Four

COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

“Where do we go?” I asked Dick Hardcastle.

He spoke to the driver.

“Cavendish Secretarial Bureau. It’s on Palace Street, up towards theEsplanade on the right.”

“Yes, sir.”

The car drew away. There was quite a little crowd by now, staring withfascinated interest. The orange cat was still sitting on the gatepost of DianaLodge next door. He was no longer washing his face but was sitting upvery straight, lashing his tail slightly, and gazing over the heads of thecrowd with that complete disdain for the human race that is the specialprerogative of cats and camels.

“The Secretarial Bureau, and then the cleaning woman, in that order,”

said Hardcastle, “because the time is getting on.” He glanced at his watch.

“After four o’clock.” He paused before adding, “Rather an attractive girl?”

“Quite,” I said.

He cast an amused look in my direction.

“But she told a very remarkable story. The sooner it’s checked up on, thebetter.”

“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 shewas screaming….”

He gave me another of his quizzical looks and repeated that she was avery attractive girl.

“And how did you come to be wandering about in Wilbraham Crescent,Colin? Admiring our genteel Victorian architecture? Or had you a pur-pose?”

“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 Crescentjust petered out.”

“It’s always puzzling to strangers. If you’d turned to the right up AlbanyRoad and then turned to the right again you’d have found yourself in theother half of Wilbraham Crescent. It’s built back to back, you see. The gar-dens 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? OrCadogan. You start down one side of a square, and then it suddenly be-comes 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 comehere recently—just started up?”

“Bland was born here, I think. He’s certainly a local man—been in busi-ness for years.”

“Very disappointing.”

“He’s a very bad builder,” said Hardcastle encouragingly. “Uses prettypoor materials. Puts up the kind of houses that look more or less all rightuntil you live in them, then everything falls down or goes wrong. Sailsfairly near the wind sometimes. Sharp practice—but just manages to getaway with it.”

“It’s no good tempting me, Dick. The man I want would almost certainlybe a pillar of rectitude.”

“Bland came into a lot of money about a year ago—or rather his wifedid. She’s a Canadian, came over here in the war and met Bland. Her fam-ily didn’t want her to marry him, and more or less cut her off when shedid. Then last year a great-uncle died, his only son had been killed in anair 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. Justsaved 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 whena man suddenly gets rich overnight. They wonder if he’s been doing a littlefiddling and salting away—so they check up. They checked and it was allO.K.”

“In any case,” I said, “I’m not interested in a man who has suddenly gotrich. It’s not the kind of setup 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 to-night 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 themachinery in motion. We want to find out all about Mr. Curry. In all prob-ability once we know just who he is and what he does, we’ll have a prettygood idea as to who wanted him out of the way.” He looked out of the win-dow. “Here we are.”

The Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau was situated in themain shopping street, called rather grandly Palace Street. It had been ad-apted, like many other of the establishments there, from a Victorianhouse. 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 enlargementsof all sizes and ages of children, from babies to six-year-olds. These pre-sumably were to lure in fond mammas. A few couples were also represen-ted. Bashful looking young men with smiling girls. On the other side of theCavendish Secretarial Bureau were the offices of an old-established andold-fashioned coal merchant. Beyond that again the original old-fashionedhouses had been pulled down and a glittering three-storey building pro-claimed itself as the Orient Café and Restaurant.

Hardcastle and I walked up the four steps, passed through the openfront 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 womenwere typing with assiduity. Two of them continued to type, paying no at-tention to the entrance of strangers. The third one who was typing at atable with a telephone, directly opposite the door, stopped and looked atus inquiringly. She appeared to be sucking a sweet of some kind. Havingarranged it in a convenient position in her mouth, she inquired in faintlyadenoidal tones:

“Can I help you?”

“Miss Martindale?” said Hardcastle.

“I think she’s engaged at the moment on the telephone—” At that mo-ment there was a click and the girl picked up the telephone receiver andfiddled with a switch, and said: “Two gentlemen to see you, Miss Mar-tindale.” 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 MISSMARTINDALE on a brass plate. She opened the door, flattened herselfagainst it to let us pass, said, “Mr. Hardcastle,” and shut the door behindus.

Miss Martindale looked up at us from a large desk behind which shewas sitting. She was an efficient-looking woman of about fifty with a pom-padour 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 my-self by taking an upright chair near the door.

Miss Martindale’s sandy eyebrows rose in surprise and a certainamount 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. Ithink you may be able to help me.”

From his tone of voice, I judged that Dick was going to play it in a round-about way, exerting charm. I was rather doubtful myself whether MissMartindale would be amenable to charm. She was of the type that theFrench label so aptly a femme formidable.

