The Clocks Read Online Free PDF Page B

and three young women were typing with assiduity. Two of them continued to type, paying no attention to the entrance of strangers. The third one who was typing at a table with a telephone, directly opposite the door, stopped and looked at us inquiringly. She appeared to be sucking a sweet of some kind. Having arranged it in a convenient position in her mouth, she inquired in faintly adenoidal tones:
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘Miss Martindale?’ said Hardcastle.
    ‘I think she’s engaged at the moment on the telephone–’ At that moment there was a click and the girl picked up the telephone receiver and fiddled with a switch, and said: ‘Two gentlemen to see you, Miss Martindale.’ She looked at us and asked, ‘Can I have your names, please?’
    ‘Hardcastle,’ said Dick.
    ‘A Mr Hardcastle, Miss Martindale.’ She replaced the receiver and rose. ‘This way, please,’ she said, going to a door which bore the name MISS MARTINDALE on a brass plate. She opened the door, flattened herself against it to let us pass, said, ‘Mr Hardcastle,’ and shut the door behind us.
    Miss Martindale looked up at us from a large desk behind which she was sitting. She was an efficient-looking woman of about fifty with a pompadour of pale red hair and an alert glance.
    She looked from one to the other of us.
    ‘Mr Hardcastle?’
    Dick took out one of his official cards and handed it to her. I effaced myself by taking an upright chair near the door.
    Miss Martindale’s sandy eyebrows rose in surprise and a certain amount of displeasure.
    ‘Detective Inspector Hardcastle? What can I do for you, Inspector?’
    ‘I have come to you to ask for a little information, Miss Martindale. I think you may be able to help me.’
    From his tone of voice, I judged that Dick was going to play it in a roundabout way, exerting charm. I was rather doubtful myself whether Miss Martindale would be amenable to charm. She was of the type that the French label so aptly a femme formidable.
    I was studying the general layout. On the walls above Miss Martindale’s desk was hung a collection of signed photographs. I recognized one as that of Mrs Ariadne Oliver, detective writer, with whom I was slightly acquainted. Sincerely yours, Ariadne Oliver, was written across it in a bold black hand. Yours gratefully, Garry Gregson adorned another photograph of a thriller writer who had died about sixteen years ago. Yours ever, Miriam adorned the photograph of Miriam Hogg, a woman writer who specialized in romance. Sex was represented by a photograph of a timid-looking balding man, signed in tiny writing, Gratefully, Armand Levine. There was a sameness about these trophies. The men mostly held pipes and wore tweeds, the women looked earnest and tended to fade into furs.
    Whilst I was using my eyes, Hardcastle was proceeding with his questions.
    ‘I believe you employ a girl called Sheila Webb?’
    ‘That is correct. I am afraid she is not here at present–at least–’
    She touched a buzzer and spoke to the outer office.
    ‘Edna, has Sheila Webb come back?’
    ‘No, Miss Martindale, not yet.’
    Miss Martindale switched off.
    ‘She went out on an assignment earlier this afternoon,’ she explained. ‘I thought she might have been back by now. It is possible she has gone on to the Curlew Hotel at the end of the Esplanade where she had an appointment at five o’clock.’
    ‘I see,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Can you tell me something about Miss Sheila Webb?’
    ‘I can’t tell you very much,’ said Miss Martindale. ‘She has been here for–let me see, yes, I should say close on a year now. Her work has proved quite satisfactory.’
    ‘Do you know where she worked before she came to you?’
    ‘I dare say I could find out for you if you specially want the information, Inspector Hardcastle. Her references will be filed somewhere. As far as I can remember off-hand, she was formerly employed in London and had quite a good reference from her employers there. I