by Mark Place
Once again Hardcastle produced his photograph.
‘Have you ever seen this man, Mrs McNaughton?’
Mrs McNaughton stared at it with avidity.
‘I’m almost sure I’ve seen him. Yes. Yes, I’m practically certain. Now, where was it? Was it the man who came and asked me if I wanted to buy a new encyclopaedia in fourteen volumes? Or was it the man who came with a new model of vacuum cleaner. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him, and he went out and worried my husband in the front garden. Angus was planting some bulbs, you know, and he didn’t want to be interrupted and the man went on and on saying what the thing would do. You know, how it would run up and down curtains, and would clean doorsteps and do the stairs and cushions and spring-clean things. Everything, he said, absolutely everything. And then Angus just looked up at him and said, “Can it plant bulbs?” and I must say I had to laugh because it took the man quite aback and he went away.’
‘And you really think that was the man in this photograph?’
‘Well, no, I don’t really,’ said Mrs McNaughton, ‘because that was a much younger man, now I come to think of it. But all the same I think I have seen this face before. Yes. The more I look at it the more sure I am that he came here and asked me to buy something.’
‘Insurance perhaps?’
‘No, no, not insurance. My husband attends to all that kind of thing. We are fully insured in every way.
No. But all the same—yes, the more I look at that photograph—’ Hardcastle was less encouraged by this than he might have been. He put down Mrs McNaughton, from the fund of his experience, as a woman who would be anxious for the excitement of having seen someone connected with murder. The longer she looked at the picture, the more sure she would be that she could remember someone just like it. He sighed. ‘He was driving a van, I believe,’ said Mrs McNaughton. ‘But just when I saw him I can’t remember. A baker’s van, I think.’
‘You didn’t see him yesterday, did you, Mrs McNaughton?’
Mrs McNaughton’s face fell slightly. She pushed back her rather untidy grey waved hair from her forehead.
‘No. No, not yesterday,’ she said. ‘At least—’ she paused. ‘I don’t think so.’ Then she brightened a little. ‘Perhaps my husband will remember.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘Oh, he’s out in the garden.’ She pointed through the window where at this moment an elderly man was pushing a wheelbarrow along the path.
‘Perhaps we might go out and speak to him.’
‘Of course. Come this way.’
She led the way out through a side door and into the garden. Mr McNaughton was in a fine state of perspiration.
‘These gentlemen are from the police, Angus,’ said his wife breathlessly. ‘Come about the murder at Miss Pebmarsh’s. There’s a photograph they’ve got of the dead man. Do you know, I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere. It wasn’t the man, was it, who came last week and asked us if we had any antiques to dispose of?’
‘Let’s see,’ said Mr McNaughton. ‘Just hold it for me, will you,’ he said to Hardcastle. ‘My hands are too earthy to touch anything.’
He took a brief look and remarked, ‘Never seen that fellow in my life.’
‘Your neighbour tells me you’re very fond of gardening,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Who told you that—not Mrs Ramsay?’
‘No. Mr Bland.’
Angus McNaughton snorted.
‘Bland doesn’t know what gardening means,’ he said. ‘Bedding out, that’s all he does. Shoves in begonias and geraniums and lobelia edging. That’s not what I call gardening . Might as well live in a public park. Are you interested in shrubs at all, Inspector? Of course, it’s the wrong time of year now, but I’ve one or two shrubs here that you’d be surprised at my being able to grow. Shrubs that they say only do well in Devon and Cornwall.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to be a practical gardener,’ said Hardcastle.
McNaughton looked at him much as an artist looks at someone who says they know nothing of art but they know what they like.
‘I’m afraid I’ve called about a much less pleasant subject,’ Hardcastle said.
‘Of course. This business yesterday. I was out in the garden, you know, when it happened.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Well, I mean I was here when the girl screamed.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Well,’ said Mr McNaughton rather sheepishly, ‘I didn’t do anything. As a matter of fact I thought it was those blasted Ramsay boys. Always yelling and screaming and making a noise.’