I was studying the general layout. On the walls above Miss Martindale’sdesk was hung a collection of signed photographs. I recognized one as thatof Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, detective writer, with whom I was slightly ac-quainted. Sincerely yours, Ariadne Oliver, was written across it in a boldblack hand. Yours gratefully, Garry Gregson adorned another photographof a thriller writer who had died about sixteen years ago. Yours ever,Miriam adorned the photograph of Miriam Hogg, a woman writer whospecialized 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 pipesand wore tweeds, the women looked earnest and tended to fade into furs.

Whilst I was using my eyes, Hardcastle was proceeding with his ques-tions.

“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 onto the Curlew Hotel at the end of the Esplanade where she had an appoint-ment at five o’clock.”

“I see,” said Hardcastle. “Can you tell me something about Miss SheilaWebb?”

“I can’t tell you very much,” said Miss Martindale. “She has been herefor — let me see, yes, I should say close on a year now. Her work hasproved 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 Ican remember offhand, she was formerly employed in London and hadquite a good reference from her employers there. I think, but I am notsure, that it was some business firm — estate agents possibly, that sheworked for.”

“You say she is good at her job?”

“Fully adequate,” said Miss Martindale, who was clearly not one to belavish with praise.

“Not first class?”

“No, I should not say that. She has good average speed and is tolerablywell-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 slightlyrestive. “May I ask, Inspector Hardcastle, why you are asking all thesequestions? Has the girl got herself into trouble in any way?”

“I would not quite say that, Miss Martindale. Do you know a Miss Milli-cent Pebmarsh?”

“Pebmarsh,” said Miss Martindale, wrinkling her sandy brows. “Nowwhen—oh, of course. It was to Miss Pebmarsh’s house that Sheila wentthis 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 servicesof 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 lunchhour. 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. Itwas 1:49 precisely.”

“It was Miss Pebmarsh herself who spoke to you?” Miss Martindalelooked 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, sheasked 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 wouldmake an excellent witness.

“If you would kindly tell me what all this is about?” said Miss Mar-tindale with slight impatience.

“Well, you see, Miss Martindale, Miss Pebmarsh herself denies makingany such call.”

Miss Martindale stared.

“Indeed! How extraordinary.”

“You, on the other hand, say such a call was made, but you cannot saydefinitely 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—orwhoever it was—give any reason for wanting Miss Sheila Webb particu-larly?”

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 MissPebmarsh. But that is not quite conclusive, Inspector. After all, the girls goout so often to different people at different places that they would be un-likely to remember if it had taken place some months ago. Sheila wasn’tvery definite on the point. She only said that she couldn’t remember hav-ing been there. But really, Inspector, even if this was a hoax, I cannot seewhere your interest comes in?”

“I am just coming to that. When Miss Webb arrived at 19, WilbrahamCrescent she walked into the house and into the sitting room. She has toldme that those were the directions given her. You agree?”

“Quite right,” said Miss Martindale. “Miss Pebmarsh said that she mightbe 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 hervoice.

“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 up-set.”

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 tele-phoned 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. Shefinds 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 businesssome time, haven’t you?”

“Fifteen years. We have done extremely well. Starting in quite a smallway, we have extended the business until we have almost more than wecan cope with. I now employ eight girls, and they are kept busy all thetime.”

“You do a good deal of literary work, I see.” Hardcastle was looking upat the photographs on the wall.

“Yes, to start with I specialized in authors. I had been secretary to thewell-known thriller writer, Mr. Garry Gregson, for many years. In fact, itwas with a legacy from him that I started this Bureau. I knew a good manyof his fellow authors and they recommended me. My specialized know-ledge of authors’ requirements came in very useful. I offer a very helpfulservice in the way of necessary research—dates and quotations, inquiriesas to legal points and police procedure, and details of poison schedules. Allthat sort of thing. Then foreign names and addresses and restaurants forpeople who set their novels in foreign places. In old days the public didn’treally mind so much about accuracy, but nowadays readers take it uponthemselves to write to authors on every possible occasion, pointing outflaws.”

Miss Martindale paused. Hardcastle said politely: “I’m sure you haveevery 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 beenplaced on typewriters. The receptionist, Edna, was standing forlornly,holding in one hand a stiletto heel and in the other a shoe from which ithad been torn.

“I’ve only had them a month,” she was wailing. “And they were quite ex-pensive. It’s that beastly grating—the one at the corner by the cake shopquite near here. I caught my heel in it and off it came. I couldn’t walk, hadto take both shoes off and come back here with a couple of buns, and howI’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 theoffending shoe with an apprehensive glance towards Miss Martindalewhom I appreciated was not the sort of woman to approve of stilettoheels. She herself was wearing sensible flat-heeled leather shoes.

“Thank you, Miss Martindale,” said Hardcastle. “I’m sorry to have takenup 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 havebeen quite true.”

“All right, all right,” said Dick. “You win.”