Twelve

Having dismissed Colin, Inspector Hardcastle looked at the address neatlywritten in his notebook and nodded his head. Then he slipped the bookback in his pocket and started to deal with the routine matters that hadpiled up on his desk.

It was a busy day for him. He sent out for coffee and sandwiches, andreceived reports from Sergeant Cray — no helpful lead had come up.

Nobody at the railway station or buses had recognized the photograph ofMr. Curry. The laboratory reports on clothing added up to nil. The suit hadbeen made by a good tailor, but the tailor’s name had been removed. De-sire 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 wereprobably the most helpful leads—it took a little time—but it got results inthe end. Unless, of course, Mr. Curry had been a foreigner? Hardcastleconsidered the idea. There might be a possibility that the dead man wasFrench — on the other hand his clothes were definitely not French. Nolaundry 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 doc-tor, a landlady. The picture of the dead man would be circulated to policestations, would be reproduced in newspapers. Sooner or later, Mr. Currywould be known in his rightful identity.

In the meantime there was work to be done, and not only on the Currycase. Hardcastle worked without a break until half past five. He looked athis wristwatch again and decided the time was ripe for the call he wantedto make.

Sergeant Cray had reported that Sheila Webb had resumed work at theCavendish Bureau, and that at five o’clock she would be working with Pro-fessor Purdy at the Curlew Hotel and that she was unlikely to leave thereuntil well after six.

What was the aunt’s name again? Lawton—Mrs. Lawton. 14, PalmerstonRoad. 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, betterdays. The houses, Hardcastle noted, had been mainly converted into flatsor maisonettes. As he turned the corner, a girl who was approaching himalong the sidewalk hesitated for a moment. His mind occupied, the in-spector had some momentary idea that she was going to ask him the wayto somewhere. However, if that was so, the girl thought better of it and re-sumed her walk past him. He wondered why the idea of shoes came intohis mind so suddenly. Shoes … No, one shoe. The girl’s face was faintly fa-miliar to him. Who was it now—someone he had seen just lately … Per-haps she had recognized him and was about to speak to him?

He paused for a moment, looking back after her. She was walking quitefast now. The trouble was, he thought, she had one of those indeterminatefaces that are very hard to recognize unless there is some special reasonfor doing so. Blue eyes, fair complexion, slightly open mouth. Mouth. Thatrecalled 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 toremember, for instance, every waitress who had ever served him. Hewould not remember every bus conductress. He dismissed the matterfrom his mind.

He had arrived now at No. 14. The door stood ajar and there were fourbells with names underneath. Mrs. Lawton, he saw, had a flat on theground floor. He went in and pressed the bell on the door on the left of thehall. It was a few moments before it was answered. Finally he heard stepsinside and the door was opened by a tall, thin woman with straggling darkhair who had on an overall and seemed a little short of breath. The smellof onions wafted along from the direction of what was obviously the kit-chen.

“Mrs. Lawton?”

“Yes?” She looked at him doubtfully, with slight annoyance.

She was, he thought, about forty-five. Something faintly gypsyish abouther 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 expectyou’ve been a good deal worried by reporters.”

“Indeed we have. Knocking at the door and ringing the bell and askingall sorts of foolish questions.”

“Very annoying I know,” said the inspector. “I wish we could spare youall that, Mrs. Lawton. I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle, by the way, incharge 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 inthe 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 no-ticed about the news that they print is that it’s a tissue of lies from begin-ning to end. They’ll cook up anything so far as I can see. But come in.”

She stepped back and the inspector passed over the doorstep and sheshut 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 fore-stalled her. His eyes swept over them for half a second as he handed themto her, addresses uppermost.

“Thank you.”

She laid them down on the hall table.

“Come into the sitting room, won’t you? At least—if you go in this doorand give me just a moment. I think something’s boiling over.”

She beat a speedy retreat to the kitchen. Inspector Hardcastle took a lastdeliberate look at the letters on the hall table. One was addressed to Mrs.

Lawton and the two others to Miss R. S. Webb. He went into the room in-dicated. It was a small room, rather untidy, shabbily furnished but hereand there it displayed some bright spot of colour or some unusual object.

