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:
‘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 think, but I am not sure, that it was some business firm—estate agents possibly, that she worked for.’
‘You say she is good at her job?’
‘Fully adequate,’ said Miss Martindale, who was clearly not one to be lavish with praise.
‘Not first-class?’
‘No, I should not say that. She has good average speed and is tolerably well educated. She is a careful and accurate typist.’
‘Do you know her personally, apart from your official relations?’
‘No. She lives, I believe, with an aunt.’ Here Miss Martindale got slightly restive. ‘May I ask, Inspector Hardcastle, why you are asking all these questions? Has the girl got herself into trouble in any way?’
‘I would not quite say that, Miss Martindale. Do you know a Miss Millicent Pebmarsh?’
‘Pebmarsh,’ said Miss Martindale, wrinkling her sandy brows. ‘Now when—oh, of course. It was to Miss Pebmarsh’s house that Sheila went this afternoon. The appointment was for three o’clock.’
‘How was that appointment made, Miss Martindale?’
‘By telephone. Miss Pebmarsh rang up and said she wanted the services of a shorthand typist and would I send her Miss Webb.’
‘She asked for Sheila Webb particularly?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time was this call put through?’
Miss Martindale reflected for a moment.
‘It came through to me direct. That would mean that it was in the lunch hour. As near as possible I would say that it
