The Clocks - Agatha Christie [72]
“Things are moving at last,” said Hardcastle. “We’ve identified our corpse.”
“I know. I looked up the newspaper files—who was Harry Castleton?”
“A man of apparently the utmost respectability and who made his living by going through a form of marriage or merely getting engaged to well-to-do credulous women. They entrusted their savings to him, impressed by his superior knowledge of finance and shortly afterwards he quietly faded into the blue.”
“He didn’t look that kind of man,” I said, casting my mind back.
“That was his chief asset.”
“Wasn’t he ever prosecuted?”
“No—we’ve made inquiries but it isn’t easy to get much information. He changed his name fairly often. And although they think at the Yard that Harry Castleton, Raymond Blair, Lawrence Dalton, Roger Byron were all one and the same person, they never could prove it. The women, you see, wouldn’t tell. They preferred to lose their money. The man was really more of a name than anything—cropping up here and there—always the same pattern—but incredibly elusive. Roger Byron, say, would disappear from Southend, and a man called Lawrence Dalton would commence operations in Newcastle on Tyne. He was shy of being photographed—eluded his lady friends’ desire to snapshot him. All this goes quite a long time back—fifteen to twenty years. About that time he seemed really to disappear. The rumour spread about that he was dead—but some people said he had gone abroad—”
“Anyway, nothing was heard of him until he turned up, dead, on Miss Pebmarsh’s sitting room carpet?” I said.
“Exactly.”
“It certainly opens up possibilities.”
“It certainly does.”
“A woman scorned who never forgot?” I suggested.
“It does happen, you know. There are women with long memories who don’t forget—”
“And if such a woman were to go blind—a second affliction on top of the other—”
“That’s only conjecture. Nothing to substantiate it as yet.”
“What was the wife like—Mrs—what was it?—Merlina Rival? What a name! It can’t be her own.”
“Her real name is Flossie Gapp. The other she invented. More suitable for her way of life.”
“What is she? A tart?”
“Not a professional.”
“What used to be called, tactfully, a lady of easy virtue?”
“I should say she was a good-natured woman, and one willing to oblige her friends. Described herself as an ex-actress. Occasionally did ‘hostess’ work. Quite likeable.”
“Reliable?”
“As reliable as most. Her recognition was quite positive. No hesitation.”
“That’s a blessing.”
“Yes. I was beginning to despair. The amount of wives I’ve had here! I’d begun to think it’s a wise woman who knows her own husband. Mind you, I think Mrs. Rival might have known a little more about her husband than she lets on.”
“Has she herself ever been mixed up in criminal activities?”
“Not for the record. I think she may have had, perhaps still has, some shady friends. Nothing serious—just fiddles—that kind of thing.”
“What about the clocks?”
“Didn’t mean a thing to her. I think she was speaking the truth. We’ve traced where they came from—Portobello Market. That’s the ormolu and the Dresden china. And very little help that is! You know what it’s like on a Saturday there. Bought by an American lady, the stall keeper thinks—but I’d say that’s just a guess. Portobello Market is full of American tourists. His wife says it was a man bought them. She can’t remember what he looked like. The silver one came from a silversmith in Bournemouth. A tall lady who wanted a present for her little girl! All she can remember about her is she wore a green hat.”
“And the fourth clock? The one that disappeared?”
“No comment,” said Hardcastle.
I knew just what he meant by that.
Twenty-three
COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE
The hotel I was staying in was a poky little place by the station. It served a decent grill but that was all that could be said for it. Except, of course, that it was cheap.
At ten o’clock the following morning I rang the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau and said that I wanted a shorthand typist to take down some letters and retype a business agreement. My name was Douglas Weatherby and I was