III

Going out of the gate I almost cannoned into Mrs. McNaughton. She wascarrying a shopping bag and seemed very wobbly on her feet.

“Let me,” I said and took it from her. She was inclined to clutch it fromme at first, then she leaned her head forward, peering at me, and relaxedher grip.

“You’re the young man from the police,” she said. “I didn’t recognizeyou at first.”

I carried the shopping bag to her front door and she teetered beside me.

The shopping bag was unexpectedly heavy. I wondered what was in it.

Pounds of potatoes?

“Don’t ring,” she said. “The door isn’t locked.”

Nobody’s door seemed ever to be locked in Wilbraham Crescent.

“And how are you getting on with things?” she asked chattily. “He seemsto have married very much below him.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Who did—I’ve been away,” I explained.

“Oh, I see. Shadowing someone, I suppose. I meant that Mrs. Rival. Iwent to the inquest. Such a common-looking woman. I must say she didn’tseem much upset by her husband’s death.”

“She hadn’t see him for fifteen years,” I explained.

“Angus and I have been married for twenty years.” She sighed. “It’s along time. And so much gardening now that he isn’t at the university … Itmakes it difficult to know what to do with oneself.”

At that moment, Mr. McNaughton, spade in hand, came round thecorner of the house.

“Oh, you’re back, my dear. Let me take the things—”

“Just put it in the kitchen,” said Mrs. McNaughton to me swiftly—her el-bow nudged me. “Just the Cornflakes and the eggs and a melon,” she saidto her husband, smiling brightly.

I deposited the bag on the kitchen table. It clinked.

Cornflakes, my foot! I let my spy’s instincts take over. Under a camou-flage of sheet gelatine were three bottles of whisky.

I understood why Mrs. McNaughton was sometimes so bright and gar-rulous and why she was occasionally a little unsteady on her feet. Andpossibly why McNaughton had resigned his Chair.

It was a morning for neighbours. I met Mr. Bland as I was going alongthe crescent towards Albany Road. Mr. Bland seemed in very good form.

He recognized me at once.

“How are you? How’s crime? Got your dead body identified, I see. Seemsto have treated that wife of his rather badly. By the way, excuse me,you’re not one of the locals, are you?”

I said evasively I had come down from London.

“So the Yard was interested, was it?”

“Well—” I drew the word out in a noncommittal way.

“I understand. Mustn’t tell tales out of school. You weren’t at the in-quest, though.”

I said I had been abroad.

“So have I, my boy. So have I!” He winked at me.

“Gay Paree?” I asked, winking back.

“Wish it had been. No, only a day trip to Boulogne.”

He dug me in the side with his elbow (quite like Mrs. McNaughton!).

“Didn’t take the wife. Teamed up with a very nice little bit. Blonde. Quitea hot number.”

“Business trip?” I said. We both laughed like men of the world.

He went on towards No. 61 and I walked on towards Albany Road.

I was dissatisfied with myself. As Poirot had said, there should havebeen more to be got out of the neighbours. It was positively unnatural thatnobody should have seen anything! Perhaps Hardcastle had asked thewrong questions. But could I think of any better ones? As I turned into Al-bany Road I made a mental list of questions. It went something like this:

Mr. Curry (Castleton) had been doped—When? ditto had been killed—Where?

Mr. Curry (Castleton) had been taken to No. 19—How?

Somebody must have seen something!—Who? ditto—What?

I turned to the left again. Now I was walking along Wilbraham Crescentjust as I had walked on September 9th. Should I call on Miss Pebmarsh?

Ring the bell and say—well, what should I say?

Call on Miss Waterhouse? But what on earth could I say to her?

Mrs. Hemming perhaps? It wouldn’t much matter what one said to Mrs.

Hemming. She wouldn’t be listening, and what she said, however haphaz-ard and irrelevant, might lead to something.

I walked along, mentally noting the numbers as I had before. Had thelate Mr. Curry come along here, also noting numbers, until he came to thenumber he meant to visit?

Wilbraham Crescent had never looked primmer. I almost found myselfexclaiming in Victorian fashion, “Oh! if these stones could speak!” It was afavourite quotation in those days, so it seemed. But stones don’t speak, nomore do bricks and mortar, nor even plaster nor stucco. Wilbraham Cres-cent remained silently itself. Old-fashioned, aloof, rather shabby, and notgiven to conversation. Disapproving, I was sure, of itinerant prowlers whodidn’t even know what they were looking for.

There were few people about, a couple of boys on bicycles passed me,two women with shopping bags. The houses themselves might have beenembalmed like mummies for all the signs of life there were in them. Iknew why that was. It was already, or close upon, the sacred hour of one,an hour sanctified by English traditions to the consuming of a middaymeal. In one or two houses I could see through the uncurtained windowsa group of one or two people round a dining table, but even that was ex-ceedingly rare. Either the windows were discreetly screened with nylonnetting, as opposed to the once popular Nottingham lace, or—which wasfar more probable—anyone who was at home was eating in the “modern”

kitchen, according to the custom of the 1960’s.

