The Clocks Read Free Page A

allow me to use your kitchen, Miss Pebmarsh, I’ll take Miss Webb in there where we can be quiet.”
    He opened the connecting door from the dining room to the kitchen and waited until the girl had passed through. A young plainclothes detective was already established in the kitchen, writing unobtrusively at a Formica-topped small table.
    â€œThis chair looks comfortable,” said Hardcastle, pulling forward a modernized version of a Windsor chair.
    Sheila Webb sat down nervously, staring at him with large frightened eyes.
    Hardcastle very nearly said: “I shan’t eat you, my dear,” but repressed himself, and said instead:
    â€œThere’s nothing to worry about. We just want to get a clear picture. Now your name is Sheila Webb—and your address?”
    â€œ14, Palmerstone Road—beyond the gasworks.”
    â€œYes, of course. And you are employed, I suppose?”
    â€œYes. I’m a shorthand typist—I work at Miss Martindale’s Secretarial Bureau.”
    â€œThe Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau—that’s its full name, isn’t it?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd how long have you been working there?”
    â€œAbout a year. Well, ten months actually.”
    â€œI see. Now just tell me in your own words how you came to be at 19, Wilbraham Crescent today.”
    â€œWell, it was this way.” Sheila Webb was speaking now with more confidence. “This Miss Pebmarsh rang up the Bureau and asked for a stenographer to be here at three o’clock. So when I came back from lunch Miss Martindale told me to go.”
    â€œThat was just routine, was it? I mean—you were the next on the list—or however you arrange these things?”
    â€œNot exactly. Miss Pebmarsh had asked for me specially.”
    â€œMiss Pebmarsh had asked for you specially.” Hardcastle’s eyebrows registered this point. “I see … Because you had worked for her before?”
    â€œBut I hadn’t,” said Sheila quickly.
    â€œYou hadn’t? You’re quite sure of that?”
    â€œOh, yes, I’m positive. I mean, she’s not the sort of person one would forget. That’s what seems so odd.”
    â€œQuite. Well, we won’t go into that just now. You reached here when?”
    â€œIt must have been just before three o’clock, because the cuckoo clock—” she stopped abruptly. Her eyes widened. “How queer. How very queer. I never really noticed at the time.”
    â€œWhat didn’t you notice, Miss Webb?”
    â€œWhy—the clocks.”
    â€œWhat about the clocks?”
    â€œThe cuckoo clock struck three all right, but all the others were about an hour fast. How very odd!”
    â€œCertainly very odd,” agreed the inspector. “Now when did you first notice the body?”
    â€œNot till I went round behind the sofa. And there it—he—was. It was awful, yes awful….”
    â€œAwful, I agree. Now did you recognize the man? Was it anyone you had seen before?”
    â€œOh no. ”
    â€œYou’re quite sure of that? He might have looked rather different from the way he usually looked, you know. Think carefully. You’re quite sure he was someone you’d never seen before?”
    â€œQuite sure.”
    â€œRight. That’s that. And what did you do?”
    â€œWhat did I do? ”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy—nothing … nothing at all. I couldn’t.”
    â€œI see. You didn’t touch him at all?”
    â€œYes—yes I did. To see if—I mean—just to see—But he was—quite cold—and—and I got blood on my hand. It was horrible—thick and sticky.”
    She began to shake.
    â€œThere, there,” said Hardcastle in an avuncular fashion. “It’s all over now, you know. Forget about the blood. Go on to the next thing. What happened next?”
    â€œI don’t know