Читать книгу The Clocks - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 9

Hardcastle stared.

‘Oh come, Miss Pebmarsh. What about that beautiful Dresden china clock on the mantelpiece? And a small French clock—ormolu. And a silver carriage clock, and—oh yes, the clock with “Rosemary” across the corner.’

It was Miss Pebmarsh’s turn to stare.

‘Either you or I must be mad, Inspector. I assure you I have no Dresden china clock, no—what did you say—clock with “Rosemary” across it—no French ormolu clock and—what was the other one?’

‘Silver carriage clock,’ said Hardcastle mechanically.

‘Not that either. If you don’t believe me, you can ask the woman who comes to clean for me. Her name is Mrs Curtin.’

Detective Inspector Hardcastle was taken aback. There was a positive assurance, a briskness in Miss Pebmarsh’s tone that carried conviction. He took a moment or two turning over things in his mind. Then he rose to his feet.

‘I wonder, Miss Pebmarsh, if you would mind accompanying me into the next room?’

‘Certainly. Frankly, I would like to see those clocks myself.’

‘See?’ Hardcastle was quick to query the word.

‘Examine would be a better word,’ said Miss Pebmarsh, ‘but even blind people, Inspector, use conventional modes of speech that do not exactly apply to their own powers. When I say I would like to see those clocks, I mean I would like to examine and feel them with my own fingers.’

Followed by Miss Pebmarsh, Hardcastle went out of the kitchen, crossed the small hall and into the sitting-room. The fingerprint man looked up at him.

‘I’ve about finished in here, sir,’ he said. ‘You can touch anything you like.’

Hardcastle nodded and picked up the small travelling clock with ‘Rosemary’ written across the corner. He put it into Miss Pebmarsh’s hands. She felt it over carefully.

‘It seems an ordinary travelling clock,’ she said, ‘the leather folding kind. It is not mine, Inspector Hardcastle, and it was not in this room, I am fairly sure I can say, when I left the house at half past one.’

‘Thank you.’

The inspector took it back from her. Carefully he lifted the small Dresden clock from the mantelpiece.

‘Be careful of this,’ he said, as he put it into her hands, ‘it’s breakable.’

Millicent Pebmarsh felt the small china clock with delicate probing fingertips. Then she shook her head. ‘It must be a charming clock,’ she said, ‘but it’s not mine. Where was it, do you say?’

‘On the right hand side of the mantelpiece.’

‘There should be one of a pair of china candlesticks there,’ said Miss Pebmarsh.

‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle, ‘there is a candlestick there, but it’s been pushed to the end.’

‘You say there was still another clock?’

‘Two more.’

Hardcastle took back the Dresden china clock and gave her the small French gilt ormolu one. She felt it over rapidly, then handed it back to him.

‘No. That is not mine either.’

He handed her the silver one and that, too, she returned.

‘The only clocks ordinarily in this room are a grandfather clock there in that corner by the window—’

‘Quite right.’

‘—and a cuckoo on the wall near the door.’

Hardcastle found it difficult to know exactly what to say next. He looked searchingly at the woman in front of him with the additional security of knowing that she could not return his survey. There was a slight frown as of perplexity on her forehead. She said sharply:

‘I can’t understand it. I simply can’t understand it.’

She stretched out one hand, with the easy knowledge of where she was in the room, and sat down. Hardcastle looked at the fingerprint man who was standing by the door.

‘You’ve been over these clocks?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been over everything, sir. No dabs on the gilt clock, but there wouldn’t be. The surface wouldn’t take it. The same goes for the china one. But there are no dabs on the leather travelling clock or the silver one and that is a bit unlikely if things were normal—there ought to be dabs. By the way, none of them are wound up and they are all set to the same time—thirteen minutes past four.’

‘What about the rest of the room?’

‘There are about three or four different sets of prints in the room, all women’s, I should say. The contents of the pockets are on the table.’

By an indication of his head he drew attention to a small pile of things on a table. Hardcastle went over and looked at them. There was a notecase containing seven pounds ten, a little loose change, a silk pocket handkerchief, unmarked, a small box of digestive pills and a printed card. Hardcastle bent to look at it.

Mr R. H. Curry,

Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Co. Ltd

7, Denvers Street,

London, W2.

Hardcastle came back to the sofa where Miss Pebmarsh sat.

‘Were you by any chance expecting someone from an insurance company to call upon you?’

‘Insurance company? No, certainly not.’

‘The Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Company,’ said Hardcastle.

Miss Pebmarsh shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she said.

‘You were not contemplating taking out insurance of any kind?’

‘No, I was not. I am insured against fire and burglary with the Jove Insurance Company which has a branch here. I carry no personal insurance. I have no family or near relations so I see no point in insuring my life.’

‘I see,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Does the name of Curry mean anything to you? Mr R. H. Curry?’ He was watching her closely. He saw no reaction in her face.

‘Curry,’ she repeated the name, then shook her head. ‘It’s not a very usual name, is it? No, I don’t think I’ve heard the name or known anyone of that name. Is that the name of the man who is dead?’

‘It would seem possible,’ said Hardcastle.

Miss Pebmarsh hesitated a moment. Then she said:

‘Do you want me to—to—touch—’

He was quick to understand her.

‘Would you, Miss Pebmarsh? If it’s not asking too much of you, that is? I’m not very knowledgeable in these matters, but your fingers will probably tell you more accurately what a person looks like than you would know by description.’