It was, I reflected, a perfect hour of day for a murder. Had the murdererthought of that, I wondered? Was it part of the murderer’s plan? I came atlast to No. 19.

Like so many other moronic members of the populace I stood andstared. There was, by now, no other human being in sight. “No neigh-bours,” I said sadly, “no intelligent onlookers.”

I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder. I had been wrong. There was a neigh-bour here, all right, a very useful neighbour if the neighbour had onlybeen able to speak. I had been leaning against the post of No. 20, and thesame large orange cat I had seen before was sitting on the gatepost. Istopped and exchanged a few words with him, first detaching his playfulclaw from my shoulder.

“If cats could speak,” I offered him as a conversational opening.

The orange cat opened his mouth, gave a loud melodious miaow.

“I know you can,” I said. “I know you can speak just as well as I can. Butyou’re not speaking my language. Were you sitting here that day? Did yousee who went into that house or came out of it? Do you know all aboutwhat happened? I wouldn’t put it past you, puss.”

The cat took my remark in poor part. He turned his back on me andbegan to switch his tail.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty,” I said.

He gave me a cold look over his shoulder and started industriously towash himself. Neighbours, I reflected bitterly! There was no doubt aboutit, neighbours were in short supply in Wilbraham Crescent. What Iwanted—what Hardcastle wanted—was some nice gossipy, prying, peer-ing old lady with time hanging heavy on her hands. Always hoping to lookout and see something scandalous. The trouble is that that kind of old ladyseems to have died out nowadays. They are all sitting grouped together inOld Ladies’ Homes with every comfort for the aged, or crowding up hos-pitals where beds are needed urgently for the really sick. The lame andthe halt and the old didn’t live in their own houses anymore, attended by afaithful domestic or by some half- witted poor relation glad of a goodhome. It was a serious setback to criminal investigation.

I looked across the road. Why couldn’t there be any neighbours there?

Why couldn’t there be a neat row of houses facing me instead of thatgreat, inhuman- looking concrete block. A kind of human beehive, nodoubt, tenanted by worker bees who were out all day and only came backin the evening to wash their smalls or make up their faces and go out tomeet their young men. By contrast with the inhumanity of that block offlats I began almost to have a kindly feeling for the faded Victorian gentil-ity of Wilbraham Crescent.

My eye was caught by a flash of light somewhere halfway up the build-ing. It puzzled me. I stared up. Yes, there it came again. An open windowand someone looking through it. A face slightly obliterated by somethingthat was being held up to it. The flash of light came again. I dropped ahand into my pocket. I keep a good many things in my pockets, things thatmay be useful. You’d be surprised at what is useful sometimes. A little ad-hesive tape. A few quite innocent- looking instruments which are quitecapable of opening most locked doors, a tin of grey powder labelled some-thing which it isn’t and an insufflator to use with it, and one or two otherlittle gadgets which most people wouldn’t recognize for what they are.

Amongst other things I had a pocket bird watcher. Not a high-poweredone but just good enough to be useful. I took this out and raised it to myeye.

There was a child at the window. I could see a long plait of hair lyingover one shoulder. She had a pair of small opera glasses and she wasstudying me with what might have been flattering attention. As there wasnothing else for her to look at, however, it might not be as flattering as itseemed. At that moment, however, there was another midday distractionin Wilbraham Crescent.

A very old Rolls-Royce came with dignity along the road driven by avery elderly chauffeur. He looked dignified but rather disgusted with life.

He passed me with the solemnity of a whole procession of cars. My childobserver, I noticed, was now training her opera glasses on him. I stoodthere, thinking.

It is always my belief that if you wait long enough, you’re bound to havesome stroke of luck. Something that you can’t count upon and that youwould never have thought of, but which just happens. Was it possible thatthis might be mine? Looking up again at the big square block, I noted care-fully the position of the particular window I was interested in, countingfrom it to each end and up from the ground. Third floor. Then I walkedalong the street till I came to the entrance to the block of flats. It had awide carriagedrive sweeping round the block with neatly spaced flowerbeds at strategic positions in the grass.

It’s always well, I find, to go through all the motions, so I stepped off thecarriage drive towards the block, looked up over my head as thoughstartled, bent down to the grass, pretended to hunt about and finallystraightened up, apparently transferring something from my hand to mypocket. Then I walked round the block until I came to the entrance.

At most times of the day I should think there was a porter here, butbetween the sacred hour of one and two the entrance hall was empty.

There was a bell with a large sign above it, saying PORTER, but I did notring it. There was an automatic lift and I went to it and pressed a buttonfor the third floor. After that I had to check things pretty carefully.

It looks simple enough from the outside to place one particular room,but the inside of a building is confusing. However, I’ve had a good deal ofpractice at that sort of thing in my time, and I was fairly sure that I’d gotthe right door. The number on it, for better or worse, was No. 77. “Well,” Ithought, “sevens are lucky. Here goes.” I pressed the bell and stood back toawait events.