‘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.’
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 off-hand, 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.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Miss Martindale. ‘The girl must have been very upset.’
It seemed the kind of understatement characteristic of Miss Martindale.
‘Does the name of Curry mean anything to you, Miss Martindale? Mr R. H. Curry?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘From the Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Company?’
Miss Martindale continued to shake her head.
‘You see my dilemma,’ said the inspector. ‘You say Miss Pebmarsh telephoned you and asked for Sheila Webb to go to her house at three o’clock. Miss Pebmarsh denies doing any such thing. Sheila Webb gets there. She finds a dead man there.’ He waited hopefully.
Miss Martindale looked at him blankly.
‘It all seems to me wildly improbable,’ she said disapprovingly.
Dick Hardcastle sighed and got up.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he said politely. ‘You’ve been in business some time, haven’t you?’
‘Fifteen years. We have done extremely well. Starting in quite a small way, we have extended the business until we have almost more than we can cope with. I now employ eight girls, and they are kept busy all the time.’
‘You do a good deal of literary work, I see.’ Hardcastle was looking up at the photographs on the wall.
‘Yes, to start with I specialized in authors. I had been secretary to the well-known thriller writer, Mr Garry Gregson, for many years. In fact, it was with a legacy from him that I started this Bureau. I knew a good many of his fellow authors and they recommended me. My specialized knowledge of authors’ requirements came in very useful. I offer a very helpful service in the way of necessary research—dates and quotations, inquiries as to legal points and police procedure, and details of poison schedules. All that sort of thing. Then foreign names and addresses and restaurants for people who set their novels in foreign places. In old days the public didn’t really mind so much about accuracy, but nowadays readers take it upon themselves to write to authors on every possible occasion, pointing out flaws.’
Miss Martindale paused. Hardcastle said politely: ‘I’m sure you have every cause to congratulate yourself.’
He moved towards the door. I opened it ahead of him.
In the outer office, the three girls were preparing to leave. Lids had been placed on typewriters. The receptionist, Edna, was standing forlornly, holding in one hand a stiletto heel and in the other a shoe from which it had been torn.
‘I’ve only had them a month,’ she was wailing. ‘And they were quite expensive. It’s that beastly grating—the one at the corner by the cake shop quite near here. I caught my heel in it and off it came. I couldn’t walk, had to take both shoes off and come back here with a couple of buns, and how I’ll ever get home or get on to the bus I really don’t know—’
At that moment our presence was noted and Edna hastily concealed the offending shoe with an apprehensive glance towards Miss Martindale whom I appreciated was not the sort of woman to approve of stiletto heels. She herself was wearing sensible flat-heeled leather shoes.
‘Thank you, Miss Martindale,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. If anything should occur to you—’
‘Naturally,’ said Miss Martindale, cutting him short rather brusquely.
As we got into the car, I said:
‘So Sheila Webb’s story, in spite of your suspicions, turns out to have been quite true.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Dick. ‘You win.’
CHAPTER 5
‘Mom!’ said Ernie Curtin, desisting for a moment from his occupation of running a small metal model up and down the window pane, accompanying it with a semi-zooming, semi-moaning noise intended to reproduce a rocket ship going through outer space on its way to Venus, ‘Mom, what d’you think?’
Mrs Curtin, a stern-faced woman who was busy washing up crockery in the sink, made no response.
‘Mom, there’s a police car drawn up outside our house.’
‘Don’t you tell no more of yer lies, Ernie,’ said Mrs Curtin as she banged cups and saucers down on the draining board. ‘You know what I’ve said to you about that before.’
‘I never,’ said Ernie virtuously. ‘And it’s a police car right enough, and there’s two men gettin’ out.’
Mrs Curtin wheeled round on her offspring.
‘What’ve you been doing now?’ she demanded. ‘Bringing us into disgrace, that’s what it is!’
‘Course I ain’t,’ said Ernie. ‘I ’aven’t done nothin’.’
‘It’s going with that Alf,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘Him and his gang. Gangs indeed! I’ve told you, and yer father’s told you, that gangs isn’t respectable. In the end there’s trouble. First it’ll be the juvenile court and then you’ll be sent to a remand home as likely as not. And I won’t have it, d’you hear?’
‘They’re comin’ up to the front door,’ Ernie announced.
Mrs Curtin abandoned the sink and joined her offspring at the window.
‘Well,’ she muttered.
At that moment the knocker was sounded. Wiping her hands quickly on the tea-towel, Mrs Curtin went out into the passage and opened the door. She looked with defiance and doubt at the two men on her doorstep.
‘Mrs Curtin?’ said the taller of the two, pleasantly.
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Curtin.
‘May I come in a moment? I’m Detective Inspector Hardcastle.’
Mrs Curtin drew back rather unwillingly. She threw open a door and motioned the inspector inside. It was a very neat, clean little room and gave the impression of seldom being entered, which impression was entirely correct.
Ernie, drawn by curiosity, came down the passage from the kitchen and sidled inside the door.
‘Your son?’ said Detective Inspector Hardcastle.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Curtin, and added belligerently, ‘he’s a good boy, no matter what you say.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ said Detective Inspector Hardcastle, politely.
Some of the defiance in Mrs Curtin’s face relaxed.
‘I’ve come to ask you a few questions about 19, Wilbraham Crescent. You work there, I understand.’
‘Never said I didn’t,’ said Mrs Curtin, unable yet to shake off her previous mood.
