The Clocks - Agatha Christie [13]
“I am just coming to that. When Miss Webb arrived at 19, Wilbraham Crescent she walked into the house and into the sitting room. She has told me that those were the directions given her. You agree?”
“Quite right,” said Miss Martindale. “Miss Pebmarsh said that she might be a little late in getting home and that Sheila was to go in and wait.”
“When Miss Webb went into the sitting room,” continued Hardcastle, “she found a dead man lying on the floor.”
Miss Martindale stared at him. For a moment she could hardly find her voice.
“Did you say a dead man, Inspector?”
“A murdered man,” said Hardcastle. “Stabbed, actually.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Martindale. “The girl must have been very upset.”
It seemed the kind of understatement characteristic of Miss Martindale.
“Does the name of Curry mean anything to you, Miss Martindale? Mr. R.H. Curry?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“From the Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Company?”
Miss Martindale continued to shake her head.
“You see my dilemma,” said the inspector. “You say Miss Pebmarsh telephoned you and asked for Sheila Webb to go to her house at three o’clock. Miss Pebmarsh denies doing any such thing. Sheila Webb gets there. She finds a dead man there.” He waited hopefully.
Miss Martindale looked at him blankly.
“It all seems to me wildly improbable,” she said disapprovingly.
Dick Hardcastle sighed and got up.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said politely. “You’ve been in business some time, haven’t you?”
“Fifteen years. We have done extremely well. Starting in quite a small way, we have extended the business until we have almost more than we can cope with. I now employ eight girls, and they are kept busy all the time.”
“You do a good deal of literary work, I see.” Hardcastle was looking up at the photographs on the wall.
“Yes, to start with I specialized in authors. I had been secretary to the well-known thriller writer, Mr. Garry Gregson, for many years. In fact, it was with a legacy from him that I started this Bureau. I knew a good many of his fellow authors and they recommended me. My specialized knowledge of authors’ requirements came in very useful. I offer a very helpful service in the way of necessary research—dates and quotations, inquiries as to legal points and police procedure, and details of poison schedules. All that sort of thing. Then foreign names and addresses and restaurants for people who set their novels in foreign places. In old days the public didn’t really mind so much about accuracy, but nowadays readers take it upon themselves to write to authors on every possible occasion, pointing out flaws.”
Miss Martindale paused. Hardcastle said politely: “I’m sure you have every cause to congratulate yourself.”
He moved towards the door. I opened it ahead of him.
In the outer office, the three girls were preparing to leave. Lids had been placed on typewriters. The receptionist, Edna, was standing forlornly, holding in one hand a stiletto heel and in the other a shoe from which it had been torn.
“I’ve only had them a month,” she was wailing. “And they were quite expensive. It’s that beastly grating—the one at the corner by the cake shop quite near here. I caught my heel in it and off it came. I couldn’t walk, had to take both shoes off and come back here with a couple of buns, and how I’ll ever get home or get on to the bus I really don’t know—”
At that moment our presence was noted and Edna hastily concealed the offending shoe with an apprehensive glance towards Miss Martindale whom I appreciated was not the sort of woman to approve of stiletto heels. She herself was wearing sensible flat-heeled leather shoes.
“Thank you, Miss Martindale,” said Hardcastle. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. If anything