“Where do we go?” I asked Dick Hardcastle.
He spoke2 to the driver.
“Cavendish Secretarial Bureau. It’s on Palace Street, up towards the Esplanade on the right.”
“Yes, sir.”
The car drew away. There was quite a little crowd by now, staring with fascinated interest. Theorange cat was still sitting on the gatepost of Diana Lodge3 next door. He was no longer washinghis face but was sitting up very straight, lashing4 his tail slightly, and gazing over the heads of thecrowd with that complete disdain5 for the human race that is the special prerogative6 of cats andcamels.
“The Secretarial Bureau, and then the cleaning woman, in that order,” said Hardcastle, “becausethe time is getting on.” He glanced at his watch. “After four o’clock.” He paused before adding,“Rather an attractive girl?”
“Quite,” I said.
He cast an amused look in my direction.
“But she told a very remarkable7 story. The sooner it’s checked up on, the better.”
“You don’t think that she—”
He cut me short.
“I’m always interested in people who find bodies.”
“But that girl was half mad with fright! If you had heard the way she was screaming….”
He gave me another of his quizzical looks and repeated that she was a very attractive girl.
“And how did you come to be wandering about in Wilbraham Crescent, Colin? Admiring ourgenteel Victorian architecture? Or had you a purpose?”
“I had a purpose. I was looking for Number 61—and I couldn’t find it. Possibly it doesn’texist?”
“It exists all right. The numbers go up to—88, I think.”
“But look here, Dick, when I came to Number 28, Wilbraham Crescent just petered out.”
“It’s always puzzling to strangers. If you’d turned to the right up Albany Road and then turnedto the right again you’d have found yourself in the other half of Wilbraham Crescent. It’s builtback to back, you see. The gardens back on each other.”
“I see,” I said, when he had explained this peculiar8 geography at length. “Like those Squaresand Gardens in London. Onslow Square, isn’t it? Or Cadogan. You start down one side of asquare, and then it suddenly becomes a Place or Gardens. Even taxis are frequently baffled.
Anyway, there is a 61. Any idea who lives there?”
“61? Let me see … Yes, that would be Bland9 the builder.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “That’s bad.”
“You don’t want a builder?”
“No. I don’t fancy a builder at all. Unless—perhaps he’s only just come here recently—juststarted up?”
“Bland was born here, I think. He’s certainly a local man—been in business for years.”
“Very disappointing.”
“He’s a very bad builder,” said Hardcastle encouragingly. “Uses pretty poor materials. Puts upthe kind of houses that look more or less all right until you live in them, then everything fallsdown or goes wrong. Sails fairly near the wind sometimes. Sharp practice—but just manages toget away with it.”
“It’s no good tempting10 me, Dick. The man I want would almost certainly be a pillar ofrectitude.”
“Bland came into a lot of money about a year ago—or rather his wife did. She’s a Canadian,came over here in the war and met Bland. Her family didn’t want her to marry him, and more orless cut her off when she did. Then last year a great-uncle died, his only son had been killed in anair crash and what with war casualties and one thing and another, Mrs. Bland was the only one leftof the family. So he left his money to her. Just saved Bland from going bankrupt, I believe.”
“You seem to know a lot about Mr. Bland.”
“Oh that—well, you see, the Inland Revenue are always interested when a man suddenly getsrich overnight. They wonder if he’s been doing a little fiddling11 and salting away—so they checkup. They checked and it was all O.K.”
“In any case,” I said, “I’m not interested in a man who has suddenly got rich. It’s not the kind ofsetup that I’m looking for.”
“No? You’ve had that, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
“And finished with it? Or—not finished with it?”
“It’s something of a story,” I said evasively. “Are we dining together tonight as planned—orwill this business put paid to that?”
“No, that will be all right. At the moment the first thing to do is set the machinery12 in motion.
We want to find out all about Mr. Curry13. In all probability once we know just who he is and whathe does, we’ll have a pretty good idea as to who wanted him out of the way.” He looked out of thewindow. “Here we are.”
The Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau was situated14 in the main shopping street,called rather grandly Palace Street. It had been adapted, like many other of the establishmentsthere, from a Victorian house. To the right of it a similar house displayed the legend Edwin Glen,Artist Photographer. Specialist, Children’s Photographs, Wedding Groups, etc. In support of thisstatement the window was filled with enlargements of all sizes and ages of children, from babiesto six- year- olds. These presumably were to lure15 in fond mammas. A few couples were alsorepresented. Bashful looking young men with smiling girls. On the other side of the CavendishSecretarial Bureau were the offices of an old-established and old-fashioned coal merchant. Beyondthat again the original old-fashioned houses had been pulled down and a glittering three-storeybuilding proclaimed itself as the Orient Café and Restaurant.
Hardcastle and I walked up the four steps, passed through the open front door and obeying thelegend on a door on the right which said “Please Enter,” entered. It was a good-sized room, andthree young women were typing with assiduity. Two of them continued to type, paying noattention to the entrance of strangers. The third one who was typing at a table with a telephone,directly opposite the door, stopped and looked at us inquiringly. She appeared to be sucking asweet of some kind. Having arranged it in a convenient position in her mouth, she inquired infaintly adenoidal tones:
“Can I help you?”
