The Clocks by Agatha Christie

point of view of its inhabitants, it might have had no neighbours.
    ‘Number 19, did you say?’ said Mrs Hemming, pausing irresolutely in the middle of her back garden. ‘But I thought there was only one person living in the house, a blind woman.’
    ‘The murdered man was not an occupant of the house,’ said the inspector.
    ‘Oh, I see,’ said Mrs Hemming, still vaguely, ‘he came here to be murdered. How odd.’
    ‘Now that,’ said Colin thoughtfully to himself, ‘is a damned good description.’?

The Clocks

CHAPTER 9
    They drove along Wilbraham Crescent, turned to the right up Albany Road and then to the right again along the second instalment of Wilbraham Crescent.
    ‘Simple really,’ said Hardcastle.
    ‘Once you know,’ said Colin.
    ‘61 really backs on Mrs Hemming’s house–but a corner of it touches on 19, so that’s good enough. It will give you a chance to look at your Mr Bland. No foreign help, by the way.’
    ‘So there goes a beautiful theory.’ The car drew up and the two men got out.
    ‘Well, well,’ said Colin. ‘Some front garden!’
    It was indeed a model of surburban perfection in a small way. There were beds of geraniums with lobelia edging. There were large fleshy-looking begonias, and there was a fine display of garden ornaments–frogs, toadstools, comic gnomes and pixies.
    ‘I’m sure Mr Bland must be a nice worthy man,’ said Colin, with a shudder. ‘He couldn’t have these terrible ideas if he wasn’t.’ He added as Hardcastle pushed the bell, ‘Do you expect him to be in at this time of the morning?’
    ‘I rang up,’ explained Hardcastle. ‘Asked him if it would be convenient.’
    At that moment a smart little Traveller van drew up and turned into the garage, which had obviously been a late addition to the house. Mr Josaiah Bland got out, slammed the door and advanced towards them. He was a man of medium height with a bald head and rather small blue eyes. He had a hearty manner.
    ‘Inspector Hardcastle? Come right in.’
    He led the way into the sitting-room. It evinced several proofs of prosperity. There were expensive and rather ornate lamps, an Empire writing desk, a coruscated ormolu set of mantelpiece ornaments, a marquetry cabinet, and a jardinre full of flowers in the window. The chairs were modern and richly upholstered.
    ‘Sit down,’ said Mr Bland heartily. ‘Smoke? Or can’t you when you’re on the job?’
    ‘No, thanks,’ said Hardcastle.
    ‘Don’t drink either, I suppose?’ said Mr Bland. ‘Ah well, better for both of us, I dare say. Now what’s it all about? This business at Number 19 I suppose? The corners of our gardens adjoin, but we’ve not much real view of it except from the upper floor windows. Extraordinary business altogether it seems to be–at least from what I read in our local paper this morning. I was delighted when I got your message. A chance of getting some of the real dope. You’ve no idea the rumours that are flying about! It’s made my wife quite nervous–feeling there’s a killer on the loose, you know. The trouble is they let all these barmy people out of lunatic asylums nowadays. Send them home on parole or whatever they call it. Then they do in someone else and they clap them back again. And as I say, the rumours! I mean, what with our daily woman and the milk and paper boy, you’d be surprised. One says he was strangled with picture wire, and the other says he was stabbed. Someone else that he was coshed. At any rate it was a he, wasn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t the old girl who was done in? An unknown man, the papers said.’
    Mr Bland came to a full stop at last.
    Hardcastle smiled and said in a deprecating voice:
    ‘Well, as to unknown, he had a card and an address in his pocket.’
    ‘So much for that story then,’ said Bland. ‘But you know what people are. I don’t know who thinks up all these things.’
    ‘While we’re on the subject of the victim,’ said Hardcastle, ‘perhaps you’ll have