “It’s not English,” said Ted.

  “No,” said Colin. “It’s not English.” He looked across at Hardcastle. “We might perhaps take this, too,” he suggested.

  “Don’t say a word about this to anyone,” said Hardcastle in a conspiratorial fashion.

  The boys promised delightedly that they wouldn’t.

  Eleven

  “Ramsay,” said Colin, thoughtfully.

  “What about him?”

  “I like the sound of him, that’s all. He travels abroad—at a moment’s notice. His wife says he’s a construction engineer, but that’s all she seems to know about him.”

  “She’s a nice woman,” said Hardcastle.

  “Yes—and not a very happy one.”

  “Tired, that’s all. Kids are tiring.”

  “I think it’s more than that.”

  “Surely the sort of person you want wouldn’t be burdened with a wife and two sons,” Hardcastle said sceptically.

  “You never know,” said Colin. “You’d be surprised what some of the boys do for camouflage. A hard-up widow with a couple of kids might be willing to come to an arrangement.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought she was that kind,” said Hardcastle primly.

  “I don’t mean living in sin, my dear fellow. I mean that she’d agree to be Mrs. Ramsay and supply a background. Naturally, he’d spin her a yarn of the right kind. He’d be doing a spot of espionage, say, on our side. All highly patriotic.”

  Hardcastle shook his head.

  “You live in a strange world, Colin,” he said.

  “Yes we do. I think, you know, I’ll have to get out of it one day … One begins to forget what is what and who is who. Half of these people work for both sides and in the end they don’t know themselves which side they are really on. Standards get gummed up—Oh, well—let’s get on with things.”

  “We’d better do the McNaughtons,” said Hardcastle, pausing at the gates of 63. “A bit of his garden touches 19—same as Bland.”

  “What do you know about the McNaughtons?”

  “Not much—they came here about a year ago. Elderly couple—retired professor, I believe. He gardens.”

  The front garden had rose bushes in it and a thick bed of autumn crocus under the windows.

  A cheerful young woman in a brightly flowered overall opened the door to them and said:

  “You want?—Yes?”

  Hardcastle murmured, “The foreign help at last,” and handed her his card.

  “Police,” said the young woman. She took a step or two back and looked at Hardcastle as though he were the Fiend in person.

  “Mrs. McNaughton,” said Hardcastle.

  “Mrs. McNaughton is here.”

  She led them into the sitting room, which overlooked the back garden. It was empty.

  “She up the stairs is,” said the no-longer cheerful young woman. She went out into the hall and called, “Mrs. McNaughton—Mrs. McNaughton.”

  A voice far away said, “Yes. What is it, Gretel?”

  “It is the police—two police. I put them in sitting room.”

  There was a faint scurrying noise upstairs and the words “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, what next?” floated down. Then there was a patter of feet and presently Mrs. McNaughton entered the room with a worried expression on her face. There was, Hardcastle decided quite soon, usually a worried expression on Mrs. McNaughton’s face.

  “Oh, dear,” she said again, “oh, dear. Inspector—what is it—Hardcastle—oh, yes.” She looked at the card. “But why do you want to see us? We don’t know anything about it. I mean I suppose it is this murder, isn’t it? I mean, it wouldn’t be the television licence?”

  Hardcastle reassured her on that point.

  “It all seems so extraordinary, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. McNaughton, brightening up. “And more or less midday, too. Such an odd time to come and burgle a house. Just the time when people are usually at home. But then one does read of such terrible things nowadays. All happening in broad daylight. Why, some friends of ours—they were out for lunch and a furniture van drove up and the men broke in and carried out every stick of furniture. The whole street saw it happen but of course they never thought there was anything wrong. You know, I did think I heard someone screaming yesterday, but Angus said it was those dreadful boys of Mrs. Ramsay’s. They rush about the garden making noises like spaceships, you know, or rockets, or atom bombs. It really is quite frightening sometimes.”

  Once again Hardcastle produced his photograph.

  “Have you ever seen this man, Mrs. McNaughton?”

  Mrs. McNaughton stared at it with avidity.

