The Clocks (21 page)

She came out of the post office weaving from side to side of the pavement and smiling to herself.

It was worth risking a little trouble with the police for that amount of money. It would set her up nicely. And it wasn't very much risk really. She'd only got to say she'd forgotten or couldn't remember. Lots of women couldn't remember things that had only happened a year ago. She'd say she got mixed up between Harry and another man. Oh, she could think up lots of things to say.

Mrs. Rival was a naturally mercurial type. Her spirits rose as much now as they had been depressed before. She began to think seriously and intently of the first things she would spend the money on….

I

“Y
ou don't seem to have got much out of that Ramsay woman?” complained Colonel Beck.

“There wasn't much to get.”

“Sure of that?”

“Yes.”

“She's not an active party?”

“No.”

Beck gave me a searching glance.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“You hoped for more?”

“It doesn't fill the gap.”

“Well—we'll have to look elsewhere … give up crescents—eh?”

“Yes.”

“You're very monosyllabic. Got a hangover?”

“I'm no good at this job,” I said slowly.

“Want me to pat you on the head and say ‘There, there?'”

In spite of myself I laughed.

“That's better,” said Beck. “Now then, what's it all about? Girl trouble, I suppose.”

I shook my head. “It's been coming on for some time.”

“As a matter of fact I've noticed it,” said Beck unexpectedly. “The world's in a confusing state nowadays. The issues aren't clear as they used to be. When discouragement sets in, it's like dry rot. Whacking great mushrooms bursting through the walls! If that's so, your usefulness to us is over. You've done some first-class work, boy. Be content with that. Go back to those damned seaweeds of yours.”

He paused and said: “You really
like
the beastly things, don't you?”

“I find the whole subject passionately interesting.”

“I should find it repulsive. Splendid variation in nature, isn't there? Tastes, I mean. How's that patent murder of yours? I bet you the girl did it.”

“You're wrong,” I said.

Beck shook his finger at me in an admonitory and avuncular manner.

“What I say to you is: ‘Be prepared.' And I don't mean it in the Boy Scout sense.”

I walked down Charing Cross Road deep in thought.

At the tube station I bought a paper.

I read that a woman, supposed to have collapsed in the rush hour at Victoria Station yesterday, had been taken to hospital. On
arrival there she was found to have been stabbed. She had died without recovering consciousness.

Her name was Mrs. Merlina Rival.

II

I rang Hardcastle.

“Yes,” he said in answer to my questions. “It's just as they say.”

His voice sounded hard and bitter.

“I went to see her night before last. I told her her story about the scar just wouldn't jell. That the scar tissue was comparatively recent. Funny how people slip up. Just by trying to overdo things. Somebody paid that woman to identify the corpse as being that of her husband, who ran out on her years ago.

“Very well she did it, too! I believed her all right. And then whoever it was tried to be a little too clever. If she remembered that unimportant little scar as an
afterthought,
it would carry conviction and clinch the identification. If she had plumped out with it straight away, it might have sounded a bit too glib.”

“So Merlina Rival was in it up to the neck?”

“Do you know, I rather doubt that. Suppose an old friend or acquaintance goes to her and says: ‘Look here, I'm in a bit of a spot. A chap I've had business dealings with has been murdered. If they identify him and all our dealings come to light, it will be absolute disaster. But if you were to come along and say it's that husband of yours, Harry Castleton, who did a bunk years ago, then the whole case will peter out.'”

“Surely she'd jib at that—say it was too risky?”

“If so, that someone would say: ‘What's the risk? At the worst,
you've made a mistake. Any woman can make a mistake after fifteen years.' And probably at that point a nice little sum would have been mentioned. And she says O.K. she'll be a sport! and do it.”

“With no suspicions?”

“She wasn't a suspicious woman. Why, good lord, Colin, every time we catch a murderer there are people who've known him well, and simply can't believe he could do anything like that!”

“What happened when you went up to see her?”

“I put the wind up her. After I left, she did what I expected she'd do—tried to get in touch with the man or woman who'd got her into this. I had a tail on her, of course. She went to a post office and put through a call from an automatic call box. Unfortunately, it wasn't the box I'd expected her to use at the end of her own street. She had to get change. She came out of the call box looking pleased with herself. She was kept under observation, but nothing of interest happened until yesterday evening. She went to Victoria Station and took a ticket to Crowdean. It was half past six, the rush hour. She wasn't on her guard. She thought she was going to meet whoever it was at Crowdean. But the cunning devil was a step ahead of her. Easiest thing in the world to gang up behind someone in a crowd, and press the knife in … Don't suppose she even knew she had been stabbed. People don't, you know. Remember that case of Barton in the Levitti Gang robbery? Walked the length of a street before he fell down dead. Just a sudden sharp pain—then you think you're all right again. But you're not. You're dead on your feet although you don't know it.”