An attractive, probably expensive piece of Venetian glass of moulded col-ours and an abstract shape, two brightly coloured velvet cushions and anearthenware platter of foreign shells. Either the aunt or the niece, hethought, had an original streak in her makeup.

Mrs. Lawton returned, slightly more breathless than before.

“I think that’ll be all right now,” she said, rather uncertainly.

The inspector apologized again.

“I’m sorry if I’ve called at an inconvenient time,” he said, “but Ihappened to be in this neighbourhood and I wanted to check over a fewfurther points about this affair in which your niece was so unfortunatelyconcerned. I hope she’s none the worse for her experience? It must havebeen a great shock to any girl.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Lawton. “Sheila came back in a terrible state.

But she was all right by this morning and she’s gone back to work again.”

“Oh, yes, I know that,” said the inspector. “But I was told she was out do-ing work for a client somewhere and I didn’t want to interrupt anything ofthat kind so I thought it would be better if I came round here and talked toher in her own home. But she’s not back yet, is that it?”

“She’ll probably be rather late this evening,” said Mrs. Lawton. “She’sworking for a Professor Purdy and from what Sheila says, he’s a man withno idea of time at all. Always says ‘this won’t take more than another tenminutes so I think we might as well get it finished,’ and then of course ittakes nearer to three-quarters of an hour. He’s a very nice man and mostapologetic. Once or twice he’s urged her to stay and have dinner andseemed quite concerned because he’s kept her so much longer than herealized. Still, it is rather annoying sometimes. Is there something I cantell you, Inspector? In case Sheila is delayed a long time.”

“Well, not really,” said the inspector smiling. “Of course, we only tookdown the bare details the other day and I’m not sure really whether I’veeven got those right.” He made a show of consulting his notebook oncemore. “Let me see. Miss Sheila Webb—is that her full name or has she an-other Christian name? We have to have these things very exact, you know,for the records at the inquest.”

“The inquest is the day after tomorrow, isn’t it? She got a notice to at-tend.”

“Yes, but she needn’t let that worry her,” said Hardcastle. “She’ll justhave to tell her story of how she found the body.”

“You don’t know who the man was yet?”

“No. I’m afraid it’s early days for that. There was a card in his pocketand we thought at first he was some kind of insurance agent. But it seemsmore likely now that it was a card he’d been given by someone. Perhapshe was contemplating insurance himself.”

“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Lawton looked vaguely interested.

“Now I’ll just get these names right,” said the inspector. “I think I’ve gotit down as Miss Sheila Webb or Miss Sheila R. Webb. I just couldn’t re-member what the other name was. Was it Rosalie?”

“Rosemary,” said Mrs. Lawton, “she was christened Rosemary Sheila butSheila always thought Rosemary was rather fanciful so she’s never calledanything but Sheila.”

“I see.” There was nothing in Hardcastle’s tone to show that he waspleased that one of his hunches had come out right. He noted anotherpoint. The name Rosemary occasioned no distress in Mrs. Lawton. To herRosemary was simply a Christian name that her niece did not use.

“I’ve got it straight now all right,” said the inspector smiling. “I gatherthat your niece came from London and has been working for the Caven-dish Bureau for the last ten months or so. You don’t know the exact date, Isuppose?”

“Well, really, I couldn’t say now. It was last November some time. Ithink more towards the end of November.”

“Quite so. It doesn’t really matter. She was not living with you here pre-viously to taking the job at the Cavendish Bureau?”

“No. She was living in London before that.”

“Have you got her address in London?”

“Well, I’ve got it somewhere,” Mrs. Lawton looked round her with thevague expression of the habitually untidy. “I’ve got such a short memory,”

she said. “Something like Allington Grove, I think it was—out Fulham way.

She shared a flat with two other girls. Terribly expensive rooms are inLondon for girls.”

“Do you remember the name of the firm she worked at there?”

“Oh, yes. Hopgood and Trent. They were estate agents in the FulhamRoad.”

“Thank you. Well all that seems very clear. Miss Webb is an orphan, Iunderstand?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lawton. She moved uneasily. Her eyes strayed to thedoor. “Do you mind if I just go into the kitchen again?”

“Of course.”

