II

I was sitting on the front step of Hardcastle’s house, and rose out of thegloom to greet him when he got home on the following evening.

“Hallo, Colin? Is that you? So you’ve appeared out of the blue again,have you?”

“If you called it out of the red, it would be much more appropriate.”

“How long have you been here, sitting on my front doorstep?”

“Oh, half an hour or so.”

“Sorry you couldn’t get into the house.”

“I could have got into the house with perfect ease,” I said indignantly.

“You don’t know our training!”

“Then why didn’t you get in?”

“I wouldn’t like to lower your prestige in any way,” I explained. “A de-tective inspector of police would be bound to lose face if his house wereentered burglariously with complete ease.”

Hardcastle took his keys from his pocket and opened the front door.

“Come on in,” he said, “and don’t talk nonsense.”

He led the way into the sitting room, and proceeded to supply liquid re-freshment.

“Say when.”

I said it, not too soon, and we settled ourselves with our drinks.

“Things are moving at last,” said Hardcastle. “We’ve identified ourcorpse.”

“I know. I looked up the newspaper files—who was Harry Castleton?”

“A man of apparently the utmost respectability and who made his livingby going through a form of marriage or merely getting engaged to well-to-do credulous women. They entrusted their savings to him, impressed byhis superior knowledge of finance and shortly afterwards he quietly fadedinto the blue.”

“He didn’t look that kind of man,” I said, casting my mind back.

“That was his chief asset.”

“Wasn’t he ever prosecuted?”

“No—we’ve made inquiries but it isn’t easy to get much information. Hechanged his name fairly often. And although they think at the Yard thatHarry Castleton, Raymond Blair, Lawrence Dalton, Roger Byron were allone and the same person, they never could prove it. The women, you see,wouldn’t tell. They preferred to lose their money. The man was reallymore of a name than anything—cropping up here and there—always thesame pattern—but incredibly elusive. Roger Byron, say, would disappearfrom Southend, and a man called Lawrence Dalton would commence op-erations in Newcastle on Tyne. He was shy of being photographed —eluded his lady friends’ desire to snapshot him. All this goes quite a longtime back—fifteen to twenty years. About that time he seemed really todisappear. The rumour spread about that he was dead—but some peoplesaid he had gone abroad—”

“Anyway, nothing was heard of him until he turned up, dead, on MissPebmarsh’s sitting room carpet?” I said.

“Exactly.”

“It certainly opens up possibilities.”

“It certainly does.”

“A woman scorned who never forgot?” I suggested.

“It does happen, you know. There are women with long memories whodon’t forget—”

“And if such a woman were to go blind—a second affliction on top of theother—”

“That’s only conjecture. Nothing to substantiate it as yet.”

“What was the wife like—Mrs—what was it?—Merlina Rival? What aname! It can’t be her own.”

“Her real name is Flossie Gapp. The other she invented. More suitablefor her way of life.”

“What is she? A tart?”

“Not a professional.”

“What used to be called, tactfully, a lady of easy virtue?”

“I should say she was a good-natured woman, and one willing to obligeher friends. Described herself as an ex-actress. Occasionally did ‘hostess’

work. Quite likeable.”

“Reliable?”

“As reliable as most. Her recognition was quite positive. No hesitation.”

“That’s a blessing.”

“Yes. I was beginning to despair. The amount of wives I’ve had here! I’dbegun to think it’s a wise woman who knows her own husband. Mind you,I think Mrs. Rival might have known a little more about her husband thanshe lets on.”

“Has she herself ever been mixed up in criminal activities?”

“Not for the record. I think she may have had, perhaps still has, someshady friends. Nothing serious—just fiddles—that kind of thing.”

“What about the clocks?”

“Didn’t mean a thing to her. I think she was speaking the truth. We’vetraced where they came from—Portobello Market. That’s the ormolu andthe Dresden china. And very little help that is! You know what it’s like on aSaturday there. Bought by an American lady, the stall keeper thinks—butI’d say that’s just a guess. Portobello Market is full of American tourists.

His wife says it was a man bought them. She can’t remember what helooked like. The silver one came from a silversmith in Bournemouth. A talllady who wanted a present for her little girl! All she can remember abouther is she wore a green hat.”

“And the fourth clock? The one that disappeared?”

“No comment,” said Hardcastle.

I knew just what he meant by that.