  “I’m almost sure I’ve seen him. Yes. Yes, I’m practically certain. Now, where was it? Was it the man who came and asked me if I wanted to buy a new encyclopedia in fourteen volumes? Or was it the man who came with a new model of vacuum cleaner. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him, and he went out and worried my husband in the front garden. Angus was planting some bulbs, you know, and he didn’t want to be interrupted and the man went on and on saying what the thing would do. You know, how it would run up and down curtains, and would clean doorsteps and do the stairs and cushions and spring-clean things. Everything, he said, absolutely everything. And then Angus just looked up at him and said, ‘Can it plant bulbs?’ and I must say I had to laugh because it took the man quite aback and he went away.”

  “And you really think that was the man in this photograph?”

  “Well, no, I don’t really,” said Mrs. McNaughton, “because that was a much younger man, now I come to think of it. But all the same I think I have seen this face before. Yes. The more I look at it the more sure I am that he came here and asked me to buy something.”

  “Insurance perhaps?”

  “No, no, not insurance. My husband attends to all that kind of thing. We are fully insured in every way. No. But all the same—yes, the more I look at that photograph—”

  Hardcastle was less encouraged by this than he might have been. He put down Mrs. McNaughton, from the fund of his experience, as a woman who would be anxious for the excitement of having seen someone connected with murder. The longer she looked at the picture, the more sure she would be that she could remember someone just like it.

  He sighed.

  “He was driving a van, I believe,” said Mrs. McNaughton. “But just when I saw him I can’t remember. A baker’s van, I think.”

  “You didn’t see him yesterday, did you, Mrs. McNaughton?”

  Mrs. McNaughton’s face fell slightly. She pushed back her rather untidy grey waved hair from her forehead.

  “No. No, not yesterday,” she said. “At least—” she paused. “I don’t think so.” Then she brightened a little. “Perhaps my husband will remember.”

  “Is he at home?”

  “Oh, he’s out in the garden.” She pointed through the window where at this moment an elderly man was pushing a wheelbarrow along the path.

  “Perhaps we might go out and speak to him.”

  “Of course. Come this way.”

  She led the way out through a side door and into the garden. Mr. McNaughton was in a fine state of perspiration.

  “These gentlemen are from the police, Angus,” said his wife breathlessly. “Come about the murder at Miss Pebmarsh’s. There’s a photograph they’ve got of the dead man. Do you know, I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere. It wasn’t the man, was it, who came last week and asked us if we had any antiques to dispose of?”

  “Let’s see,” said Mr. McNaughton. “Just hold it for me, will you,” he said to Hardcastle. “My hands are too earthy to touch anything.”

  He took a brief look and remarked, “Never seen that fellow in my life.”

  “Your neighbour tells me you’re very fond of gardening,” said Hardcastle.

  “Who told you that—not Mrs. Ramsay?”

  “No. Mr. Bland.”

  Angus McNaughton snorted.

  “Bland doesn’t know what gardening mean
s,” he said. “Bedding out, that’s all he does. Shoves in begonias and geraniums and lobelia edging. That’s not what I call gardening. Might as well live in a public park. Are you interested in shrubs at all, Inspector? Of course, it’s the wrong time of year now, but I’ve one or two shrubs here that you’d be surprised at my being able to grow. Shrubs that they say only do well in Devon and Cornwall.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to be a practical gardener,” said Hardcastle.

  McNaughton looked at him much as an artist looks at someone who says they know nothing of art but they know what they like.

  “I’m afraid I’ve called about a much less pleasant subject,” Hardcastle said.

  “Of course. This business yesterday. I was out in the garden, you know, when it happened.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Well, I mean I was here when the girl screamed.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well,” said Mr. McNaughton rather sheepishly, “I didn’t do anything. As a matter of fact I thought it was those blasted Ramsay boys. Always yelling and screaming and making a noise.”

  “But surely this scream didn’t come from quite the same direction?”