‘Exactly,’ said Miss Pebmarsh. ‘I agree it is not a very pleasant thing to have to do but I am quite willing to do it if you think it might be a help to you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If you will let me guide you—’

He took her round the sofa, indicated to her to kneel down, then gently guided her hands to the dead man’s face. She was very calm, displaying no emotion. Her fingers traced the hair, the ears, lingering a moment behind the left ear, the line of the nose, mouth and chin. Then she shook her head and got up.

‘I have a clear idea what he would look like,’ she said, ‘but I am quite sure that it is no one I have seen or known.’

The fingerprint man had packed up his kit and gone out of the room. He stuck his head back in.

‘They’ve come for him,’ he said, indicating the body. ‘All right to take him away?’

‘Right,’ said Inspector Hardcastle. ‘Just come and sit over here, will you, Miss Pebmarsh?’

He established her in a corner chair. Two men came into the room. The removal of the late Mr Curry was rapid and professional. Hardcastle went out to the gate and then returned to the sitting-room. He sat down near Miss Pebmarsh.

‘This is an extraordinary business, Miss Pebmarsh,’ he said. ‘I’d like to run over the main points with you and see if I’ve got it right. Correct me if I am wrong. You expected no visitors today, you’ve made no inquiries re insurance of any kind and you have received no letter from anyone stating that a representative of an insurance company was going to call upon you today. Is that correct?’

‘Quite correct.’

‘You did not need the services of a shorthand typist or stenographer and you did not ring up the Cavendish Bureau or request that one should be here at three o’clock.’

‘That again is correct.’

‘When you left the house at approximately 1.30, there were in this room only two clocks, the cuckoo clock and the grandfather clock. No others.’

About to reply, Miss Pebmarsh checked herself.

‘If I am to be absolutely accurate, I could not swear to that statement. Not having my sight I would not notice the absence or presence of anything not usually in the room. That is to say, the last time I can be sure of the contents of this room was when I dusted it early this morning. Everything then was in its place. I usually do this room myself as cleaning women are apt to be careless with ornaments.’

‘Did you leave the house at all this morning?’

‘Yes. I went at ten o’clock as usual to the Aaronberg Institute. I have classes there until twelve-fifteen. I returned here at about quarter to one, made myself some scrambled eggs in the kitchen and a cup of tea and went out again, as I have said, at half past one. I ate my meal in the kitchen, by the way, and did not come into this room.’

‘I see,’ said Hardcastle. ‘So while you can say definitely that at ten o’clock this morning there were no superfluous clocks here, they could possibly have been introduced some time during the morning.’

‘As to that you would have to ask my cleaning woman, Mrs Curtin. She comes here about ten and usually leaves about twelve o’clock. She lives at 17, Dipper Street.’

‘Thank you, Miss Pebmarsh. Now we are left with these following facts and this is where I want you to give me any ideas or suggestions that occur to you. At some time during today four clocks were brought here. The hands of these four clocks were set at thirteen minutes past four. Now does that time suggest anything to you?’

‘Thirteen minutes past four.’ Miss Pebmarsh shook her head. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Now we pass from the clocks to the dead man. It seems unlikely that he would have been let in by your cleaning woman and left in the house by her unless you had told her you were expecting him, but that we can learn from her. He came here presumably to see you for some reason, either a business one or a private one. Between one-thirty and two-forty-five he was stabbed and killed. If he came here by appointment, you say you know nothing of it. Presumably he was connected with insurance—but there again you cannot help us. The door was unlocked so he could have come in and sat down to wait for you—but why?’

‘The whole thing’s daft,’ said Miss Pebmarsh impatiently. ‘So you think that this—what’s-his-name Curry—brought those clocks with him?’

‘There’s no sign of a container anywhere,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He could hardly have brought four clocks in his pockets. Now Miss Pebmarsh, think very carefully. Is there any association in your mind, any suggestion you could possibly make about anything to do with clocks, or if not with clocks, say with time. 4.13. Thirteen minutes past four?’

She shook her head.

‘I’ve been trying to say to myself that it is the work of a lunatic or that somebody came to the wrong house. But even that doesn’t really explain anything. No, Inspector, I can’t help you.’

A young constable looked in. Hardcastle went to join him in the hall and from there went down to the gate. He spoke for a few minutes to the men.

‘You can take the young lady home now,’ he said, ‘14, Palmerston Road is the address.’

He went back and into the dining-room. Through the open door to the kitchen he could hear Miss Pebmarsh busy at the sink. He stood in the doorway.

‘I shall want to take those clocks, Miss Pebmarsh. I’ll leave you a receipt for them.’

‘That will be quite all right, Inspector—they don’t belong to me—’

Hardcastle turned to Sheila Webb.

‘You can go home now, Miss Webb. The police car will take you.’

Sheila and Colin rose.

‘Just see her into the car, will you, Colin?’ said Hardcastle as he pulled a chair to the table and started to scribble a receipt.

Colin and Sheila went out and started down the path. Sheila paused suddenly.

‘My gloves—I left them—’

‘I’ll get them.’

‘No—I know just where I put them. I don’t mind now—now that they’ve taken it away.’

She ran back and rejoined him a moment or two later.

‘I’m sorry I was so silly—before.’

‘Anybody would have been,’ said Colin.

Hardcastle joined them as Sheila entered the car. Then, as it drove away, he turned to the young constable.

‘I want those clocks in the sitting-room packed up carefully—all except the cuckoo clock on the wall and the big grandfather clock.’

He gave a few more directions and then turned to his friend.

‘I’m going places. Want to come?’

‘Suits me,’ said Colin.