‘For a Miss Millicent Pebmarsh.’
‘Yes, I work for Miss Pebmarsh. A very nice lady.’
‘Blind,’ said Detective Inspector Hardcastle.
‘Yes, poor soul. But you’d never know it. Wonderful the way she can put her hand on anything and find her way about. Goes out in the street, too, and over the crossings. She’s not one to make a fuss about things, not like some people I know.’
‘You work there in the mornings?’
‘That’s right. I come about half past nine to ten, and leave at twelve o’clock or when I’m finished.’ Then sharply, ‘You’re not saying as anything ’as been stolen, are you?’
‘Quite the reverse,’ said the inspector, thinking of four clocks.
Mrs Curtin looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘What’s the trouble?’ she asked.
‘A man was found dead in the sitting-room at 19, Wilbraham Crescent this afternoon.’
Mrs Curtin stared. Ernie Curtin wriggled in ecstasy, opened his mouth to say ‘Coo’, thought it unwise to draw attention to his presence, and shut it again.
‘Dead?’ said Mrs Curtin unbelievingly. And with even more unbelief, ‘In the sitting-room?’
‘Yes. He’d been stabbed.’
‘You mean it’s murder?’
‘Yes, murder.’
‘Oo murdered ’im?’ demanded Mrs Curtin.
‘I’m afraid we haven’t got quite so far as that yet,’ said Inspector Hardcastle. ‘We thought perhaps you may be able to help us.’
‘I don’t know anything about murder,’ said Mrs Curtin positively.
‘No, but there are one or two points that have arisen. This morning, for instance, did any man call at the house?’
‘Not that I can remember. Not today. What sort of man was he?’
‘An elderly man about sixty, respectably dressed in a dark suit. He may have represented himself as an insurance agent.’
‘I wouldn’t have let him in,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘No insurance agents and nobody selling vacuum cleaners or editions of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Nothing of that sort. Miss Pebmarsh doesn’t hold with selling at the door and neither do I.’
‘The man’s name, according to a card that was on him, was Mr Curry. Have you ever heard that name?’
‘Curry? Curry?’ Mrs Curtin shook her head. ‘Sounds Indian to me,’ she said, suspiciously.
‘Oh, no,’ said Inspector Hardcastle, ‘he wasn’t an Indian.’
‘Who found him—Miss Pebmarsh?’
‘A young lady, a shorthand typist, had arrived because, owing to a misunderstanding, she thought she’d been sent for to do some work for Miss Pebmarsh. It was she who discovered the body. Miss Pebmarsh returned almost at the same moment.’
Mrs Curtin uttered a deep sigh.
‘What a to-do,’ she said, ‘what a to-do!’
‘We may ask you at some time,’ said Inspector Hardcastle, ‘to look at this man’s body and tell us if he is a man you have ever seen in Wilbraham Crescent or calling at the house before. Miss Pebmarsh is quite positive he has never been there. Now there are various small points I would like to know. Can you recall off-hand how many clocks there are in the sitting-room?’
Mrs Curtin did not even pause.
‘There’s that big clock in the corner, grandfather they call it, and there’s the cuckoo clock on the wall. It springs out and says “cuckoo”. Doesn’t half make you jump sometimes.’ She added hastily, ‘I didn’t touch neither of them. I never do. Miss Pebmarsh likes to wind them herself.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with them,’ the inspector assured her. ‘You’re sure these were the only two clocks in the room this morning?’
‘Of course. What others should there be?’
‘There was not, for instance, a small square silver clock, what they call a carriage clock, or a little gilt clock—on the mantelpiece that was, or a china clock with flowers on it—or a leather clock with the name Rosemary written across the corner?’
‘Of course there wasn’t. No such thing.’
‘You would have noticed them if they had been there?’
‘Of course I should.’
‘Each of these four clocks represented a time about an hour later than the cuckoo clock and the grandfather clock.’
‘Must have been foreign,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘Me and my old man went on a coach trip to Switzerland and Italy once and it was a whole hour further on there. Must be something to do with this Common Market. I don’t hold with the Common Market and nor does Mr Curtin. England’s good enough for me.’
Inspector Hardcastle declined to be drawn into politics.
‘Can you tell me exactly when you left Miss Pebmarsh’s house this morning?’
‘Quarter past twelve, near as nothing,’ said Mrs Curtin.
‘Was Miss Pebmarsh in the house then?’
‘No, she hadn’t come back. She usually comes back some time between twelve and half past, but it varies.’
‘And she had left the house—when?’
‘Before I got there. Ten o’clock’s my time.’
‘Well, thank you, Mrs Curtin.’
‘Seems queer about these clocks,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘Perhaps Miss Pebmarsh had been to a sale. Antiques, were they? They sound like it by what you say.’
‘Does Miss Pebmarsh often go to sales?’
‘Got a roll of hair carpet about four months ago at a sale. Quite good condition. Very cheap, she told me. Got some velour curtains too. They needed cutting down, but they were really as good as new.’
‘But she doesn’t usually buy bric-à-brac or things like pictures or china or that kind of thing at sales?’
Mrs Curtin shook her head.
‘Not that I’ve ever known her, but of course, there’s no saying in sales, is there? I mean, you get carried away. When you get home you say to yourself “whatever did I want with that?” Bought six pots of jam once. When I thought about it I could have made it cheaper myself. Cups and saucers, too. Them I could have got better in the market on a Wednesday.’
