Twelve
Having dismissed Colin, Inspector¹ Hardcastle looked at the address neatly² written in his notebookand nodded his head. Then he slipped the book back in his pocket and started to deal with theroutine matters that had piled up on his desk.
It was a busy day for him. He sent out for coffee and sandwiches, and received reports fromSergeant Cray — no helpful lead had come up. Nobody at the railway station or buses hadrecognized the photograph of Mr. Curry⁴. The laboratory reports on clothing added up to nil⁵. Thesuit had been made by a good tailor, but the tailor’s name had been removed. Desire foranonymity on the part of Mr. Curry? Or on the part of his killer⁶. Details of dentistry had beencirculated to the proper quarters and were probably the most helpful leads—it took a little time—but it got results in the end. Unless, of course, Mr. Curry had been a foreigner? Hardcastleconsidered the idea. There might be a possibility that the dead man was French—on the other handhis clothes were definitely not French. No laundry marks had helped yet.
Hardcastle was not impatient. Identification was quite often a slow job. But in the end, someonealways came forward. A laundry, a dentist, a doctor, a landlady⁷. The picture of the dead manwould be circulated to police stations, would be reproduced in newspapers. Sooner or later, Mr.
Curry would be known in his rightful identity.
In the meantime there was work to be done, and not only on the Curry case. Hardcastle workedwithout a break until half past five. He looked at his wristwatch again and decided⁸ the time wasripe for the call he wanted to make.
Sergeant³ Cray had reported that Sheila Webb had resumed work at the Cavendish Bureau, andthat at five o’clock she would be working with Professor Purdy at the Curlew Hotel and that shewas unlikely to leave there until well after six.

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