The Clocks - Agatha Christie [90]
“Have you—checked on—anybody?”
I had to ask. I couldn’t help myself.
His reply came swift and sharp.
“The Pebmarsh woman was in London yesterday. She did some business for the Institute and returned to Crowdean by the 7:40 train.” He paused. “And Sheila Webb took up a typescript to check over with a foreign author who was in London on his way to New York. She left the Ritz Hotel at 5:30 approx. and took in a cinema—alone—before returning.”
“Look here, Hardcastle,” I said, “I’ve got something for you. Vouched for by an eyewitness. A laundry van drew up at 19, Wilbraham Crescent at 1:35 on September the 9th. The man who drove it delivered a big laundry basket at the back door of the house. It was a particularly large laundry basket.”
“Laundry? What laundry?”
“The Snowflake Laundry. Know it?”
“Not offhand. New laundries are always starting up. It’s an ordinary sort of name for a laundry.”
“Well—you check up. A man drove it—and a man took the basket into the house—”
Hardcastle’s voice came suddenly, alert with suspicion.
“Are you making this up, Colin?”
“No. I told you I’ve got an eyewitness. Check up, Dick. Get on with it.”
I rang off before he could badger me further.
I walked out from the box and looked at my watch. I had a good deal to do—and I wanted to be out of Hardcastle’s reach whilst I did it. I had my future life to arrange.
Twenty-eight
COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE
I
I arrived at Crowdean at eleven o’clock at night, five days later. I went to the Clarendon Hotel, got a room, and went to bed. I’d been tired the night before and I overslept. I woke up at a quarter to ten.
I sent for coffee and toast and a daily paper. It came and with it a large square note addressed to me with the words BY HAND in the top left-hand corner.
I examined it with some surprise. It was unexpected. The paper was thick and expensive, the superscription neatly printed.
After turning it over and playing with it, I finally opened it.
Inside was a sheet of paper. Printed on it in large letters were the words:
CURLEW HOTEL 11:30
ROOM 413
(Knock three times)
I stared at it, turned it over in my hand—what was all this?
I noted the room number—413—the same as the clocks. A coincidence? Or not a coincidence.
I had thoughts of ringing the Curlew Hotel. Then I thought of ringing Dick Hardcastle. I didn’t do either.
My lethargy was gone. I got up, shaved, washed, dressed and walked along the front to the Curlew Hotel and got there at the appointed time.
The summer season was pretty well over now. There weren’t many people about inside the hotel.
I didn’t make any inquiries at the desk. I went up in the lift to the fourth floor and walked along the corridor to No. 413.
I stood there for a moment or two: then, feeling a complete fool, I knocked three times….
A voice said, “Come in.”
I turned the handle, the door wasn’t locked. I stepped inside and stopped dead.
I was looking at the last person on earth I would have expected to see.
Hercule Poirot sat facing me. He beamed at me.
“Une petite surprise, n’est-ce pas?” he said. “But a pleasant one, I hope.”
“Poirot, you old fox,” I shouted. “How did you get here?”
“I got here in a Daimler limousine—most comfortable.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“It was most vexing. They insisted, positively insisted on the redecoration of my apartment. Imagine my difficulty. What can I do? Where can I go?”
“Lots of places,” I said coldly.
“Possibly, but it is suggested to me by my doctor that the air of the sea will be good for me.”
“One of those obliging doctors who finds out where his patient wants to go, and advises him to go there! Was it you who sent me this?” I brandished the letter I had received.
“Naturally—who else?”
“Is it a coincidence that you have a room whose number is 413?”
“It is not a coincidence. I asked for it specially.”
“Why?”
Poirot put his head on one side and twinkled at me.
“It seemed to be appropriate.”
“And knocking three times?”
“I could not resist it. If I could have enclosed a sprig of rosemary it would have