Prologue

The afternoon of the 9th of September was exactly like any other after-noon. None of those who were to be concerned in the events of that daycould lay claim to having had a premonition of disaster. (With the excep-tion, that is, of Mrs. Packer of 47, Wilbraham Crescent, who specialized inpremonitions, and who always described at great length afterwards thepeculiar forebodings and tremors that had beset her. But Mrs. Packer atNo. 47, was so far away from No. 19, and so little concerned with the hap-penings there, that it seemed unnecessary for her to have had a premoni-tion at all.)

At the Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau, Principal, Miss K.

Martindale, September 9th had been a dull day, a day of routine. The tele-phone rang, typewriters clicked, the pressure of business was average,neither above nor below its usual volume. None of it was particularly in-teresting. Up till 2:35, September 9th might have been a day like any otherday.

At 2:35 Miss Martindale’s buzzer went, and Edna Brent in the outer of-fice answered it in her usual breathy and slightly nasal voice, as she man-oeuvred a toffee along the line of her jaw.

“Yes, Miss Martindale?”

“Now, Edna—that is not the way I’ve told you to speak when answeringthe telephone. Enunciate clearly, and keep your breath behind your tone.”

“Sorry, Miss Martindale.”

“That’s better. You can do it when you try. Send Sheila Webb in to me.”

“She’s not back from lunch yet, Miss Martindale.”

“Ah.” Miss Martindale’s eye consulted the clock on her desk. 2:36. Ex-actly six minutes late. Sheila Webb had been getting slack lately. “Send herin when she comes.”

“Yes, Miss Martindale.”

Edna restored the toffee to the centre of her tongue and, sucking pleas-urably, resumed her typing of Naked Love by Armand Levine. Its painstak-ing eroticism left her uninterested—as indeed it did most of Mr. Levine’sreaders, in spite of his efforts. He was a notable example of the fact thatnothing can be duller than dull pornography. In spite of lurid jackets andprovocative titles, his sales went down every year, and his last typing billhad already been sent in three times.

The door opened and Sheila Webb came in, slightly out of breath.

“Sandy Cat’s asking for you,” said Edna.

Sheila Webb made a face.

“Just my luck—on the one day I’m late back!”

She smoothed down her hair, picked up pad and pencil, and knocked atthe Principal’s door.

Miss Martindale looked up from her desk. She was a woman of forty-odd, bristling with efficiency. Her pompadour of pale reddish hair and herChristian name of Katherine had led to her nickname of Sandy Cat.

“You’re late back, Miss Webb.”

“Sorry, Miss Martindale. There was a terrific bus jam.”

“There is always a terrific bus jam at this time of day. You should allowfor it.” She referred to a note on her pad. “A Miss Pebmarsh rang up. Shewants a stenographer at three o’clock. She asked for you particularly.

Have you worked for her before?”

“I can’t remember doing so, Miss Martindale. Not lately anyway.”

“The address is 19, Wilbraham Crescent.” She paused questioningly, butSheila Webb shook her head.

“I can’t remember going there.”

Miss Martindale glanced at the clock.

“Three o’clock. You can manage that easily. Have you any other appoint-ments this afternoon? Ah, yes,” her eye ran down the appointment book ather elbow. “Professor Purdy at the Curlew Hotel. Five o’clock. You oughtto be back before then. If not, I can send Janet.”

She gave a nod of dismissal, and Sheila went back to the outer office.

“Anything interesting, Sheila?”

“Just another of those dull days. Some old pussy up at Wilbraham Cres-cent. And at five Professor Purdy—all those awful archaeological names!

How I wish something exciting could sometimes happen.”

Miss Martindale’s door opened.

“I see I have a memo here, Sheila. If Miss Pebmarsh is not back whenyou arrive, you are to go in, the door will not be latched. Go in and go intothe room on the right of the hall and wait. Can you remember that or shallI write it down?”

“I can remember it, Miss Martindale.”

Miss Martindale went back into her sanctum.

Edna Brent fished under her chair and brought up, secretly, a ratherflashy shoe and a stiletto heel that had become detached from it.

“However am I going to get home?” she moaned.

“Oh, do stop fussing—we’ll think of something,” said one of the othergirls, and resumed her typing.

Edna sighed and put in a fresh sheet of paper:

“Desire had him in its grasp. With frenzied fingers he tore the fragilechiffon from her breasts and forced her down on the soap.”

“Damn,” said Edna and reached for the eraser.

Sheila picked up her handbag and went out.

Wilbraham Crescent was a fantasy executed by a Victorian builder inthe 1880’s. It was a half-moon of double houses and gardens set back toback. This conceit was a source of considerable difficulty to persons unac-quainted with the locality. Those who arrived on the outer side were un-able to find the lower numbers and those who hit the inner side first werebaffled as to the whereabouts of the higher numbers. The houses wereneat, prim, artistically balconied and eminently respectable. Moderniza-tion had as yet barely touched them—on the outside, that is to say. Kit-chens and bathrooms were the first to feel the wind of change.

There was nothing unusual about No. 19. It had neat curtains and awell-polished brass front doorhandle. There were standard rose trees eachside of the path leading to the front door.

Sheila Webb opened the front gate, walked up to the front door andrang the bell. There was no response and after waiting a minute or two,she did as she had been directed, and turned the handle. The door openedand she walked in. The door on the right of the small hall was ajar. Shetapped on it, waited, and then walked in. It was an ordinary quite pleasantsitting room, a little overfurnished for modern tastes. The only thing at allremarkable about it was the profusion of clocks—a grandfather clock tick-ing in the corner, a Dresden china clock on the mantelpiece, a silver car-riage clock on the desk, a small fancy gilt clock on a whatnot near the fire-place and on a table by the window, a faded leather travelling clock, withROSEMARY in worn gilt letters across the corner.

Sheila Webb looked at the clock on the desk with some surprise. Itshowed the time to be a little after ten minutes past four. Her gaze shiftedto the chimney piece. The clock there said the same.

Sheila started violently as there was a whir and a click above her head,and from a wooden carved clock on the wall a cuckoo sprang out throughhis little door and announced loudly and definitely: Cuckoo, Cuckoo,Cuckoo! The harsh note seemed almost menacing. The cuckoo disappearedagain with a snap of his door.

Sheila Webb gave a half-smile and walked round the end of the sofa.

Then she stopped short, pulling up with a jerk.

Sprawled on the floor was the body of a man. His eyes were half openand sightless. There was a dark moist patch on the front of his dark greysuit. Almost mechanically Sheila bent down. She touched his cheek—cold—his hand, the same … touched the wet patch and drew her hand awaysharply, staring at it in horror.

At that moment she heard the click of a gate outside, her head turnedmechanically to the window. Through it she saw a woman’s figure hurry-ing up the path. Sheila swallowed mechanically—her throat was dry. Shestood rooted to the spot, unable to move, to cry out … staring in front ofher.

The door opened and a tall elderly woman entered, carrying a shoppingbag. She had wavy grey hair pulled back from her forehead, and her eyeswere a wide and beautiful blue. Their gaze passed unseeingly over Sheila.

Sheila uttered a faint sound, no more than a croak. The wide blue eyescame to her and the woman spoke sharply:

“Is somebody there?”

“I—it’s—” The girl broke off as the woman came swiftly towards herround the back of the sofa.

And then she screamed.

“Don’t—don’t … you’ll tread on it—him … And he’s dead….”