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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.
    â€œMr. 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.
    â€œDetective Inspector Hardcastle? What can I do for you, Inspector?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI believe you employ a girl called Sheila Webb?”
    â€œThat is correct. I am afraid she is not here at present—at least—”
    She touched a buzzer and spoke to the outer office.
    â€œEdna, has Sheila Webb come back?”
    â€œNo, Miss Martindale, not yet.”
    Miss Martindale switched off.
    â€œShe 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.”
    â€œI see,” said Hardcastle. “Can you tell me something about Miss Sheila Webb?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDo you know where she worked before she came to you?”
    â€œI 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 offhand, 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.”
    â€œYou say she is good at her job?”
    â€œFully adequate,” said Miss Martindale, who was clearly not one to be lavish with praise.
    â€œNot first class?”
    â€œNo, I should not say that. She has good average speed and is tolerably well-educated. She is a careful and accurate typist.”
    â€œDo you know her personally, apart from your official relations?”
    â€œNo. 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?”
    â€œI would not quite say that, Miss