The Clocks Read Online Free PDF Page B

that look more or less all right until you live in them, then everything falls down or goes wrong. Sails fairly near the wind sometimes. Sharp practice—but just manages to get away with it.”
    â€œIt’s no good tempting me, Dick. The man I want would almost certainly be a pillar of rectitude.”
    â€œBland came into a lot of money about a year ago—or rather his wife did. She’s a Canadian, came over here in the war and met Bland. Her family didn’t want her to marry him, and more or less cut her off when she did. Then last year a great-uncle died, his only son had been killed in an air crash and what with war casualties and one thing and another, Mrs. Bland was the only one left of the family. So he left his money to her. Just saved Bland from going bankrupt, I believe.”
    â€œYou seem to know a lot about Mr. Bland.”
    â€œOh that—well, you see, the Inland Revenue are always interested when a man suddenly gets rich overnight. They wonder if he’s been doing a little fiddling and salting away—so they check up. They checked and it was all O.K.”
    â€œIn any case,” I said, “I’m not interested in a man who has suddenly got rich. It’s not the kind of setup that I’m looking for.”
    â€œNo? You’ve had that, haven’t you?”
    I nodded.
    â€œAnd finished with it? Or—not finished with it?”
    â€œIt’s something of a story,” I said evasively. “Are we dining together tonight as planned—or will this business put paid to that?”
    â€œNo, that will be all right. At the moment the first thing to do is set the machinery in motion. We want to find out all about Mr. Curry. In all probability once we know just who he is and what he does, we’ll have a pretty good idea as to who wanted him out of the way.” He looked out of the window. “Here we are.”
    The Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau was situated in the main shopping street, called rather grandly Palace Street. It had been adapted, like many other of the establishments there, from a Victorian house. To the right of it a similar house displayed the legend Edwin Glen, Artist Photographer. Specialist, Children’s Photographs, Wedding Groups, etc. In support of this statement the window was filled with enlargements of all sizes and ages of children, from babies to six-year-olds. These presumably were to lure in fond mammas. A few couples were also represented. Bashful looking young men with smiling girls. On the other side of the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau were the offices of an old-established and old-fashioned coal merchant. Beyond that again the original old-fashioned houses had been pulled down and a glittering three-storey building proclaimed itself as the Orient Café and Restaurant.
    Hardcastle and I walked up the four steps, passed through the open front door and obeying the legend on a door on the right which said “Please Enter,” entered. It was a good-sized room, 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:
    â€œCan I help you?”
    â€œMiss Martindale?” said Hardcastle.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œHardcastle,” said Dick.
    â€œA Mr. Hardcastle, Miss Martindale.” She replaced the receiver and rose. “This way, please,” she