Chapter 5 Chapter Four

Narrative by Colin Lamb "Where are you going?" I asked Dick Hardcastle. He said to the driver: "The Cavendish Society, in Palace Street, towards Island, on the right." "Yes, Inspector." The car hit the road.At this time, a few curious people gathered in front of the gate, poking their heads out.The orange cat is still sitting on the doorpost of the "Diana Boarding House" next door.It no longer licked and washed its face, and sat upright, wagging its tail slightly, staring at the head of the crowd with contemptuous eyes. "To the secretary's office first, and then to the cleaning lady," said Hardcastle, "because it's getting late." He glanced at his watch. "It's past four o'clock." After a pause, he said, "Isn't she a very charming lady?"

"Very touching," I said. He looked at me with a smile. "But the story she told is worth noting. It's better to check it earlier." "You think she—" He cut me off. "I've always been particularly interested in the first person to find a body." "But that girl is half-crazed! If you've ever seen her scream and run..." He gave me another teasing color and added that she was a very touching girl. "By the way, why did you come to Wilbraham Lane? Is it to admire our elegant Victorian buildings? Or is there some other purpose?"

"I've come on purpose. I was looking for number sixty-one--but I can't find it. Maybe there's no such number?" "Yes. There are all numbers—eighty-four, I think." "But listen, Dick, when I find number twenty-eight, there's no way." "I know, this always confuses strangers, but you just turn right onto Albany Road, turn right again, and you'll find the other half of Wilbraham Lane, which is back-to-back buildings Yes, the back garden of this one faces the back garden of another one." "I see," I said when he explained the geography. "It's like those squares and gardens in London. Like Onslow Square, or Cadogan, isn't it? You're walking along one side of the square, and suddenly there's a house or garden in front of you, and even a taxi can't." I often get confused. Anyway, there is number sixty-one. Do you know who lives there?"

"Number 61? Let me see. . . Yes, a builder named Brand." "Oh, that's too bad," I said. "Aren't you looking for a builder?" "No, I'm not thinking of a builder. Unless—maybe he's a recent move—just started?" "I think Brand was born locally, he's certainly local and has been in business for several years." "What a disappointment." "He's a terrible builder," Hardcastle said. "He built the house by cutting corners and materials. It looks good on the surface, but once you live in it, you will find that there are many problems. Sometimes it seems that the wind blows and it will collapse. But he can escape the punishment of the law."

"It's no good, Dick. I want a man of integrity." "About a year ago, Bland received a large sum of money, or should I say his wife. She was a Canadian, came to England during the war, and met Bland. Her family objected to her marrying him, and later So she almost cut off contact with her. Last year, her great-uncle died, her only son died in an air crash, and others died because of war or other reasons. Mrs. Bland became the only survivor in the family , so she left all her property to him, which happened to save Brand from bankruptcy." "You seem to know a lot about Brand."

"Ah, this—it's like this. People from the Internal Revenue Service have always been most concerned about the upstarts. They were afraid that he had done something to hide the money, so they started investigating. They couldn't find any loopholes." "Anyway," I said, "I'm not interested in getting rich suddenly. I'm not after this kind of 'get something for nothing.'" "Didn't you? You've had it before?" I nod. "Is it over? Or—is the relationship not over yet?" "It's a long story," I said evasively. "Did we have dinner tonight as originally planned—or was it cancelled?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. What we have to do now is to mobilize the staff to find out everything about Mr. Curry. Once we know who he is and what he does, we can hopefully find out who killed him." He looked at the car. outside the window. "Arrived." "Secretary Cavendish's Typing Agency" is on the main street of the commercial center, and the name of the street is very famous, it is called "Imperial Palace Street".Like most other buildings, the house is a revised version of the Victorian era.A similar house on the right has a bronze plaque that reads "Art Photographer Edhan Allan, Specialist in Child and Wedding Portraits", and to prove the ad, there are various sizes of The enlarged photos of children, ranging from infants to six years old, were probably used to recruit Xu's mother.In addition, several photos of the newlyweds were also hung up. The groom looked shy, but the bride was smiling.

