Chapter 12 Chapter Eleven

"Rimsey." Colin was thoughtful. "What's the matter with him?" "I think there's something wrong with the man, that's all. He's been abroad a lot — that's something to behold. His wife says he's a construction engineer, as if that's all she knows." "She's a good woman," said Hardcastle. "Yes—but not a happy woman." "It's because of tiredness. Children are very tiring." "I'm afraid it's more than that." "The person you are looking for will never be the kind of person who has a tired family." Hardcastle expressed doubts.

"It's hard to say," said Woods. "Children are actually a cover sometimes, and you'd be surprised if you knew that. A widow with a child has a hard life and always wants someone to take care of her." "I don't think she's that sort of person," said Hardcastle gravely. "I don't mean living in sin, my dear friend. I mean she agreed to be 'Mrs. Ramsey,' to give background. Of course he'd have to make up stories to her, like that he was our spy." One point of activity. Singing patriotic tunes anyway.” Hardcastle shook his head.

"It's a strange world you live in, Colin," he said. "Yes, we do. I think, you know that. I'm going to leave one day... Some people have simply forgotten what is what and who is who. Half of these people work on both sides and don't end up knowing what they are Which side is really on. All kinds of standards are glued together-ah, let's not talk about this, let's do business!" "We'd better pay a visit to Mark Norton's." Hardcastle stopped at the door of No. 63 and continued. "There is a corner of his garden that meets No. 19—like Brand."

"How much do you know about the Ma family?" "Not much—they moved in about a year ago. The couple are very old—a retired professor, I think, who likes gardening." Many rose trees were planted in the front garden, and a bed of crocuses was densely planted under the window. A young woman with a cheerful face and wearing a brightly colored printed blouse came out to answer the door: "Excuse me, what can I do?" "Finally found someone with help from foreigners." Hardcastle muttered to himself while handing over his business card. "Police!" said the young woman, taking two steps back and looking at Hardcastle as if he were a prison villain.

"Is Mrs. Mark Norton at home?" "exist." She led them into the drawing room, which looked out over the garden.There was no one in the hall. "She's upstairs." The young woman's face was no longer smiling.She walked into the corridor and called out, "Mrs. Mark Norton, Mrs. Mark Norton." One voice echoed the other: "What's the matter, Grete." "The police came for you—two. I put them in the living room." There was a vague scurrying sound upstairs: "Oh dear, oh dear, what's going on?" Then there was the patter of footsteps, and then Mrs. Mark Norton entered with a worried expression, and Hardcastle Immediately felt that Mrs. Ma must have such a worried expression on weekdays.

"Oh, dear," she exclaimed again, "oh, dear. Inspector—what's the matter—oh, it's Inspector Hardcastle." She watched famous movies. "What's the big deal? We don't know anything. I mean the murder, I guess it's about it? I mean, it's about the TV license thing?" Hardcastle explained his purpose to her. "It's an astonishing thing," said Mrs. Mark Norton, taking a breath, and adding, "To break into and steal a house in broad daylight, when someone is at home. But such a thing today It is often heard, and it all happens in broad daylight. Ah, I have a few friends - out for dinner at noon, someone drives a furniture moving truck, and removes all the furniture in the house. The same article Everyone in the street saw it, but no one thought it was a 'break-in'. I did hear a scream yesterday, but Angus said it was Mrs Ramsey's children. They used to In the garden imitating the noise of a spaceship, or a rocket, or an atomic bomb, sometimes it sounds really scary."

Hardcastle took out the photograph again. "Mrs. Mark Norton, have you seen this man?" Mrs. Mark Norton stared at the photograph swallowingly. "I think I've seen this guy. Yes, yes, I'm sure, what the hell is it? He said he was the one who came to our house to sell me a fourteen-volume encyclopedia? Or to sell The new vacuum cleaner guy? I didn't have much to say to him, so he went out to the front garden to pester my husband. Angus was planting bulbs and didn't like being disturbed, but the guy kept saying that what he was selling was What good is it, it can suck the dust from the curtains, it can also remove the steps of the stairs, and all kinds of upholstery. Angus just looked at him and said: "Can it grow bulbs?" The man froze for a moment and turned around Let's go, I really laughed to death."

"So you're sure he's the one in the picture?" "Well, I'm not quite sure about that," said Mrs. Mark Norton, "because the man looked much younger, let me see, but I've seen the face anyway. Yes, I The more I felt, the more he came to our house to sell things.” "Is it insurance?" "No, no, not insurance. Things like this are taken care of by my husband, and we cover all the risks. No. But anyway—the more I look at the picture—" But Hardcastle's heart found little encouragement, perhaps worse.Mrs. Mark Norton, he had known from experience, was one of those people who were prone to unaccountable excitement, and especially wished desperately that he had ever seen someone who had been involved in a murder.The longer she looked at the picture, the more she thought she had seen such a person.

He sighed. "He was driving a lorry, I think," said Mrs. Mark Norton, "but I just can't remember seeing him. A bakery's lorry, I think." "You didn't see him yesterday, did you?" Mrs. Mark Norton's face was a little sad.She brushed her unkempt gray hair. "No, no, not yesterday," she said, "at least—" She paused and added, "I don't think it was us." Then she brightened a little and added, "Perhaps my husband will remember." "Is he home?" "Oh, he's outside in the garden." She pointed out the window, when an older man was pushing a wheelbarrow on the path.

"Maybe we can go outside and talk to him." She led them through the side door and into the garden. "Mr. Mark Norton's face was covered with sweat. "Angus, these gentlemen are from the police," gasped his wife, "for the murder of Miss Pebmarsh. They have a picture of the dead man. Do you know? I I did see him somewhere. Is he the same guy who came to our house last week asking if there were any antiques for sale?" "Let me see," said Mr. Mark Norton, "will you hold it, please?" He glanced at the photo. "Never seen this guy before."