  “Not if those blasted boys ever stayed in their own garden. But they don’t, you know. They get through people’s fences and hedges. They chase those wretched cats of Mrs. Hemming’s all over the place. There’s nobody to keep a firm hand on them, that’s the trouble. Their mother’s weak as water. Of course, when there’s no man in the house, boys do get out of hand.”

  “Mr. Ramsay is abroad a good deal I understand.”

  “Construction engineer, I believe,” said Mr. McNaughton vaguely. “Always going off somewhere. Dams, you know. I’m not swearing, my dear,” he assured his wife. “I mean jobs to do with the building of dams, or else it’s oil or pipelines or something like that. I don’t really know. He had to go off to Sweden a month ago at a moment’s notice. That left the boys’ mother with a lot to do—cooking and housework and that—and, well—of course they were bound to run wild. They’re not bad boys, mind you, but they need discipline.”

  “You yourself didn’t see anything—apart I mean from hearing the scream? When was that, by the way?”

  “No idea,” said Mr. McNaughton. “I take my watch off always before I come out here. Ran the hose over it the other day and had quite a job getting it repaired afterwards. What time was it, my dear? You heard it, didn’t you?”

  “It must have been half past two perhaps—it was at least half an hour after we finished lunch.”

  “I see. What time do you lunch?”

  “Half past one,” said Mr. McNaughton, “if we’re lucky. Our Danish girl has got no sense of time.”

  “And afterwards—do you have a nap?”

  “Sometimes. I didn’t today. I wanted to get on with what I was doing. I was clearing away a lot of stuff, adding to the compost heap, and all that.”

  “Wonderful thing, a compost heap,” said Hardcastle, solemnly.

  Mr. McNaughton brightened immediately.

  “Absolutely. Nothing like it. Ah! The number of people I’ve converted. Using all these chemical manures! Suicide! Let me show you.”

  He drew Hardcastle eagerly by the arm and trundling his barrow, went along the path to the edge of the fence that divided his garden from that of No. 19. Screened by lilac bushes, the compost heap was displayed in its glory. Mr. McNaughton wheeled the wheelbarrow to a small shed beside it. Inside the shed were several nicely arranged tools.

  “Very tidy you keep everything,” remarked Hardcastle.

  “Got to take care of your tools,” said McNaughton.

  Hardcastle was looking thoughtfully towards No. 19. On the other side of the fence was a rose pergola which led up to the side of the house.

  “You didn’t see anyone in the garden at Number 19 or looking out of the window in the house, or anything like that while you were at your compost heap?”

  McNaughton shook his head.

  “Didn’t see anything at all,” he said. “Sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.”

  “You know, Angus,” said his wife, “I believe I did see a figure skulking in the garden of 19.”

  “I don’t think you did, my dear,” said her husband firmly. “I didn’t, either.”

  “That woman would say she’d seen anything,” Hardcastle growled when they were back in the car.

  “You don’t think she recognized the photograph?”

  Hardcastle shook his head. “I doubt it. She just wants to think she’s seen him. I know that type of witness only too well. When I pinned her down to it, she couldn’t give chapter or verse, could she?”

  “No.”

  “Of course she may have sat opposite him in a bus or something. I’ll allow you that. But if you ask me, it’s wishful thinking. What do you think?”

  “I think the same.”

  “We didn’t get much,” Hardcastle sighed. “Of course there are things that seem queer. For instance, it seems almost impossible that Mrs. Hemming—no matter how wrapped up in her cats she is—should know so little about her neighbour, Miss Pebmarsh, as she does. And also that she should be so extremely vague and uninterested in the murder.”

  “She is a vague kind of woman.”

  “Scatty!” said Hardcastle. “When you meet a scatty woman—well, fires, burglaries, murders can go on all round them and they wouldn’t notice it.”

  “She’s very well fenced in with all that wire netting, and that Victorian shrubbery doesn’t leave you much of a view.”

  They had arrived back at the police station. Hardcastle grinned at his friend and said:

  “Well, Sergeant Lamb, I can let you go off duty now.”

  “No more visits to pay?”

  “Not just now. I must pay one more later, but I’m not taking you with me.”

