The Clocks - Christie Agatha - Страница 20

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‘No.’

‘Of course shemay 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 thick-headedness. 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.

Having dismissed Colin, Inspector Hardcastle looked at the address neatly written in his note-book 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 wrist-watch 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. 

He had arrived now at No. 14. The door stood ajar and there were four bells with names underneath. Mrs Lawton, he saw, had a flat on the ground floor. He went in and pressed the bell on the door on the left of the hall. It was a few moments before it was answered. Finally he heard steps inside and the door was opened by a tall, thin woman with straggling dark hair who had on an overall and seemed a little short of breath. The smell of onions wafted along from the direction of what was obviously the kitchen.

‘Mrs Lawton?’

‘Yes?’ She looked at him doubtfully, with slight annoyance.

She was, he thought, about forty-five. Something faintly gypsyish about her appearance.

‘What is it?’

‘I should be glad if you could spare me a moment or two.’

‘Well, what about? I’m really rather busy just now.’ She added sharply, ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’

‘Of course,’ said Hardcastle, adopting a sympathetic tone, ‘I expect you’ve been a good deal worried by reporters.’

‘Indeed we have. Knocking at the door and ringing the bell and asking all sorts of foolish questions.’

‘Very annoying I know,’ said the inspector. ‘I wish we could spare you all that, Mrs Lawton. I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle, by the way, in charge of the case about which the reporters have been annoying you. We’d put a stop to a good deal of that if we could, but we’re powerless in the matter, you know. The Press has its rights.’

‘It’s a shame to worry private people as they do,’ said Mrs Lawton, ‘saying they have to have news for the public. The only thing I’ve ever noticed about the news that they print is that it’s a tissue of lies from beginning to end. They’ll cook upanything so far as I can see. But come in.’

She stepped back and the inspector passed over the doorstep and she shut the door. There were a couple of letters which had fallen on the mat. Mrs Lawton bent forward to pick them up, but the inspector politely forestalled her. His eyes swept over them for half a second as he handed them to her, addresses uppermost.

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