“Miss Martindale?” said Hardcastle.
“I think she’s engaged at the moment on the telephone—” At that moment there was a click andthe girl picked up the telephone receiver and fiddled16 with a switch, and said: “Two gentlemen tosee you, Miss Martindale.” She looked at us and asked, “Can I have your names, please?”
“Hardcastle,” said Dick.
“A Mr. Hardcastle, Miss Martindale.” She replaced the receiver and rose. “This way, please,”
she said, going to a door which bore the name MISS MARTINDALE on a brass17 plate. She openedthe door, flattened18 herself against it to let us pass, said, “Mr. Hardcastle,” and shut the door behindus.
Miss Martindale looked up at us from a large desk behind which she was sitting. She was anefficient-looking woman of about fifty with a pompadour of pale red hair and an alert glance.
She looked from one to the other of us.
“Mr. Hardcastle?”
Dick took out one of his official cards and handed it to her. I effaced19 myself by taking an uprightchair near the door.
Miss Martindale’s sandy eyebrows20 rose in surprise and a certain amount of displeasure.
“Detective Inspector21 Hardcastle? What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I have come to you to ask for a little information, Miss Martindale. I think you may be able tohelp me.”
From his tone of voice, I judged that Dick was going to play it in a roundabout way, exertingcharm. I was rather doubtful myself whether Miss Martindale would be amenable22 to charm. Shewas of the type that the French label so aptly a femme formidable.
I was studying the general layout. On the walls above Miss Martindale’s desk was hung acollection of signed photographs. I recognized one as that of Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, detective writer,with whom I was slightly acquainted. Sincerely yours, Ariadne Oliver, was written across it in abold black hand. Yours gratefully, Garry Gregson adorned23 another photograph of a thriller24 writerwho had died about sixteen years ago. Yours ever, Miriam adorned the photograph of MiriamHogg, a woman writer who specialized25 in romance. Sex was represented by a photograph of atimid- looking balding man, signed in tiny writing, Gratefully, Armand Levine. There was asameness about these trophies26. The men mostly held pipes and wore tweeds, the women lookedearnest and tended to fade into furs.
Whilst I was using my eyes, Hardcastle was proceeding27 with his questions.
“I believe you employ a girl called Sheila Webb?”
“That is correct. I am afraid she is not here at present—at least—”
She touched a buzzer28 and spoke to the outer office.
“Edna, has Sheila Webb come back?”
“No, Miss Martindale, not yet.”
Miss Martindale switched off.
“She went out on an assignment earlier this afternoon,” she explained. “I thought she mighthave been back by now. It is possible she has gone on to the Curlew Hotel at the end of theEsplanade where she had an appointment at five o’clock.”
“I see,” said Hardcastle. “Can you tell me something about Miss Sheila Webb?”
“I can’t tell you very much,” said Miss Martindale. “She has been here for—let me see, yes, Ishould say close on a year now. Her work has proved quite satisfactory.”
“Do you know where she worked before she came to you?”
“I dare say I could find out for you if you specially29 want the information, Inspector Hardcastle.
Her references will be filed somewhere. As far as I can remember offhand30, she was formerlyemployed in London and had quite a good reference from her employers there. I think, but I amnot sure, that it was some business firm—estate agents possibly, that she worked for.”
“You say she is good at her job?”
“Fully adequate,” said Miss Martindale, who was clearly not one to be lavish31 with praise.
“Not first class?”
“No, I should not say that. She has good average speed and is tolerably well-educated. She is acareful and accurate typist.”
“Do you know her personally, apart from your official relations?”
“No. She lives, I believe, with an aunt.” Here Miss Martindale got slightly restive32. “May I ask,Inspector Hardcastle, why you are asking all these questions? Has the girl got herself into troublein any way?”
“I would not quite say that, Miss Martindale. Do you know a Miss Millicent Pebmarsh?”
“Pebmarsh,” said Miss Martindale, wrinkling her sandy brows. “Now when—oh, of course. Itwas to Miss Pebmarsh’s house that Sheila went this afternoon. The appointment was for threeo’clock.”
“How was that appointment made, Miss Martindale?”
“By telephone. Miss Pebmarsh rang up and said she wanted the services of a shorthand typistand would I send her Miss Webb.”
“She asked for Sheila Webb particularly?”
“Yes.”
“What time was this call put through?”
Miss Martindale reflected for a moment.
“It came through to me direct. That would mean that it was in the lunch hour. As near aspossible I would say that it was about ten minutes to two. Before two o’clock at all events. Ah yes,I see I made a note on my pad. It was 1:49 precisely33.”
“It was Miss Pebmarsh herself who spoke to you?” Miss Martindale looked a little surprised.
“I presume so.”
“But you didn’t recognize her voice? You don’t know her personally?”