He opened the door for her. She went out. He wondered if he had beenright or wrong in thinking that his last question had in some way per-turbed Mrs. Lawton. Her replies had come quite readily and easily up tothen. He thought about it until Mrs. Lawton returned.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, apologetically, “but you know what it is—cook-ing things. Everything’s quite all right now. Was there anything else youwant to ask me? I’ve remembered, by the way, it wasn’t Allington Grove. Itwas Carrington Grove and the number was 17.”

“Thank you,” said the inspector. “I think I was asking you whether MissWebb was an orphan.”

“Yes, she’s an orphan. Her parents are dead.”

“Long ago?”

“They died when she was a child.”

There was something like defiance just perceptible in her tone.

“Was she your sister’s child or your brother’s?”

“My sister’s.”

“Ah, yes. And what was Mr. Webb’s profession?”

Mrs. Lawton paused a moment before answering. She was biting herlips. Then she said, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t remember, it’s so long ago.”

Hardcastle waited, knowing that she would speak again. She did.

“May I ask what all this has got to do with it—I mean what does it mat-ter who her father and mother were and what her father did and wherehe came from or anything like that?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter really, Mrs. Lawton, not from your point ofview, that is. But you see, the circumstances are rather unusual.”

“What do you mean—the circumstances are unusual?”

“Well, we have reason to believe that Miss Webb went to that house yes-terday because she had been specially asked for at the Cavendish Bureauby name. It looks therefore as though someone had deliberately arrangedfor her to be there. Someone perhaps—” he hesitated “—with a grudgeagainst her.”

“I can’t imagine that anyone could have a grudge against Sheila. She’s avery sweet girl. A nice friendly girl.”

“Yes,” said Hardcastle mildly. “That’s what I should have thought my-self.”

“And I don’t like to hear anybody suggesting the contrary,” said Mrs.

Lawton belligerently.

“Exactly.” Hardcastle continued to smile appeasingly. “But you mustrealize, Mrs. Lawton, that it looks as though your niece has been deliber-ately made a victim. She was being, as they say on the films, put on thespot. Somebody was arranging for her to go into a house where there was adead man, and that dead man had died very recently. It seems on the faceof it a malicious thing to do.”

“You mean — you mean someone was trying to make it appear thatSheila killed him? Oh, no, I can’t believe it.”

“It is rather difficult to believe,” agreed the inspector, “but we’ve got tomake quite sure and clear up the matter. Could there be, for instance,some young man, someone perhaps who had fallen in love with yourniece, and whom she, perhaps, did not care for? Young men sometimes dosome very bitter and revengeful things, especially if they’re rather ill-bal-anced.”

“I don’t think it could be anything of that kind,” said Mrs. Lawton, puck-ering her eyes in thought and frowning. “Sheila has had one or two boysshe’s been friendly with, but there’s been nothing serious. Nobody steadyof any kind.”

“It might have been while she was living in London?” the inspector sug-gested. “After all, I don’t suppose you know very much about what friendsshe had there.”

“No, no, perhaps not … Well, you’ll have to ask her about that yourself,Inspector Hardcastle. But I never heard of any trouble of any kind.”

“Or it might have been another girl,” suggested Hardcastle. “Perhapsone of the girls she shared rooms with there was jealous of her?”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Lawton doubtfully, “that there might be a girlwho’d want to do her a bad turn. But not involving murder, surely.”

It was a shrewd appreciation and Hardcastle noted that Mrs. Lawtonwas by no means a fool. He said quickly:

“I know it all sounds most unlikely, but then this whole business is un-likely.”

“It must have been someone mad,” said Mrs. Lawton.

“Even in madness,” said Hardcastle, “there’s a definite idea behind themadness, you know. Something that’s given rise to it. And that really,” hewent on, “is why I was asking you about Sheila Webb’s father and mother.

You’d be surprised how often motives arise that have their roots in thepast. Since Miss Webb’s father and mother died when she was a youngchild, naturally she can’t tell me anything about them. That’s why I’m ap-plying to you.”

“Yes, I see, but—well….”

He noted that the trouble and uncertainty were back in her voice.

“Were they killed at the same time, in an accident, anything like that?”

“No, there was no accident.”