‘But surely this scream didn’t come from quite the same direction?’
‘Not if those blasted boys ever stayed in their own garden. But they don’t, you know. They get through people’s fences and hedges. They chase those wretched cats of Mrs Hemming’s all over the place.
There’s nobody to keep a firm hand on them, that’s the trouble. Their mother’s weak as water. Of course, when there’s no man in the house, boys do get out of hand.’
‘Mr Ramsay is abroad a good deal I understand.’
‘Construction engineer, I believe,’ said Mr McNaughton vaguely. ‘Always going off somewhere. Dams, you know. I’m not swearing, my dear,’ he assured his wife. ‘I mean jobs to do with the building of dams, or else it’s oil or pipelines or something like that. I don’t really know. He had to go off to Sweden a month ago at a moment’s notice. That left the boys’ mother with a lot to do—cooking and housework and that—and, well—of course they were bound to run wild. They’re not bad boys, mind you, but they need discipline.’
‘You yourself didn’t see anything—apart I mean from hearing the scream? When was that, by the way?’
‘No idea,’ said Mr McNaughton. ‘I take my watch off always before I come out here. Ran the hose over it the other day and had quite a job getting it repaired afterwards. What time was it, my dear? You heard it, didn’t you?’
‘It must have been half past two perhaps—it was at least half an hour after we finished lunch.’
‘I see. What time do you lunch?’
‘Half past one,’ said Mr McNaughton, ‘if we’re lucky. Our Danish girl has got no sense of time.’
‘And afterwards—do you have a nap?’
‘Sometimes. I didn’t today. I wanted to get on with what I was doing. I was clearing away a lot of stuff, adding to the compost heap, and all that.’
‘Wonderful thing, a compost heap,’ said Hardcastle, solemnly.
Mr McNaughton brightened immediately. ‘Absolutely. Nothing like it. Ah! The number of people I’ve converted. Using all these chemical manures! Suicide! Let me show you.’ He drew Hardcastle eagerly by the arm and trundling his barrow, went along the path to the edge of the fence that divided his garden from that of No. 19. Screened by lilac bushes, the compost heap was displayed in its glory. Mr McNaughton wheeled the wheelbarrow to a small shed beside it. Inside the shed were several nicely arranged tools.
‘Very tidy you keep everything,’ remarked Hardcastle.
‘Got to take care of your tools,’ said McNaughton.
Hardcastle was looking thoughtfully towards No. 19. On the other side of the fence was a rose pergola which led up to the side of the house.
‘You didn’t see anyone in the garden at Number 19 or looking out of the window in the house, or anything like that while you were at your compost heap?’
McNaughton shook his head. ‘Didn’t see anything at all,’ he said. ‘Sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.’
‘You know, Angus,’ said his wife, ‘I believe I did see a figure skulking in the garden of 19.’
‘I don’t think you did, my dear,’ said her husband firmly. ‘I didn’t, either.’
‘That woman would say she’d seen anything,’ Hardcastle growled when they were back in the car. ‘You don’t think she recognized the photograph?’
Hardcastle shook his head. ‘I doubt it. She just wants to think she’s seen him
. I know that type of witness only too well. When I pinned her down to it, she couldn’t give chapter or verse, could she?’
‘No.’
‘Of course she may have sat opposite him in a bus or something. I’ll allow you that. But if you ask me, it’s wishful thinking. What do you think?’
‘I think the same.’
‘We didn’t get much,’ Hardcastle sighed. ‘Of course there are things that seem queer. For instance, it seems almost impossible that Mrs Hemming—no matter how wrapped up in her cats she is—should know so little about her neighbour, Miss Pebmarsh, as she does. And also that she should be so extremely vague and uninterested in the murder.’
‘She is a vague kind of woman.’
