The Clocks - Agatha Christie [36]
“I think the same.”
“We didn’t get much,” Hardcastle sighed. “Of course there are things that seem queer. For instance, it seems almost impossible that Mrs. Hemming—no matter how wrapped up in her cats she is—should know so little about her neighbour, Miss Pebmarsh, as she does. And also that she should be so extremely vague and uninterested in the murder.”
“She is a vague kind of woman.”
“Scatty!” said Hardcastle. “When you meet a scatty woman—well, fires, burglaries, murders can go on all round them and they wouldn’t notice it.”
“She’s very well fenced in with all that wire netting, and that Victorian shrubbery doesn’t leave you much of a view.”
They had arrived back at the police station. Hardcastle grinned at his friend and said:
“Well, Sergeant Lamb, I can let you go off duty now.”
“No more visits to pay?”
“Not just now. I must pay one more later, but I’m not taking you with me.”
“Well, thanks for this morning. Can you get these notes of mine typed up?” He handed them over. “Inquest is the day after tomorrow you said? What time?”
“Eleven.”
“Right. I’ll be back for it.”
“Are you going away?”
“I’ve got to go up to London tomorrow—make my report up to date.”
“I can guess who to.”
“You’re not allowed to do that.”
Hardcastle grinned.
“Give the old boy my love.”
“Also, I may be going to see a specialist,” said Colin.
“A specialist? What for? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing—bar thickheadedness. I don’t mean that kind of a specialist. One in your line.”
“Scotland Yard?”
“No. A private detective—a friend of my Dad’s—and a friend of mine. This fantastic business of yours will be just down his street. He’ll love it—it will cheer him up. I’ve an idea he needs cheering up.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hercule Poirot.”
“I’ve heard of him. I thought he was dead.”
“He’s not dead. But I have a feeling he’s bored. That’s worse.”
Hardcastle looked at him curiously.
“You’re an odd fellow, Colin. You make such unlikely friends.”
“Including you,” Colin said, and grinned.
Twelve
Having dismissed Colin, Inspector Hardcastle looked at the address neatly written in his notebook and nodded his head. Then he slipped the book back in his pocket and started to deal with the routine matters that had piled up on his desk.
It was a busy day for him. He sent out for coffee and sandwiches, and received reports from Sergeant Cray—no helpful lead had come up. Nobody at the railway station or buses had recognized the photograph of Mr. Curry. The laboratory reports on clothing added up to nil. The suit had been made by a good tailor, but the tailor’s name had been removed. Desire for anonymity on the part of Mr. Curry? Or on the part of his killer. Details of dentistry had been circulated to the proper quarters and were probably the most helpful leads—it took a little time—but it got results in the end. Unless, of course, Mr. Curry had been a foreigner? Hardcastle considered the idea. There might be a possibility that the dead man was French—on the other hand his clothes were definitely not French. No laundry marks had helped yet.
Hardcastle was not impatient. Identification was quite often a slow job. But in the end, someone always came forward. A laundry, a dentist, a doctor, a landlady. The picture of the dead man would be circulated to police stations, would be reproduced in newspapers. Sooner or later, Mr. Curry would be known in his rightful identity.
In the meantime there was work to be done, and not only on the Curry case. Hardcastle worked without a break until half past five. He looked at his wristwatch again and decided the time was ripe for the call he wanted to make.
Sergeant Cray had reported that Sheila Webb had resumed work at the Cavendish Bureau, and that at five o’clock she would be working with Professor Purdy at the Curlew Hotel and that she was unlikely to leave there until well after six.
What was the aunt’s name again? Lawton—Mrs. Lawton. 14, Palmerston Road. He did not take a police car but chose to walk the short distance.
Palmerston