“They both died from natural causes?”

“I—well, yes, I mean—I don’t really know.”

“I think you must know a little more than you are telling me, Mrs. Law-ton.” He hazarded a guess. “Were they, perhaps, divorced—something ofthat kind?”

“No, they weren’t divorced.”

“Come now, Mrs. Lawton. You know—you must know of what your sis-ter died?”

“I don’t see what—I mean, I can’t say—it’s all very difficult. Raking upthings. It’s much better not raking them up.” There was a kind of desper-ate perplexity in her glance.

Hardcastle looked at her keenly. Then he said gently, “Was Sheila Webbperhaps—an illegitimate child?”

He saw immediately a mixture of consternation and relief in her face.

“She’s not my child,” she said.

“She is your sister’s illegitimate child?”

“Yes. But she doesn’t know it herself. I’ve never told her. I told her herparents died young. So that’s why—well, you see….”

“Oh, yes, I see,” said the inspector, “and I assure you that unless some-thing comes of this particular line of inquiry there is no need for me toquestion Miss Webb on this subject.”

“You mean you needn’t tell her?”

“Not unless there is some relevance to the case, which, I may say, seemsunlikely. But I do want all the facts that you know, Mrs. Lawton, and I as-sure you that I’ll do my best to keep what you tell me entirely betweenourselves.”

“It’s not a nice thing to happen,” said Mrs. Lawton, “and I was very dis-tressed about it, I can tell you. My sister, you see, had always been theclever one of the family. She was a schoolteacher and doing very well.

Highly respected and everything else. The last person you’d ever thinkwould—”

“Well,” said the inspector, tactfully, “it often happens that way. She gotto know this man—this Webb—”

“I never even knew what his name was,” said Mrs. Lawton. “I never methim. But she came to me and told me what had happened. That she wasexpecting a child and that the man couldn’t, or wouldn’t—I never knewwhich—marry her. She was ambitious and it would have meant giving upher job if the whole thing came out. So naturally I—I said I’d help.”

“Where is your sister now, Mrs. Lawton?”

“I’ve no idea. Absolutely no idea at all.” She was emphatic.

“She’s alive, though.”

“I suppose so.”

“But you haven’t kept in touch with her?”

“That’s the way she wanted it. She thought it was best for the child andbest for her that there should be a clean break. So it was fixed that way.

We both had a little income of our own that our mother left us. Annturned her half-share over to me to be used for the child’s bringing up andkeep. She was going to continue with her profession, she said, but shewould change schools. There was some idea, I believe, of a year’s ex-change with a teacher abroad. Australia or somewhere. That’s all I know,Inspector Hardcastle, and that’s all I can tell you.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. Was that really all she knew? It was a dif-ficult question to answer with any certainty. It was certainly all that shemeant to tell him. It might very well be all she knew. Slight as the refer-ence to the sister had been, Hardcastle got an impression of a forceful, bit-ter, angry personality. The sort of woman who was determined not tohave her life blasted by one mistake. In a cold hardheaded way she hadprovided for the upkeep and presumable happiness of her child. Fromthat moment on she had cut herself adrift to start life again on her own.

It was conceivable, he thought, that she might feel like that about thechild. But what about her sister? He said mildly:

“It seems odd that she did not at least keep in touch with you by letter,did not want to know how the child was progressing?”

Mrs. Lawton shook her head.

“Not if you knew Ann,” she said. “She was always very clear-cut in herdecisions. And then she and I weren’t very close. I was younger than shewas by a good deal—twelve years. As I say, we were never very close.”

“And what did your husband feel about this adoption?”

“I was a widow then,” said Mrs. Lawton. “I married young and my hus-band was killed in the war. I kept a small sweet shop at the time.”

“Where was all this? Not here in Crowdean.”

“No. We were living in Lincolnshire at the time. I came here in the holi-days once, and I liked it so much that I sold the shop and came here to live.

Later, when Sheila was old enough to go to school, I took a job in Roscoeand West, the big drapers here, you know. I still work there. They’re verypleasant people.”

“Well,” said Hardcastle, rising to his feet, “thank you very much, Mrs.

Lawton, for your frankness in what you have told me.”