‘Scatty!’ said Hardcastle. ‘When you meet a scatty woman—well, fires, burglaries, murders can go on all round them and they wouldn’t notice it.’
‘She’s very well fenced in with all that wire netting, and that Victorian shrubbery doesn’t leave you much of a view.’
They had arrived back at the police station. Hardcastle grinned at his friend and said:
‘Well, Sergeant Lamb, I can let you go off duty now.’
‘No more visits to pay?’
‘Not just now. I must pay one more later, but I’m not taking you with me.’
‘Well, thanks for this morning. Can you get these notes of mine typed up?’ He handed them over.
‘Inquest is the day after tomorrow you said? What time?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Right. I’ll be back for it.’
‘Are you going away?’
‘I’ve got to go up to London tomorrow—make my report up to date.’
‘I can guess who to.’
‘You’re not allowed to do that.’
Hardcastle grinned.
‘Give the old boy my love.’
‘Also, I may be going to see a specialist,’ said Colin.
‘A specialist? What for? What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing—bar thick-headedness. I don’t mean that kind of a specialist. One in your line.’
‘Scotland Yard?’
‘No. A private detective—a friend of my Dad’s—and a friend of mine. This fantastic business of yours will be just down his street. He’ll love it—it will cheer him up. I’ve an idea he needs cheering up.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Hercules Poirot.’
‘I’ve heard of him. I thought he was dead.’
‘He’s not dead. But I have a feeling he’s bored. That’s worse.’
Hardcastle looked at him curiously.
‘You’re an odd fellow, Colin. You make such unlikely friends.’
‘Including you,’ Colin said, and grinned.
Chapter 12
Having dismissed Colin, Inspector Hardcastle looked at the address neatly written in his note-book and nodded his head. Then he slipped the book back in his pocket and started to deal with the routine 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 from Sergeant Cray—no helpful lead had come up. Nobody at the railway station or buses had recognized the photograph of Mr Curry. The laboratory reports on clothing added up to nil. The suit had been made by a good tailor, but the tailor’s name had been removed. Desire for anonymity on the part of Mr Curry? Or on the part of his killer. Details of dentistry had been circulated 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? Hardcastle considered the idea. There might be a possibility that the dead man was French—on the other hand his 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, someone always came forward. A laundry, a dentist, a doctor, a landlady. The picture of the dead man would 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 worked without a break until half past five. He looked at his wrist-watch again and decided the time was ripe for the call he wanted to make. Sergeant Cray had reported that Sheila Webb had resumed work at the Cavendish Bureau, and that at five o’clock she would be working with Professor Purdy at the Curlew Hotel and that she was unlikely to leave there until well after six.
What was the aunt’s name again? Lawton—Mrs Lawton. 14, Palmerston Road. He did not take a police car but chose to walk the short distance. Palmerston Road was a gloomy street that had known, as is said, better days. The houses, Hardcastle noted, had been mainly converted into flats or maisonettes. As he turned the corner, a girl who was approaching him along the sidewalk hesitated for a moment. His mind occupied, the inspector had some momentary idea that she was going to ask him the way to somewhere. However, if that was so, the girl thought better of it and resumed her walk past him. He wondered why the idea of shoes came into his mind so suddenly. Shoes…No, one shoe. The girl’s face was faintly familiar to him. Who was it now—someone he had seen just lately…Perhaps she had recognized him and was about to speak to him?
He paused for a moment, looking back after her. She was walking quite fast now. The trouble was, he thought, she had one of those indeterminate faces that are very hard to recognize unless there is some special reason for doing so. Blue eyes, fair complexion, slightly open mouth. Mouth. That recalled something also. Something that she’d been doing with her mouth? Talking? Putting on lipstick? No. He felt slightly annoyed with himself. Hardcastle prided himself on his recognition of faces. He never forgot, he’d been apt to say, a face he had seen in the dock or in the witness-box, but there were after all other places of contact. He would not be likely to remember, for instance, every waitress who had ever served him. He would not remember every bus conductress. He dismissed the matter from his mind. He had arrived now at No. 14. The door stood ajar and there were four bells with names underneath.
