The Clocks - Agatha Christie [84]
“So what did you tell Ingrid to say?”
Geraldine began to laugh a deep malicious chuckle. She started to speak but her chuckles prevented her, but at last she got it out.
“I told her to say ‘Get the hell out of here!’ So she said it to Miss Bulstrode next door and Miss Bulstrode was furious. So Ingrid found out and was very cross with me and we didn’t make friends until nearly teatime the next day.”
I digested this information.
“So you concentrated on your opera glasses.”
Geraldine nodded.
“So that’s how I know Mr. Curry didn’t go in by the front door. I think perhaps he got in somehow in the night and hid in an attic. Do you think that’s likely?”
“I suppose anything really is possible,” I said, “but it doesn’t seem to me very probable.”
“No,” said Geraldine, “he would have got hungry, wouldn’t he? And he couldn’t have asked Miss Pebmarsh for breakfast, not if he was hiding from her.”
“And nobody came to the house?” I said. “Nobody at all? Nobody in a car—a tradesman—callers?”
“The grocer comes Mondays and Thursdays,” said Geraldine, “and the milk comes at half past eight in the morning.”
The child was a positive encyclopaedia.
“The cauliflowers and things Miss Pebmarsh buys herself. Nobody called at all except the laundry. It was a new laundry,” she added.
“A new laundry?”
“Yes. It’s usually the Southern Downs Laundry. Most people have the Southern Downs. It was a new laundry that day—the Snowflake Laundry. I’ve never seen the Snowflake Laundry. They must have just started.”
I fought hard to keep any undue interest out of my voice. I didn’t want to start her romancing.
“Did it deliver laundry or call for it?” I asked.
“Deliver it,” said Geraldine. “In a great big basket, too. Much bigger than the usual one.”
“Did Miss Pebmarsh take it in?”
“No, of course not, she’d gone out again.”
“What time was this, Geraldine?”
“1:35 exactly,” said Geraldine. “I wrote it down,” she added proudly.
She motioned towards a small notebook and opening it pointed with a rather dirty forefinger to an entry. 1:35 laundry came. No. 19.
“You ought to be at Scotland Yard,” I said.
“Do they have women detectives? I’d quite like that. I don’t mean policewomen. I think policewomen are silly.”
“You haven’t told me exactly what happened when the laundry came.”
“Nothing happened,” said Geraldine. “The driver got down, opened the van, took out this basket and staggered along round the side of the house to the back door. I expect he couldn’t get in. Miss Pebmarsh probably locks it, so he probably left it there and came back.”
“What did he look like?”
“Just ordinary,” said Geraldine.
“Like me?” I asked.
“Oh, no, much older than you,” said Geraldine, “but I didn’t really see him properly because he drove up to the house—this way.” She pointed to the right. “He drew up in front of 19 although he was on the wrong side of the road. But it doesn’t matter in a street like this. And then he went in through the gate bent over the basket. I could only see the back of his head and when he came out again he was rubbing his face. I expect he found it a bit hot and trying, carrying that basket.”
“And then he drove off again?”
“Yes. Why do you think it so interesting?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I thought perhaps he might have seen something interesting.”
Ingrid flung the door open. She was wheeling a trolley.
“We eat dinner now,” she said, nodding brightly.
“Goody,” said Geraldine, “I’m starving.”
I got up.
“I must be going now,” I said. “Good-bye, Geraldine.”
“Good-bye. What about this thing?” She picked up the fruit knife. “It’s not mine.” Her voice became wistful. “I wish it were.”
“It looks as though it’s nobody’s in particular, doesn’t it?”
“Would that make it treasure trove,