On the other side is an old coal merchant's office.Beyond that, there is a newly built three-story brand new 'Oriental' restaurant and coffee shop. Hardcastle and I, going up the four steps, through the open door, followed the words "Please come in" written on an inner door, and entered.It was a fairly spacious room, three young ladies were concentrating on typing, two were still just typing, not paying attention to us, the third was facing the door, there was a telephone on the table, stopped, looked up, and asked eyes on us.She seemed to have candy in her mouth. After pushing the candy to a convenient position, she asked with a slight accent:

"Is there anything expensive?" "Where is Miss Martindale?" "I think she's answering the phone right now—" At this moment, there was only a click, and the lady picked up the receiver of the phone, pressed the key, and said, "Two gentlemen want to see you, Miss Martindale." She looked at us Ask: "Excuse me, what is your last name?" "Hardcastle," said Dick. "Mr. Hardcastle, Miss Martindale." She put down the receiver and got up. "This way, please." He said, walking towards a door with a bronze plate with Miss Martindale's name on it.

She opened the door, pressed against the panel to let us pass, said "Mr. Hardcastle," and closed the door. Miss Martindale sat behind a large table and looked up at us.With piercing eyes, she looks like a rather capable woman, about fifty years old, with light red hair combed high in front. She—looked us over. "Mr Hardcastle?" Dick took out his card and handed it to her.I stood behind a high-backed chair by the door and retired. Miss Martindale raised her pale brown eyebrows, somewhat displeased in surprise. "Inspector Hardcastle? What's your business? Inspector."

