Free The Clocks by Agatha Christie Page B

Miss Waterhouse. Well, we mustn’t keep you any longer.”
    He rose and went out into the hall. Miss Waterhouse accompanied them. Colin Lamb picked up the golf club by the door.
    â€œNice club, this,” he said. “Plenty of weight in the head.” He weighed it up and down in his hand. “I see you are prepared, Miss Waterhouse, for any eventualities.”
    Miss Waterhouse was slightly taken aback.
    â€œReally,” she said, “I can’t imagine how that club came to be there.”
    She snatched it from him and replaced it in the golf bag.
    â€œA very wise precaution to take,” said Hardcastle.
    Miss Waterhouse opened the door and let them out.
    â€œWell,” said Colin Lamb, with a sigh, “we didn’t get much out of her, in spite of you buttering her up so nicely all the time. Is that your invariable method?”
    â€œIt gets good results sometimes with a person of her type. The tough kind always respond to flattery.”
    â€œShe was purring like a cat that has been offered a saucer of cream in the end,” said Colin. “Unfortunately, it didn’t disclose anything of interest.”
    â€œNo?” said Hardcastle.
    Colin looked at him quickly. “What’s on your mind?”
    â€œA very slight and possibly unimportant point. Miss Pebmarsh went out to the post office and the shops but she turned left instead of right, and that telephone call, according to Miss Martindale, was put through about ten minutes to two.”
    Colin looked at him curiously.
    â€œYou still think that in spite of her denial she might have made it? She was very positive.”
    â€œYes,” said Hardcastle. “She was very positive.”
    His tone was noncommittal.
    â€œBut if she did make it, why?”
    â€œOh, it’s all why, ” said Hardcastle impatiently. “Why, why? Why all this rigmarole? If Miss Pebmarsh made that call, why did she want to get the girl there? If it was someone else, why did they want to involve Miss Pebmarsh? We don’t know anythingyet. If that Martindale woman had known Miss Pebmarsh personally, she’d have known whether it was her voice or not, or at any rate whether it was reasonably like Miss Pebmarsh’s. Oh well, we haven’t got much from Number 18. Let’s see whether Number 20 will do us any better.”

Eight
    I n addition to its number, 20, Wilbraham Crescent had a name. It was called Diana Lodge. The gates had obstacles against intruders by being heavily wired on the inside. Rather melancholy speckled laurels, imperfectly trimmed, also interfered with the efforts of anyone to enter through the gate.
    â€œIf ever a house could have been called The Laurels, this one could,” remarked Colin Lamb. “Why call it Diana Lodge, I wonder?”
    He looked round him appraisingly. Diana Lodge did not run to neatness or to flower beds. Tangled and overgrown shrubbery was its most salient point together with a strong catty smell of ammonia. The house seemed in a rather tumbledown condition with gutters that could do with repairing. The only sign of any recent kind of attention being paid to it was a freshly painted front door whose colour of bright azure blue made the general unkempt appearance of the rest of the house and garden even more noticeable. There wasno electric bell but a kind of handle that was clearly meant to be pulled. The inspector pulled it and a faint sound of remote jangling was heard inside.
    â€œIt sounds,” said Colin, “like the Moated Grange.”
    They waited for a moment or two, then sounds were heard from inside. Rather curious sounds. A kind of high crooning, half singing, half speaking.
    â€œWhat the devil—” began Hardcastle.
    The singer or crooner appeared to be approaching the front door and words began to be discernible.
    â€œNo, sweet-sweetie. In there, my love. Mindems tailems Shah-Shah-Mimi. Cleo—Cleopatra. Ah de doodlums. Ah