He finished up: “Damn and damn and damn!”

“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.

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 been better still. I thought of cutting my finger and putting a bloodstained fingerprint on the door. But enough is enough! I might have got an infection.”

“I suppose this is second childhood,” I remarked coldly. “I'll buy you a balloon and a woolly rabbit this afternoon.”

“I do not think you enjoy my surprise. You express no joy, no delight at seeing me.”

“Did you expect me to?”

“
Pourquoi pas?
Come, let us be serious, now that I have had my little piece of foolery. I hope to be of assistance. I have called up the chief constable who has been of the utmost amiability, and at this moment I await your friend, Detective Inspector Hardcastle.”

“And what are you going to say to him?”

“It was in my mind that we might all three engage in conversation.”

I looked at him and laughed. He might call it conversation—but I knew who was going to do the talking.

Hercule Poirot!

II

Hardcastle had arrived. We had had the introduction and the greetings. We were now settled down in a companionable fashion, with Dick occasionally glancing surreptitiously at Poirot with the air of a man at the Zoo studying a new and surprising acquisition. I doubt if he had ever met anyone quite like Hercule Poirot before!

Finally, the amenities and politeness having been observed, Hardcastle cleared his throat and spoke.

“I suppose, M. Poirot,” he said cautiously, “that you'll want to see—well, the whole setup for yourself? It won't be exactly easy—” He hesitated. “The chief constable told me to do everything I could for you. But you must appreciate that there are difficulties, questions that may be asked, objections. Still, as you have come down here specially—”

Poirot interrupted him—with a touch of coldness.

“I came here,” he said, “because of the reconstruction and decoration of my apartment in London.”

I gave a horse laugh and Poirot shot me a look of reproach.

“M. Poirot doesn't have to go and see things,” I said. “He has always insisted that you can do it all from an armchair. But that's not quite true, is it, Poirot? Or why have you come here?”

Poirot replied with dignity.

“I said that it was not necessary to be the foxhound, the bloodhound, the tracking dog, running to and fro upon the scent. But
I will admit that for the chase a dog
is
necessary. A retriever, my friend. A good retriever.”

He turned towards the inspector. One hand twirled his moustache in a satisfied gesture.

“Let me tell you,” he said, “that I am not like the English, obsessed with dogs. I, personally, can live without the dog. But I accept, nevertheless, your ideal of the dog. The man loves and respects his dog. He indulges him, he boasts of the intelligence and sagacity of his dog to his friends. Now figure to yourself, the opposite may also come to pass! The dog is fond of his master. He indulges that master! He, too, boasts of his master, boasts of his master's sagacity and intelligence. And as a man will rouse himself when he does not really want to go out, and take his dog for a walk because the dog enjoys the walk so much, so will the dog endeavour to give his master what that master pines to have.

“It was so with my kind young friend Colin here. He came to see me, not to ask for help with his own problem; that he was confident that he could solve for himself, and has, I gather, done so. No, he felt concern that I was unoccupied and lonely so he brought to me a problem that he felt would interest me and give me something to work upon. He challenged me with it—challenged me to do what I had so often told him it was possible to do—sit still in my chair and—in due course—resolve that problem. It may be, I suspect it is, that there was a
little
malice, just a small harmless amount, behind that challenge. He wanted, let us say, to prove to me that it was not so easy after all.
Mais oui, mon ami,
it is true, that! You wanted to mock yourself at me—just a little! I do not reproach you. All I say is, you did not know your Hercule Poirot.”

He thrust out his chest and twirled his moustaches.

I looked at him and grinned affectionately.

“All right then,” I said. “Give us the answer to the problem—if you know it.”

“But of course I know it!”

Hardcastle stared at him incredulously.

“Are you saying you
know
who killed the man at 19, Wilbraham Crescent?”

“Certainly.”

“And also who killed Edna Brent?”

“Of course.”

“You know the identity of the dead man?”

“I know who he must be.”

Hardcastle had a very doubtful expression on his face. Mindful of the chief constable, he remained polite. But there was scepticism in his voice.

“Excuse me, M. Poirot, you claim that you know who killed three people. And why?”

“Yes.”

“You've got an open and shut case?”

“That, no.”

“All you mean is that you have a hunch,” I said, unkindly.

“I will not quarrel with you over a word,
mon cher
Colin. All I say is, I
know!
”

Hardcastle sighed.

“But you see, M. Poirot,
I
have to have evidence.”

“Naturally, but with the resources you have at your disposal, it will be possible for you, I think, to get that evidence.”

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“Come now, Inspector. If you know—really
know
—is not that the first step? Can you not, nearly always, go on from there?”