“And you won’t say a word of it to Sheila?”

“Not unless it should become necessary, and that would only happen ifsome circumstances out of the past proved to have been connected withthis murder at 19, Wilbraham Crescent. And that, I think, is unlikely.” Hetook the photograph from his pocket which he had been showing to somany people, and showed it to Mrs. Lawton. “You’ve no idea who this mancould be?”

“They’ve shown it me already,” said Mrs. Lawton.

She took it and scrutinized it earnestly.

“No. I’m sure, quite sure, I’ve never seen this man before. I don’t thinkhe belonged round here or I might have remembered seeing him about. Ofcourse—” she looked closely. She paused a moment before adding, ratherunexpectedly, “He looks a nice man I think. A gentleman, I’d say, wouldn’tyou?”

It was a slightly outmoded term in the inspector’s experience, yet it fellvery naturally from Mrs. Lawton’s lips. “Brought up in the country,” hethought. “They still think of things that way.” He looked at the photographagain himself reflecting, with faint surprise, that he had not thought of thedead man in quite that way. Was he a nice man? He had been assumingjust the contrary. Assuming it unconsciously perhaps, or influenced per-haps by the fact that the man had a card in his pocket which bore a nameand an address which were obviously false. But the explanation he hadgiven to Mrs. Lawton just now might have been the true one. It mighthave been that the card did represent some bogus insurance agent whohad pressed the card upon the dead man. And that, he thought wryly,would really make the whole thing even more difficult. He glanced at hiswatch again.

“I mustn’t keep you from your cooking any longer,” he said, “since yourniece is not home yet—”

Mrs. Lawton in turn looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Only oneclock in this room, thank heaven,” thought the inspector to himself.

“Yes, she is late,” she remarked. “Surprising really. It’s a good thingEdna didn’t wait.”

Seeing a slightly puzzled expression on Hardcastle’s face, she explained.

“It’s just one of the girls from the office. She came here to see Sheila thisevening and she waited a bit but after a while she said she couldn’t waitany longer. She’d got a date with someone. She said it would do tomorrow,or some other time.”

Enlightenment came to the inspector. The girl he had passed in thestreet! He knew now why she’d made him think of shoes. Of course. It wasthe girl who had received him in the Cavendish Bureau and the girl who,when he left, had been holding up a shoe with a stiletto heel torn off it,and had been discussing in unhappy puzzlement how on earth she wasgoing to get home like that. A nondescript kind of girl, he remembered,not very attractive, sucking some kind of sweet as she talked. She had re-cognized him when she passed him in the street, although he had not re-cognized her. She had hesitated, too, as though she thought of speaking tohim. He wondered rather idly what she had wanted to say. Had shewanted to explain why she was calling on Sheila Webb or had she thoughthe would expect her to say something? He asked:

“Is she a great friend of your niece’s?”

“Well, not particularly,” said Mrs. Lawton. “I mean they work in thesame office and all that, but she’s rather a dull girl. Not very bright andshe and Sheila aren’t particular friends. In fact, I wondered why she wasso keen to see Sheila tonight. She said it was something she couldn’t un-derstand and that she wanted to ask Sheila about it.”

“She didn’t tell you what it was?”

“No, she said it would keep and it didn’t matter.”

“I see. Well, I must be going.”

“It’s odd,” said Mrs. Lawton, “that Sheila hasn’t telephoned. She usuallydoes if she’s late, because the professor sometimes asks her to stay to din-ner. Ah, well, I expect she’ll be here any moment now. There are a lot ofbus queues sometimes and the Curlew Hotel is quite a good way along theEsplanade. There’s nothing—no message—you want to leave for Sheila?”

“I think not,” said the inspector.

As he went out he asked, “By the way, who chose your niece’s Christiannames, Rosemary and Sheila? Your sister or yourself?”

“Sheila was our mother’s name. Rosemary was my sister’s choice. Funnyname to choose really. Fanciful. And yet my sister wasn’t fanciful or senti-mental in any way.”

“Well, good night, Mrs. Lawton.”

As the inspector turned the corner from the gateway into the street hethought, “Rosemary — hm … Rosemary for remembrance. Romantic re-membrance? Or—something quite different?”