  “Well, thanks for this morning. Can you get these notes of mine typed up?” He handed them over. “Inquest is the day after tomorrow you said? What time?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Right. I’ll be back for it.”

  “Are you going away?”

  “I’ve got to go up to London tomorrow—make my report up to date.”

  “I can guess who to.”

  “You’re not allowed to do that.”

  Hardcastle grinned.

  “Give the old boy my love.”

  “Also, I may be going to see a specialist,” said Colin.

  “A specialist? What for? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing—bar thickheadedness. I don’t mean that kind of a specialist. One in your line.”

  “Scotland Yard?”

  “No. A private detective—a friend of my Dad’s—and a friend of mine. This fantastic business of yours will be just down his street. He’ll love it—it will cheer him up. I’ve an idea he needs cheering up.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Hercule Poirot.”

  “I’ve heard of him. I thought he was dead.”

  “He’s not dead. But I have a feeling he’s bored. That’s worse.”

  Hardcastle looked at him curiously.

  “You’re an odd fellow, Colin. You make such unlikely friends.”

  “Including you,” Colin said, and grinned.

  Twelve

  Having dismissed Colin, Inspector Hardcastle looked at the address neatly written in his notebook and nodded his head. Then he slipped the book back in his pocket and started to deal with the routine matters that had piled up on his desk.

  It was a busy day for him. He sent out for coffee and sandwiches, and received reports from Sergeant Cray—no helpful lead had come up. Nobody at the railway station or buses had recognized the photograph of Mr. Curry. The laboratory reports on clothing added up to nil. The suit had been made by a good tailor, but the tailor’s name had been removed. Desire for anonymity on the part of Mr. Curry? Or on the part of his killer. Details of dentistry had been circulated to the proper quarters and were
probably the most helpful leads—it took a little time—but it got results in the end. Unless, of course, Mr. Curry had been a foreigner? Hardcastle considered the idea. There might be a possibility that the dead man was French—on the other hand his clothes were definitely not French. No laundry marks had helped yet.

  Hardcastle was not impatient. Identification was quite often a slow job. But in the end, someone always came forward. A laundry, a dentist, a doctor, a landlady. The picture of the dead man would be circulated to police stations, would be reproduced in newspapers. Sooner or later, Mr. Curry would be known in his rightful identity.

  In the meantime there was work to be done, and not only on the Curry case. Hardcastle worked without a break until half past five. He looked at his wristwatch again and decided the time was ripe for the call he wanted to make.

  Sergeant Cray had reported that Sheila Webb had resumed work at the Cavendish Bureau, and that at five o’clock she would be working with Professor Purdy at the Curlew Hotel and that she was unlikely to leave there until well after six.

  What was the aunt’s name again? Lawton—Mrs. Lawton. 14, Palmerston Road. He did not take a police car but chose to walk the short distance.

  Palmerston Road was a gloomy street that had known, as is said, better days. The houses, Hardcastle noted, had been mainly converted into flats or maisonettes. As he turned the corner, a girl who was approaching him along the sidewalk hesitated for a moment. His mind occupied, the inspector had some momentary idea that she was going to ask him the way to somewhere. However, if that was so, the girl thought better of it and resumed her walk past him. He wondered why the idea of shoes came into his mind so suddenly. Shoes … No, one shoe. The girl’s face was faintly familiar to him. Who was it now—someone he had seen just lately … Perhaps she had recognized him and was about to speak to him?

  He paused for a moment, looking back after her. She was walking quite fast now. The trouble was, he thought, she had one of those indeterminate faces that are very hard to recognize unless there is some special reason for doing so. Blue eyes, fair complexion, slightly open mouth. Mouth. That recalled something also. Something that she’d been doing with her mouth? Talking? Putting on lipstick? No. He felt slightly annoyed with himself. Hardcastle prided himself on his recognition of faces. He never forgot, he’d been apt to say, a face he had seen in the dock or in the witness-box, but there were after all other places of contact. He would not be likely to remember, for instance, every waitress who had ever served him. He would not remember every bus conductress. He dismissed the matter from his mind.