The Clocks - Agatha Christie [55]
“That would have been risky too. People notice a car.”
“Nobody did. But I agree that the murderer couldn’t know that they wouldn’t. Passersby would have noted a car stopping at Number 19 that day—”
“I wonder if they would notice,” I said. “Everyone’s so used to cars. Unless, of course, it had been a very lush car—something unusual, but that’s not likely—”
“And of course it was the lunch hour. You realize, Colin, that this brings Miss Millicent Pebmarsh back into the picture? It seems farfetched to think of an able-bodied man being stabbed by a blind woman—but if he was doped—”
“In other words ‘if he came there to be killed,’ as our Mrs. Hemming put it, he arrived by appointment quite unsuspiciously, was offered a sherry or a cocktail—the Mickey Finn took effect and Miss Pebmarsh got to work. Then she washed up the Mickey Finn glass, arranged the body neatly on the floor, threw the knife into her neighbour’s garden, and tripped out as usual.”
“Telephoning to the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau on the way—”
“And why should she do that? And ask particularly for Sheila Webb?”
“I wish we knew.” Hardcastle looked at me. “Does she know? The girl herself?”
“She says not.”
“She says not,” Hardcastle repeated tonelessly. “I’m asking you what you think about it?”
I didn’t speak for a moment or two. What did I think? I had to decide right now on my course of action. The truth would come out in the end. It would do Sheila no harm if she were what I believed her to be.
With a brusque movement I pulled a postcard out of my pocket and shoved it across the table.
“Sheila got this through the post.”
Hardcastle scanned it. It was one of a series of postcards of London buildings. It represented the Central Criminal Court. Hardcastle turned it over. On the right was the address—in neat printing. Miss R. S. Webb, 14, Palmerston Road, Crowdean, Sussex. On the left-hand side, also printed, was the word REMEMBER! and below it 4:13.
“4:13,” said Hardcastle. “That was the time the clocks showed that day.” He shook his head. “A picture of the Old Bailey, the word ‘Remember’ and a time—4:13. It must tie up with something.”
“She says she doesn’t know what it means.” I added: “I believe her.”
Hardcastle nodded.
“I’m keeping this. We may get something from it.”
“I hope you do.”
There was embarrassment between us. To relieve it, I said:
“You’ve got a lot of bumf there.”
“All the usual. And most of it no damned good. The dead man hadn’t got a criminal record, his fingerprints aren’t on file. Practically all this stuff is from people who claim to have recognized him.” He read:
“‘Dear Sir, the picture that was in the paper I’m almost sure is the same as a man who was catching a train at Willesden Junction the other day. He was muttering to himself and looking very wild and excited, I thought when I saw him there must be something wrong.’
“‘Dear Sir, I think this man looks very like my husband’s cousin John. He went abroad to South Africa but it may be that he’s come back. He had a moustache when he went away but of course he could have shaved that off.’
“‘Dear Sir, I saw the man in the paper in a tube train last night. I thought at the time there was something peculiar about him.’
“And of course there are all the women who recognize husbands. Women don’t really seem to know what their husbands look like! There are hopeful mothers who recognize sons they have not seen for twenty years.
“And here’s the list of missing persons. Nothing here likely to help us. ‘George Barlow, 65, missing from home. His wife thinks he must have lost his memory.’ And a note below: ‘Owes a lot of money. Has been seen going about with a red-haired widow. Almost certain to have done a bunk.’
“Next one: ‘Professor Hargraves, expected to deliver a lecture last Tuesday. Did not turn up and sent no wire or note of excuse.’”
Hardcastle did not appear to consider Professor Hargraves seriously.
“Thought the lecture was the week before or the week after,” he said. “Probably thought he had told his housekeeper where he was going but hasn’t done so. We get a lot of