“No. I don’t know her. She said that she was Miss Millicent Pebmarsh, gave me her address, anumber in Wilbraham Crescent. Then, as I say, she asked for Sheila Webb, if she was free, tocome to her at three o’clock.”
It was a clear, definite statement. I thought that Miss Martindale would make an excellentwitness.
“If you would kindly34 tell me what all this is about?” said Miss Martindale with slightimpatience.
“Well, you see, Miss Martindale, Miss Pebmarsh herself denies making any such call.”
Miss Martindale stared.
“Indeed! How extraordinary.”
“You, on the other hand, say such a call was made, but you cannot say definitely that it wasMiss Pebmarsh who made that call.”
“No, of course I can’t say definitely. I don’t know the woman. But really, I can’t see the point ofdoing such a thing. Was it a hoax35 of some kind?”
“Rather more than that,” said Hardcastle. “Did this Miss Pebmarsh—or whoever it was—giveany reason for wanting Miss Sheila Webb particularly?”
Miss Martindale reflected a moment.
“I think she said that Sheila Webb had done work for her before.”
“And is that in fact so?”
“Sheila said she had no recollection of having done anything for Miss Pebmarsh. But that is notquite conclusive36, Inspector. After all, the girls go out so often to different people at different placesthat they would be unlikely to remember if it had taken place some months ago. Sheila wasn’t verydefinite on the point. She only said that she couldn’t remember having been there. But really,Inspector, even if this was a hoax, I cannot see where your interest comes in?”
“I am just coming to that. When Miss Webb arrived at 19, Wilbraham Crescent she walked intothe house and into the sitting room. She has told me that those were the directions given her. Youagree?”
“Quite right,” said Miss Martindale. “Miss Pebmarsh said that she might be a little late ingetting home and that Sheila was to go in and wait.”
“When Miss Webb went into the sitting room,” continued Hardcastle, “she found a dead manlying on the floor.”
Miss Martindale stared at him. For a moment she could hardly find her voice.
“Did you say a dead man, Inspector?”
“A murdered man,” said Hardcastle. “Stabbed, actually.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Martindale. “The girl must have been very upset.”
It seemed the kind of understatement characteristic of Miss Martindale.
“Does the name of Curry mean anything to you, Miss Martindale? Mr. R.H. Curry?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“From the Metropolis37 and Provincial38 Insurance Company?”
Miss Martindale continued to shake her head.
“You see my dilemma,” said the inspector. “You say Miss Pebmarsh telephoned you and askedfor Sheila Webb to go to her house at three o’clock. Miss Pebmarsh denies doing any such thing.
Sheila Webb gets there. She finds a dead man there.” He waited hopefully.
Miss Martindale looked at him blankly.
“It all seems to me wildly improbable,” she said disapprovingly39.
Dick Hardcastle sighed and got up.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said politely. “You’ve been in business some time, haven’tyou?”
“Fifteen years. We have done extremely well. Starting in quite a small way, we have extendedthe business until we have almost more than we can cope with. I now employ eight girls, and theyare kept busy all the time.”
“You do a good deal of literary work, I see.” Hardcastle was looking up at the photographs onthe wall.
“Yes, to start with I specialized in authors. I had been secretary to the well-known thrillerwriter, Mr. Garry Gregson, for many years. In fact, it was with a legacy40 from him that I started thisBureau. I knew a good many of his fellow authors and they recommended me. My specializedknowledge of authors’ requirements came in very useful. I offer a very helpful service in the wayof necessary research—dates and quotations41, inquiries42 as to legal points and police procedure, anddetails of poison schedules. All that sort of thing. Then foreign names and addresses andrestaurants for people who set their novels in foreign places. In old days the public didn’t reallymind so much about accuracy, but nowadays readers take it upon themselves to write to authors onevery possible occasion, pointing out flaws.”
Miss Martindale paused. Hardcastle said politely: “I’m sure you have every cause tocongratulate yourself.”
He moved towards the door. I opened it ahead of him.
In the outer office, the three girls were preparing to leave. Lids had been placed on typewriters.
The receptionist, Edna, was standing43 forlornly, holding in one hand a stiletto heel and in the othera shoe from which it had been torn.
“I’ve only had them a month,” she was wailing44. “And they were quite expensive. It’s thatbeastly grating—the one at the corner by the cake shop quite near here. I caught my heel in it andoff it came. I couldn’t walk, had to take both shoes off and come back here with a couple of buns,and how I’ll ever get home or get on to the bus I really don’t know—”
At that moment our presence was noted45 and Edna hastily concealed46 the offending shoe with anapprehensive glance towards Miss Martindale whom I appreciated was not the sort of woman toapprove of stiletto heels. She herself was wearing sensible flat-heeled leather shoes.
“Thank you, Miss Martindale,” said Hardcastle. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of yourtime. If anything should occur to you—”
“Naturally,” said Miss Martindale, cutting him short rather brusquely.
As we got into the car, I said:
“So Sheila Webb’s story, in spite of your suspicions, turns out to have been quite true.”
“All right, all right,” said Dick. “You win.”
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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thriller
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| n.惊险片，恐怖片 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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44
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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