"Your neighbors say you love gardening," Hardcastle said. "Who said—not Mrs Ramsey?" "No, Mr. Bland." Angus MacNaughton snorted. "Bland doesn't know what gardening is," he said. "He just digs holes and fills them with begonias and geraniums and lobelias for decoration. That's not gardening. You can live in a flower garden like that. You Are you interested in shrubs? Inspector. Of course, this is not the time to plant, but I have one or two here, but they are still alive. It's amazing. They say this kind of shrub can only be grown in Danfeng and Kangwa. .” "I'm afraid I'm not quite a gardener," said Hardcastle. Mark Norton looked at him like an artist looks at someone who says he doesn't know art but knows what he likes. "Well, now I'm afraid I'll have to talk to you about something less interesting," said Hardcastle. "It doesn't matter. It's about yesterday. When it happened yesterday, I was in the garden." "real?" "Well, I mean I was in the garden when the girl screamed." "What did you do then?" "Well," said Mark Norton, very shyly, "I didn't do anything, I thought it was the Ramsey boys screaming. Those two little ghosts are so annoying, they are always noisy and noisy. stop." "But the scream came from a different direction?" "Yes, if these nasty little bastards stayed in their homestead, but you know, they don't. They often go over other people's fences, climb over low walls, and chase Mrs. Hemm's poor kittens everywhere. The problem is Because no one said anything, and their mother was powerless to discipline them, and the children ran wild whenever the father was away." "I know Mr Ramsey is often abroad." "As far as I know, a construction engineer," said Mr. Mark Norton vaguely. "He is often abroad, dear," he assured his wife. "I mean his work, or sometimes he builds oil pipelines. This kind of project. I don't know very well. He has gone to Sweden, and I am afraid he will stay for a while, leaving the child's mother with a lot of work-cooking and washing-no wonder the child will become wild. They Not a bad kid, just needs a little discipline." "Did you see anything but the screams? When did it happen?" "I don't know," said Mr. Mark Norton. "I take off my watch every time I come into the garden. The water pipe was run over the other day and it took a lot of work to fix it. It was then, my dear. What time is it? You heard that, didn't you?" "It must be half-past two, perhaps—at least half an hour after our meal." "Oh, so, so when do you have lunch?" "Half past one" said Mrs. Mark Norton, "if you're lucky. That Danish girl has no sense of time." "After dinner—did you take a nap?" "Sometimes yes, today no. I have to wrap things up halfway, I'm sorting things out, adding compost." "It's not easy, composting," Hardcastle said solemnly. Mr. Mark Norton's face lit up immediately. "It's really not simple. Blind, I corrected many people's ideas. They all use chemical fertilizers! Don't die! Come and see." He took Hardcastle's arm enthusiastically and pushed the handcart along the path to the fence separating Garden Nineteen.A heap of compost, laid out in the sun in a generous heap, surrounded by lilacs.Mr. Mark Norton pushed his car into a small shed next to him, and various tools were neatly placed in the coconut. "You keep things in order," Hardcastle praised. "Tools must be cherished." Mark Norton said. Hardcastle watched Nineteen thoughtfully.On the other side of the fence, there is a path of roses, which leads to the corner of the house. "While you were composting here, did you ever see anyone in the garden at Nineteen, or looking in the windows, or anything like that?" Mark Norton shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "I'm sorry, but I can't be of much help, Inspector." "You know, Angus," said his wife, "I believe I did see a figure hiding in the garden of Number Nineteen." "Honey, I don't think you saw anyone," said her husband firmly, "and neither did I." "The woman kept saying she saw that and this," Hardcastle murmured as they got back into the car. "You don't think she recognizes the person in the picture?" Hardcastle shook his head. "I doubt it. She just wants to think herself that way. I know that kind of witness all too well. If I stare any longer, she won't be able to say anything." "yes." "Of course, she could say that the man was sitting across from her on the bus, or something, and that's wishful thinking. What do you think?" "I think so too." "Nothing," remarked Hardcastle, with a sigh. "Of course, there are some things that are really queer. For example, the great Hem, who was so preoccupied with her cat, had almost nothing to do with her neighbours." It's impossible to know nothing, and to be so indifferent to murder." "She's just the sort of vague woman." "A heartless woman!" said Hardcastle. "When you meet a woman like that, ah, fires, thefts, and murders happen around her, and she doesn't pay attention." "Those barbed wire fences and Victorian bushes, she's so close you can't see a thing." They went back to the police station.Hardcastle grinned at his friend. "Oh, Sergeant Lamb, you can be relieved." "No more visits?" Not at the moment, but I'll have to go again later, without taking you." "Thank you this morning, then.Can you get someone to copy my notes? ’ He handed over the note. "You said the interrogation will be the day after tomorrow? When?" "Eleven o'clock." "Okay, I'll come back then." "Are you leaving?" "Tomorrow I have to go to London—report." "I can guess who it is." "You can't talk nonsense." Hardcastle grinned and said, "Say hello to the old boy for me." "Besides, I'm going to see a specialist," said Colin. "Expert? Why? What's wrong with you?" "None—except that he's too stupid. I don't mean an expert. He's one of yours." "Scotland Yard?" "No, it's a private eye—a friend of my father's—and a friend of mine. He'll be delighted to hear that your mystery is right in his way." "What's his name?" "Hercule Poirot." "I heard, I thought he was dead." "He's not dead, but I'm afraid he's living a very dull life, which is worse than being dead." Hardcastle looked at him curiously. "You're a queer man, Colin. You've got queer friends, too." "Including you." Colin grinned.

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