The Clocks - Agatha Christie [14]
“Naturally,” said Miss Martindale, cutting him short rather brusquely.
As we got into the car, I said:
“So Sheila Webb’s story, in spite of your suspicions, turns out to have been quite true.”
“All right, all right,” said Dick. “You win.”
Five
“Mom!” said Ernie Curtin, desisting for a moment from his occupation of running a small metal model up and down the window pane, accompanying it with a semi-zooming, semi-moaning noise intended to reproduce a rocket ship going through outer space on its way to Venus, “Mom, what d’you think?”
Mrs. Curtin, a stern-faced woman who was busy washing up crockery in the sink, made no response.
“Mom, there’s a police car drawn up outside our house.”
“Don’t you tell no more of yer lies, Ernie,” said Mrs. Curtin as she banged cups and saucers down on the draining board. “You know what I’ve said to you about that before.”
“I never,” said Ernie virtuously. “And it’s a police car right enough, and there’s two men gettin’ out.”
Mrs. Curtin wheeled round on her offspring.
“What’ve you been doing now?” she demanded. “Bringing us into disgrace, that’s what it is!”
“Course I ain’t,” said Ernie. “I ’aven’t done nothin’.”
“It’s going with that Alf,” said Mrs. Curtin. “Him and his gang. Gangs indeed! I’ve told you, and yer father’s told you, that gangs isn’t respectable. In the end there’s trouble. First it’ll be the juvenile court and then you’ll be sent to a remand home as likely as not. And I won’t have it, d’you hear?”
“They’re comin’ up to the front door,” Ernie announced.
Mrs. Curtin abandoned the sink and joined her offspring at the window.
“Well,” she muttered.
At that moment the knocker was sounded. Wiping her hands quickly on the tea towel, Mrs. Curtin went out into the passage and opened the door. She looked with defiance and doubt at the two men on her doorstep.
“Mrs. Curtin?” said the taller of the two, pleasantly.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Curtin.
“May I come in a moment? I’m Detective Inspector Hardcastle.”
Mrs. Curtin drew back rather unwillingly. She threw open a door and motioned the inspector inside. It was a very neat, clean little room and gave the impression of seldom being entered, which impression was entirely correct.
Ernie, drawn by curiosity, came down the passage from the kitchen and sidled inside the door.
“Your son?” said Detective Inspector Hardcastle.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Curtin, and added belligerently, “he’s a good boy, no matter what you say.”
“I’m sure he is,” said Detective Inspector Hardcastle, politely.
Some of the defiance in Mrs. Curtin’s face relaxed.
“I’ve come to ask you a few questions about 19, Wilbraham Crescent. You work there, I understand.”
“Never said I didn’t,” said Mrs. Curtin, unable yet to shake off her previous mood.
“For a Miss Millicent Pebmarsh.”
“Yes, I work for Miss Pebmarsh. A very nice lady.”
“Blind,” said Detective Inspector Hardcastle.
“Yes, poor soul. But you’d never know it. Wonderful the way she can put her hand on anything and find her way about. Goes out in the street, too, and over the crossings. She’s not one to make a fuss about things, not like some people I know.”
“You work there in the mornings?”
“That’s right. I come about half past nine to ten, and leave at twelve o’clock or when I’m finished.” Then sharply, “You’re not saying as anything ’as been stolen, are you?”
“Quite the reverse,” said the inspector, thinking of four clocks.
Mrs. Curtin looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“What’s the trouble?” she asked.
“A man was found dead in the sitting room at 19, Wilbraham Crescent this afternoon.”
Mrs. Curtin stared. Ernie Curtin wriggled in ecstasy, opened his mouth to say “Coo,” thought it unwise to draw attention to his presence, and shut it again.
“Dead?” said Mrs. Curtin unbelievingly. And with even more unbelief, “In the sitting room?”
“Yes. He’d been stabbed.”
“You mean it’s murder?”
“Yes, murder.”
“Oo murdered ’im?” demanded Mrs. Curtin.
“I’m afraid we haven’t got quite so far as that yet,” said Inspector Hardcastle. “We thought perhaps you may be able to