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head.
    â€œYou see my dilemma,” said the inspector. “You say Miss Pebmarsh telephoned you and asked for Sheila Webb to go to her house at three o’clock. Miss Pebmarsh denies doing any such thing. Sheila Webb gets there. She finds a dead man there.” He waited hopefully.
    Miss Martindale looked at him blankly.
    â€œIt all seems to me wildly improbable,” she said disapprovingly.
    Dick Hardcastle sighed and got up.
    â€œNice place you’ve got here,” he said politely. “You’ve been in business some time, haven’t you?”
    â€œFifteen years. We have done extremely well. Starting in quite a small way, we have extended the business until we have almost more than we can cope with. I now employ eight girls, and they are kept busy all the time.”
    â€œYou do a good deal of literary work, I see.” Hardcastle was looking up at the photographs on the wall.
    â€œYes, to start with I specialized in authors. I had been secretary to the well-known thriller writer, Mr. Garry Gregson, for many years. In fact, it was with a legacy from him that I started this Bureau. I knew a good many of his fellow authors and they recommended me. My specialized knowledge of authors’ requirements came in very useful. I offer a very helpful service in the way of necessary research—dates and quotations, inquiries as to legal points and police procedure, and details of poison schedules. All that sort of thing. Then foreign names and addresses and restaurants for people who set their novels in foreign places. In old days the public didn’t really mind so much about accuracy, but nowadays readers take it upon themselves to write to authors on every possible occasion, pointing out flaws.”
    Miss Martindale paused. Hardcastle said politely: “I’m sure you have every cause to congratulate yourself.”
    He moved towards the door. I opened it ahead of him.
    In the outer office, the three girls were preparing to leave. Lids had been placed on typewriters. The receptionist, Edna, was standing forlornly, holding in one hand a stiletto heel and in the other a shoe from which it had been torn.
    â€œI’ve only had them a month,” she was wailing. “And they were quite expensive. It’s that beastly grating—the one at the corner by the cake shop quite near here. I caught my heel in it and off it came. I couldn’t walk, had to take both shoes off and come back here with a couple of buns, and how I’ll ever get home or get on to the bus I really don’t know—”
    At that moment our presence was noted and Edna hastily concealed the offending shoe with an apprehensive glance towards Miss Martindale whom I appreciated was not the sort of womanto approve of stiletto heels. She herself was wearing sensible flat-heeled leather shoes.
    â€œThank you, Miss Martindale,” said Hardcastle. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. If anything should occur to you—”
    â€œNaturally,” said Miss Martindale, cutting him short rather brusquely.
    As we got into the car, I said:
    â€œSo Sheila Webb’s story, in spite of your suspicions, turns out to have been quite true.”
    â€œAll right, all right,” said Dick. “You win.”

Five
    â€œM om!” said Ernie Curtin, desisting for a moment from his occupation of running a small metal model up and down the window pane, accompanying it with a semi-zooming, semi-moaning noise intended to reproduce a rocket ship going through outer space on its way to Venus, “Mom, what d’you think?”
    Mrs. Curtin, a stern-faced woman who was busy washing up crockery in the sink, made no response.
    â€œMom, there’s a police car drawn up outside our house.”
    â€œDon’t you tell no more of yer lies, Ernie,” said Mrs. Curtin as she banged cups and saucers down on the draining board. “You know what I’ve said to you about that