“Not always,” said Hardcastle with a sigh. “There are men walking about today who ought to be in gaol. They know it and we know it.”

“But that is a very small percentage, is it not—”

I interrupted.

“All right. All right.
You know
… Now let
us
know too!”

“I perceive you are still sceptical. But first let me say this: To be
sure
means that when the right solution is reached, everything falls into place. You perceive that
in no other way
could things have happened.”

“For the love of Mike,” I said, “get on with it! I grant you all the points you've made.”

Poirot arranged himself comfortably in his chair and motioned to the inspector to replenish his glass.

“One thing,
mes amis,
must be clearly understood. To solve any problem one must have the
facts.
For that one needs the dog, the dog who is a retriever, who brings the pieces one by one and lays them at—”

“At the feet of the master,” I said. “Admitted.”

“One cannot from one's seat in a chair solve a case solely from reading about it in a newspaper. For one's facts must be accurate, and newspapers are seldom, if ever, accurate. They report something happened at four o'clock when it was a quarter past four, they say a man had a sister called Elizabeth when actually he had a sister-in-law called Alexandra. And so on. But in Colin here, I have a dog of remarkable ability—an ability, I may say, which has taken him
far in his own career. He has always had a remarkable memory. He can repeat to you, even several days later, conversations that have taken place. He can repeat them accurately—that is, not transposing them, as nearly all of us do, to what the impression made on
him
was. To explain roughly—he would not say, ‘And at twenty past eleven the post came' instead of describing what actually happened, namely a knock on the front door and someone coming into the room with letters in their hand. All this is very important. It means that he heard what
I
would have heard if I had been there and seen what I would have seen.”

“Only the poor dog hasn't made the necessary deductions?”

“So, as far as can be, I have the facts—I am ‘in the picture.' It is your wartime term, is it not? To ‘put one in the picture.' The thing that struck me first of all, when Colin recounted the story to me, was its highly
fantastic
character. Four clocks, each roughly an hour ahead of the right time, and all introduced into the house without the knowledge of the owner, or so she
said.
For we must never, must we, believe what we are told, until such statements have been carefully checked?”

“Your mind works the way that mine does,” said Hardcastle approvingly.

“On the floor lies a dead man—a respectable-looking elderly man. Nobody knows who he is (or again so they
say
). In his pocket is a card bearing the name of Mr. R. H. Curry, 7, Denvers Street. Metropolis Insurance Company. But there is no Metropolis Insurance Company. There is no Denvers Street and there seems to be no such person as Mr. Curry. That is negative evidence, but it
is
evidence. We now proceed further. Apparently at about ten minutes to two a secretarial agency is rung up, a Miss Millicent Pebmarsh
asks for a stenographer to be sent to 19, Wilbraham Crescent at three o'clock. It is particularly asked that a Miss Sheila Webb should be sent. Miss Webb is sent. She arrives there at a few minutes before three; goes, according to instructions, into the sitting room, finds a dead man on the floor and rushes out of the house screaming. She rushes into the arms of a young man.”

Poirot paused and looked at me. I bowed.

“Enter our young hero,” I said.

“You see,” Poirot pointed out. “Even you cannot resist a farcical melodramatic tone when you speak of it. The whole thing is melodramatic, fantastic and completely unreal. It is the kind of thing that could occur in the writings of such people as Garry Gregson, for instance. I may mention that when my young friend arrived with this tale I was embarking on a course of thriller writers who had plied their craft over the last sixty years. Most interesting. One comes almost to regard actual crimes in the light of fiction. That is to say that if I observe that a dog has not barked when he should bark, I say to myself, ‘Ha! A Sherlock Holmes crime!' Similarly, if the corpse is found in a sealed room, naturally I say, ‘Ha! A Dickson Carr case!' Then there is my friend Mrs. Oliver. If I were to find—but I will say no more. You catch my meaning? So here is the setting of a crime in such wildly improbable circumstances that one feels at once, ‘This book is not true to life. All this is quite unreal.' But alas, that will not do here, for this
is
real. It
happened.
That gives one to think furiously, does it not?”

Hardcastle would not have put it like that, but he fully agreed with the sentiment, and nodded vigorously. Poirot went on:

“It is, as it were, the opposite of Chesterton's, ‘Where would you hide a leaf? In a forest. Where would you hide a pebble? On
a beach.' Here there is excess, fantasy, melodrama! When I say to myself in imitation of Chesterton, ‘Where does a middle-aged woman hide her fading beauty?' I do not reply, ‘Amongst other faded middle-aged faces.' Not at all. She hides it under makeup, under rouge and mascara, with handsome furs wrapped round her and with jewels round her neck and hanging in her ears. You follow me?”