Mrs Lawton, he saw, had a flat on the ground floor. He went in and pressed the bell on the door on the left of the hall. It was a few moments before it was answered. Finally he heard steps inside and the door was opened by a tall, thin woman with straggling dark hair who had on an overall and seemed a little short of breath. The smell of onions wafted along from the direction of what was obviously the kitchen.
‘Mrs Lawton?’
‘Yes?’ She looked at him doubtfully, with slight annoyance.
She was, he thought, about forty-five. Something faintly gypsyish about her appearance.
‘What is it?’
‘I should be glad if you could spare me a moment or two.’
‘Well, what about? I’m really rather busy just now.’ She added sharply, ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’
‘Of course,’ said Hardcastle, adopting a sympathetic tone, ‘I expect you’ve been a good deal worried by reporters.’
‘Indeed we have. Knocking at the door and ringing the bell and asking all sorts of foolish questions.’
‘Very annoying I know,’ said the inspector. ‘I wish we could spare you all that, Mrs Lawton. I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle, by the way, in charge of the case about which the reporters have been annoying you. We’d put a stop to a good deal of that if we could, but we’re powerless in the matter, you know. The Press has its rights.’
‘It’s a shame to worry private people as they do,’ said Mrs Lawton, ‘saying they have to have news for the public. The only thing I’ve ever noticed about the news that they print is that it’s a tissue of lies from beginning to end. They’ll cook up anything so far as I can see. But come in.’ She stepped back and the inspector passed over the doorstep and she shut the door. There were a couple of letters which had fallen on the mat. Mrs Lawton bent forward to pick them up, but the inspector politely forestalled her. His eyes swept over them for half a second as he handed them to her
, addresses uppermost. ‘Thank you.’
She laid them down on the hall table.
‘Come into the sitting-room, won’t you? At least—if you go in this door and give me just a moment. I think something’s boiling over.’ She beat a speedy retreat to the kitchen. Inspector Hardcastle took a last deliberate look at the letters on the hall table. One was addressed to Mrs Lawton and the two others to Miss R. S. Webb. He went into the room indicated. It was a small room, rather untidy, shabbily furnished but here and there it displayed some bright spot of colour or some unusual object. An attractive, probably expensive piece of Venetian glass of moulded colours and an abstract shape, two brightly coloured velvet cushions and an earthenware platter of foreign shells. Either the aunt or the niece, he thought, had an original streak in her make-up. Mrs Lawton returned, slightly more breathless than before.
‘I think that’ll be all right now,’ she said, rather uncertainly.
The inspector apologized again. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve called at an inconvenient time,’ he said, ‘but I happened to be in this neighbourhood and I wanted to check over a few further points about this affair in which your niece was so unfortunately concerned. I hope she’s none the worse for her experience? It must have been a great shock to any girl.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Lawton. ‘Sheila came back in a terrible state. But she was all right by this morning and she’s gone back to work again.’
‘Oh, yes, I know that,’ said the inspector. ‘But I was told she was out doing work for a client somewhere and I didn’t want to interrupt anything of that kind so I thought it would be better if I came round here and talked to her in her own home. But she’s not back yet, is that it?’
‘She’ll probably be rather late this evening,’ said Mrs Lawton. ‘She’s working for a Professor Purdy and from what Sheila says, he’s a man with no idea of time at all. Always says “this won’t take more than another ten minutes so I think we might as well get it finished,” and then of course it takes nearer to three-quarters of an hour. He’s a very nice man and most apologetic. Once or twice he’s urged her to stay and have dinner and seemed quite concerned because he’s kept her so much longer than he realized. Still, it is rather annoying sometimes. Is there something I can tell you, Inspector? In case Sheila is delayed a long time.’