The Clocks

‘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 set-up 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.’