"I have come to ask you something, Miss Martindale, and I thought you might be able to help me." From the tone of his voice, I judged that he wanted to show his charm and adopt a devious tactic.I doubt very much that Miss Martindale would be impressed, she is what the French call an "insurmountable woman." I glanced at the interior.The wall behind Miss Martindale's desk was covered with signed photographs.In one frame I recognized the detective novelist Alene Oliver, whom I had known several times, in thick black handwriting across the photograph.Another frame is the horror novelist Gary Grayson who died sixteen years ago, and the other frame is the female writer Mire Raig who is good at writing romance novels.A frame of a bald man with a shy face, signed "Amon Lehan" in tiny handwriting.These commemorative photos all have one thing in common: the men are mostly holding pipes and wearing tweed suits, while the women have serious expressions and are almost buried in fur coats. While my eyes were busy, Hardcastle made inquiries. "I believe you employ a lady called Sheila Webb?" "True. But I'm afraid not now—at least—" She rang the bell and spoke to the outside office. "Ina, is Sheila Wilbur back?" "Not yet, Miss Martindale." Miss Martindale flipped the switch. "She left for a business trip early this afternoon," she explained. "I thought she was back. Maybe she went to the Curlew Hotel, where she had an appointment at five o'clock." "So it is," said Hardcastle. "Can you tell me something about Miss Sheila Webb?" "I don't know much," said Miss Martindale. "She came to me only—to let me think about it. Well, probably less than a year. She's still working satisfactorily." "Do you know where she used to work?" "I can find it for you if you particularly need it, Inspector Hardcastle. We have her references on file. As far as I know, she used to work in London, and her employer put her in the reference." Very well written. I think it's a company, but I'm not quite sure, maybe buying and selling real estate." "You said she's good at work?" "It's quite satisfactory," said Miss Martindale, obviously not the kind of person who compliments others casually. "Not top-notch?" "No, I should say no. She has average speed, is well-bred, and is a careful and precise typist." "Besides official business, do you know her private affairs?" "All I know is that she lives with her aunt," said Miss Martindale, seeming to hesitate. "Inspector Hardcastle, may I ask why you are asking these questions? Has something happened to the girl?" "Not yet, Miss Martindale. Do you know a Miss Millesn Pebmarsh?" "Pegbmarsh," Miss Martindale frowned with brown eyebrows, "oh, yes, this afternoon Shira is going to Miss Pebmarsh's house, and the appointed time is three o'clock." "Miss Martindale, how was the appointment made?" "On the phone. Miss Pebmarsh called once and said she wanted a stenographer and ordered me to send Miss Wilbur." "Did she name Sheila Whisper in particular?" "Yes" "When did she call?" Miss Martindale thought for a moment. "I answered the call directly, that is to say, during the lunch hour, and I think it's about half past one. Anyway, it was before two o'clock. Oh, by the way, my pad It's recorded that it's one forty-nine." "Is it Miss Pebmarsh herself speaking to you?" Miss Martindale seemed to be taken aback for a moment. "I suppose so." "But you don't know her voice, do you? You don't know her?" "No, I don't know her. She said she was Miss Millesn Pebmarsh, and then, giving me her address number, she named Sheila Wilbur, as I said, and asked her, if she was free, to Be at her house at three o'clock." These words were plain and positive, and I thought that Miss Martindale would be a good witness. "Will you please tell me what is the matter?" said Miss Martindale, a little impatiently. "Oh, Miss Martindale, that's right. Miss Pepper herself denied making such a call." Miss Martindale stared. "Gah? That's weird." "Yes, but having said that, even if there is such a call, you still cannot be sure that the caller is Miss Pebmarsh." "Yes, of course I can't be sure. I don't know the woman. But seriously, I really don't understand the reason for this. Is it a prank?" "It's more than that," Hardcastle said. "Has that Miss Pebmarsh - whoever she is - ever explained why she named Miss Sheila Webb in particular?" Miss Martindale thought for a moment. "I think she said Sheila Wilbur did it for her." "So, is that the truth?" "Sheila says she can't remember ever doing anything for Miss Pebmarsh, but that can't be said to be absolute, Inspector. Our lady is out a lot, going to all kinds of places and doing things for all kinds of people, and if it's a few I'm afraid it's hard to remember what happened months ago. Sheila herself isn't quite sure, she just says she doesn't remember being there. But really, Inspector, even if it was a prank, I don't see how your interest?" "I'll tell you right away. When Miss Wilbur arrived at 19 Wilbraham Lane, she went into the house and into the drawing room. She said it was your order, didn't she?" "That's right," said Miss Martindale. "Miss Pebmarsh said she might be a little late coming home, and asked Sheila to come in and wait." "When Miss Wilbur came into the drawing room," continued Hardcastle, "there was a dead man lying on the floor." Miss Martindale stared at him with wide-open eyes, and was speechless for a moment. "Did you say 'a dead man,' Inspector?" "A murdered man," said Hardcastle. "To be more precise, he was stabbed to death with a knife." "Dear, dear!" said Miss Martindale. "The kid must be very upset." I suppose Miss Martindale was a reserved kind of person. "Miss Martindale, does the name Currie mean anything to you, Mr. R. H. Currie?" "No, I don't think so." "Working at Metropolitan and Local Insurance?" Miss Martindale was still shaking her head. "It's embarrassing," said the inspector. "You said that Pebmarsh called you and asked Sheila Webb to come to her house at three o'clock, and Miss Pebmarsh denied it. When Sheila Webb arrived, she found a body. ’ He waited hopefully. Miss Martindale looked at him blankly. "It's unbelievable," she said disapprovingly. Dick Hardcastle sighed and rose. "You have a nice place," he said politely. "You've probably been in business for many years?" "We've been doing very well for fifteen years. We started out small and expanded until we had enough staff. I've got eight girls now and I can barely get enough work done." "I see that you have done a lot of literary works." Hardcastle looked at the photos on the wall. "Yes, at first it was all writers' business. I worked as a secretary for the famous horror novelist Gary Grayson for many years. In fact, he helped me start the service I know quite a few of his fellow writers, and have been recommended by them. I have a great deal of special knowledge of what a writer needs, and I render quite a useful service in the necessary research—dates, citations, legal general knowledge, police Procedures, detailed poison lists, and the like. Also, when their novels were set in foreign countries, I gave names and addresses of foreign restaurants. Former readers didn't really care much about correct descriptions, but Today's readers are demanding differently, and they often write directly to the author, pointing out any possible mistakes, even small flaws." Miss Martindale paused.Hardcastle said politely: "I believe you have every reason to be proud." He walked to the door and I opened it for him. The three ladies in the office outside were getting ready to leave work.The typewriters were all covered.Ina, the reception lady, stood pitifully, holding the heel in one hand and the shoe in the other. "I've only bought it for a month," she said with a sad face. "And it's expensive, and it's all that nasty iron grating—the one around the corner from that cake shop not far from here, that hooked off the heels of my shoes. I couldn't walk, so I had to take off my shoes and walk back with bread in my arms. , but how do I get home now, how do I catch the bus? I really don't know—” Having said that, Ina noticed us coming, quickly hid her high heels, and glanced timidly at Miss Martindale.Our Miss Ma doesn't like high heels, she herself wears soft leather flat shoes. "Thank you, Miss Martindale," said Hardcastle. "Sorry to bother you so long, if anything happens—" "Certainly," interrupted Miss Martindale abruptly. As we got in the car, I said, "You doubted Sheila Webb, but it turns out she was right." "All right, all right," said Dick. "You win."