4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [66]
With a sense of shock Lucy realized that there was a definite point in Alexander’s conversation.
“All this stepmother bosh,” went on Alexander, still addressing the ceiling, “is really quite out of date. Lots of chaps Stodders and I know have stepmothers—divorce and all that—and they get on quite well together. Depends on the stepmother, of course. And of course, it does make a bit of confusion taking you out and on Sports Day, and all that. I mean if there are two sets of parents. Though again it helps if you want to cash in!” He paused, confronted with the problems of modern life. “It’s nicest to have your own home and your own parents—but if your mother’s dead—well, you see what I mean? If she’s a decent sort,” said Alexander for the third time.
Lucy felt touched.
“I think you’re very sensible, Alexander,” she said. “We must try and find a nice wife for your father.”
“Yes,” said Alexander noncommittally.
He added in an offhand manner:
“I thought I’d just mention it. Bryan likes you very much. He told me so….”
“Really,” thought Lucy to herself. “There’s too much match-making round here. First Miss Marple and now Alexander!”
For some reason or other, pigsties came into her mind.
She stood up.
“Good night, Alexander. There will be only your washing things and pyjamas to put in in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Alexander. He slid down in bed, laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, giving a perfect picture of a sleeping angel; and was immediately asleep.
Nineteen
I
“Not what you’d call conclusive,” said Sergeant Wetherall with his usual gloom.
Craddock was reading through the report on Harold Crackenthorpe’s alibi for 20th December.
He had been noticed at Sotheby’s about three-thirty, but was thought to have left shortly after that. His photograph had not been recognized at Russell’s tea shop, but as they did a busy trade there at teatime, and he was not an habitué, that was hardly surprising. His manservant confirmed that he had returned to Cardigan Gardens to dress for his dinner-party at a quarter to seven—rather late, since the dinner was at seven-thirty, and Mr. Crackenthorpe had been somewhat irritable in consequence. Did not remember hearing him come in that evening, but, as it was some time ago, could not remember accurately and, in any case, he frequently did not hear Mr. Crackenthorpe come in. He and his wife liked to retire early whenever they could. The garage in the mews where Harold kept his car was a private lockup that he rented and there was no one to notice who came and went or any reason to remember one evening in particular.
“All negative,” said Craddock, with a sigh.
“He was at the Caterers’ Dinner all right, but left rather early before the end of the speeches.”
“What about the railway stations?”
But there was nothing there, either at Brackhampton or at Paddington. It was nearly four weeks ago, and it was highly unlikely that anything would have been remembered.
Craddock sighed, and stretched out his hand for the data on Cedric. That again was negative, though a taxi-driver had made a doubtful recognition of having taken a fare to Paddington that day some time in the afternoon “what looked something like that bloke. Dirty trousers and a shock of hair. Cussed and swore a bit because fares had gone up since he was last in England.” He identified the day because a horse called Crawler had won the two-thirty and he’d had a tidy bit on. Just after dropping the gent, he’d heard it on the radio in his cab and had gone home forthwith to celebrate.
“Thank God for racing!” said Craddock, and put the report aside.
“And here’s Alfred,” said Sergeant Wetherall.
Some nuance in his voice made Craddock look up sharply. Wetherall had the pleased appearance of a man who has kept a titbit until the end.
In the main the check was unsatisfactory. Alfred lived alone in his flat and came and went at unspecified times. His neighbours were not the inquisitive kind and were in any case office workers who were out all day. But towards the