By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [61]
‘Where to?’
Tommy hesitated for a moment, looking at his parcel. About to give an address he changed his mind and said, ‘14 Lyon Street.’
A quarter of an hour later he had reached his destination. He rang the bell after paying off the taxi and asked for Mr Ivor Smith. When he entered a second-floor room, a man sitting at a table facing the window, swung round and said with faint surprise,
‘Hullo, Tommy, fancy seeing you. It’s a long time. What are you doing here? Just tooling round looking up your old friends?’
‘Not quite as good as that, Ivor.’
‘I suppose you’re on your way home after the Conference?’
‘Yes.’
‘All a lot of the usual talky-talky, I suppose? No conclusions drawn and nothing helpful said.’
‘Quite right. All a sheer waste of time.’
‘Mostly listening to old Bogie Waddock shooting his mouth off, I expect. Crashing bore. Gets worse every year.’
‘Oh! well–’
Tommy sat down in the chair that was pushed towards him, accepted a cigarette, and said,
‘I just wondered–it’s a very long shot–whether you know anything of a derogatory nature about one Eccles, solicitor, of the firm of Messrs Partingdale, Harris, Lockeridge and Partingdale.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said the man called Ivor Smith. He raised his eyebrows. They were very convenient eyebrows for raising. The end of them near the nose went up and the opposite end of the cheek went down for an almost astonishing extent. They made him on very little provocation look like a man who had had a severe shock, but actually it was quite a common gesture with him. ‘Run up against Eccles somewhere have you?’
‘The trouble is,’ said Tommy, ‘that I know nothing about him.’
‘And you want to know something about him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hm. What made you come to see me?’
‘I saw Anderson outside. It was a long time since I’d seen him but I recognized him. He was keeping someone or other under observation. Whoever it was, it was someone in the building from which I had just emerged. Two firms of lawyers practise there and one firm of chartered accountants. Of course it may be any one of them or any member of any one of them. But a man walking away down the street looked to me like Eccles. And I just wondered if by a lucky chance it could have been my Mr Eccles that Anderson was giving his attention to?’
‘Hm,’ said Ivor Smith. ‘Well, Tommy, you always were a pretty good guesser.’
‘Who is Eccles?’
‘Don’t you know? Haven’t you any idea?’
‘I’ve no idea whatever,’ said Tommy. ‘Without going into a long history, I went to him for some information about an old lady who has recently left an old ladies’ home. The solicitor employed to make arrangements for her was Mr Eccles. He appears to have done it with perfect decorum and efficiency. I wanted her present address. He says he hasn’t got it. Quite possibly he hasn’t…but I wondered. He’s the only clue to her whereabouts I’ve got.’
‘And you want to find her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think it sounds as though I’m going to be much good to you. Eccles is a very respectable, sound solicitor who makes a large income, has a good many highly respectable clients, works for the landed gentry, professional classes and retired soldiers and sailors, generals and admirals and all that sort of thing. He’s the acme of respectability. I should imagine from what you’re talking about, that he was strictly within his lawful activities.’
‘But you’re–interested in him,’ suggested Tommy.
‘Yes, we’re very interested in Mr James Eccles.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve been interested in him for at least six years. We haven’t progressed very far.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll ask you again. Who exactly is Mr Eccles?’
‘You mean what do we suspect Eccles of? Well, to put it in a sentence, we suspect him of being one of the best organizing brains