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Ladies Homes with every comfort for the aged, or crowding up hospitals where beds are needed
urgently for the really sick. The lame and the halt and the old didn t live in their own houses any more,
attended by a faithful domestic or by some half-witted poor relation glad of a good home. It was a
serious setback to criminal investigation.
I looked across the road. Why couldn t there be any neighbours there? Why couldn t there be a neat row
of houses facing me instead of that great, inhuman-looking concrete block. A kind of human beehive, no
doubt, tenanted by worker bees who were out all day and only came back in the evening to wash their
smalls or make up their faces and go out to meet their young men. By contrast with the inhumanity of
that block of flats I began almost to have a kindly feeling for the faded Victorian gentility of Wilbraham
Crescent.
My eye was caught by a flash of light somewhere half-way up the building. It puzzled me. I stared up.
Yes, there it came again. An open window and someone looking through it. A face slightly obliterated
by something that was being held up to it. The flash of light came again. I dropped a hand into my
pocket. I keep a good many things in my pockets, things that may be useful. You d be surprised at what
is useful sometimes. A little adhesive tape. A few quite innocent-looking instruments which are quite
capable of opening most locked doors, a tin of grey powder labelled something which it isn t and an
insufflator to use with it, and one or two other little gadgets which most people wouldn t recognize for
what they are. Amongst other things I had a pocket bird watcher. Not a high-powered one but just good
enough to be useful. I took this out and raised it to my eye.
There was a child at the window. I could see a long plait of hair lying over one shoulder. She had a pair
of small opera glasses and she was studying me with what might have been flattering attention. As there
was nothing else for her to look at, however, it might not be as flattering as it seemed. At that moment,
however, there was another midday distraction in Wilbraham Crescent.
A very old Rolls-Royce came with dignity along the road driven by a very elderly chauffeur. He looked
dignified but rather disgusted with life. He passed me with the solemnity of a whole procession of cars.
My child observer, I noticed, was now training her opera glasses on him. I stood there, thinking.
It is always my belief that if you wait long enough, you re bound to have some stroke of luck.
Something that you can t count upon and that you would never have thought of, but which just happens.
Was it possible that this might be mine? Looking up again at the big square block, I noted carefully the
position of the particular window I was interested in, counting from it to each end and up from the
ground. Third floor. Then I walked along the street till I came to the entrance to the block of flats. It had
a wide carriage-drive sweeping round the block with neatly spaced flower-beds at strategic positions in
the grass.
It s always well, I find, to go through all the motions, so I stepped off the carriage-drive towards the
block, looked up over my head as though startled, bent down to the grass, pretended to hunt about and
finally straightened up, apparently transferring something from my hand to my pocket. Then I walked
round the block until I came to the entrance.
At most times of the day I should think there was a porter here, but between the sacred hour of one and
two the entrance hall was empty. There was a bell with a large sign above it, saying PORTER, but I did
not ring it. There was an automatic lift and I went to it and pressed a button for the third floor. After that
I had to check things pretty carefully.
It looks simple enough from the outside to place one particular room, but the inside of a building is
confusing. However, I ve had a good deal of practice at that sort of thing in my time, and I was fairly
sure that I d got the right door. The number on it, for better or worse, was No. 77.  Well, I thought,
 sevens are lucky. Here goes. I pressed the bell and stood back to await events.
CHAPTER 25
Colin Lamb s Narrative
I had to wait just a minute or two, then the door opened.
A big blonde Nordic girl with a flushed face and wearing gay-coloured clothing looked at me
inquiringly. Her hands had been hastily wiped but there were traces of flour on them and there was a
slight smear of flour on her nose so it was easy for me to guess what she had been doing.
 Excuse me, I said,  but you have a little girl here, I think. She dropped something out of the window.
She smiled at me encouragingly. The English language was not as yet her strong point.
 I am sorry what you say?
 A child here a little girl.
 Yes, yes. She nodded.
 Dropped something out of the window.
Here I did a little gesticulation. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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