The Clocks
A typist uncovers a man’s body from behind the sofa…As instructed, stenographer Sheila Webb let herself into the house at 19 Wilbraham Crescent. It was then that she made a grisly discovery: the body of a dead man sprawled across the living room floor.What intrigued Poirot about the case was the time factor. Although in a state of shock, Sheila clearly remembered having heard a cuckoo clock strike three o’clock. Yet, the four other clocks in the living room all showed the time as 4.13. Even more strangely, only one of these clocks belonged to the owner of the house…
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The Clocks
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by Collins 1963
Agatha Christie® Poirot® The Clocksâ¢
Copyright © 1963 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved
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Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008129590
Ebook Edition © MAY 2015 ISBN: 9780007422227
Version: 2017-06-16
To my old Friend MARIO with happy memories of delicious food at the CAPRICE
Contents
The afternoon of the 9th of September was exactly like any other afternoon. None of those who were to be concerned in the events of that day could lay claim to having had a premonition of disaster. (With the exception, that is, of Mrs Packer of 47, Wilbraham Crescent, who specialized in premonitions, and who always described at great length afterwards the peculiar forebodings and tremors that had beset her. But Mrs Packer at No. 47, was so far away from No. 19, and so little concerned with the happenings there, that it seemed unnecessary for her to have had a premonition at all.)
At the Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau, Principal, Miss K. Martindale, September 9th had been a dull day, a day of routine. The telephone rang, typewriters clicked, the pressure of business was average, neither above nor below its usual volume. None of it was particularly interesting. Up till 2.35, September 9th might have been a day like any other day.
At 2.35 Miss Martindaleâs buzzer went, and Edna Brent in the outer office answered it in her usual breathy and slightly nasal voice, as she manoeuvred a toffee along the line of her jaw.
âYes, Miss Martindale?â
âNow, Ednaâthat is not the way Iâve told you to speak when answering the telephone. Enunciate clearly, and keep your breath behind your tone.â
âSorry, Miss Martindale.â
âThatâs better. You can do it when you try. Send Sheila Webb in to me.â
âSheâs not back from lunch yet, Miss Martindale.â
âAh.â Miss Martindaleâs eye consulted the clock on her desk. 2.36. Exactly six minutes late. Sheila Webb had been getting slack lately. âSend her in when she comes.â
âYes, Miss Martindale.â
Edna restored the toffee to the centre of her tongue and, sucking pleasurably, resumed her typing of Naked Love by Armand Levine. Its painstaking eroticism left her uninterestedâas indeed it did most of Mr Levineâs readers, in spite of his efforts. He was a notable example of the fact that nothing can be duller than dull pornography. In spite of lurid jackets and provocative titles, his sales went down every year, and his last typing bill had already been sent in three times.
The door opened and Sheila Webb came in, slightly out of breath.
âSandy Catâs asking for you,â said Edna.
Sheila Webb made a face.
âJust my luckâon the one day Iâm late back!â
She smoothed down her hair, picked up pad and pencil, and knocked at the Principalâs door.
Miss Martindale looked up from her desk. She was a woman of forty-odd, bristling with efficiency. Her pompadour of pale reddish hair and her Christian name of Katherine had led to her nickname of Sandy Cat.
âYouâre late back, Miss Webb.â
âSorry, Miss Martindale. There was a terrific bus jam.â
âThere is always a terrific bus jam at this time of day. You should allow for it.â She referred to a note on her pad. âA Miss Pebmarsh rang up. She wants a stenographer at three oâclock. She asked for you particularly. Have you worked for her before?â
