The Clocks by Agatha Christie

pretty little bit of organization. That’s the part we’d like to know more about, because that’s the part where the brains are. Somewhere there’s a very good headquarters, with excellent planning, which leaves a trail that is confused not once but probably seven or eight times.”
    â€œWhat did Larkin do it for?” asked Hardcastle, curiously. “Political idealist? Boosting his ego? Or plain money?”
    â€œHe was no idealist,” I said. “Just money, I’d say.”
    â€œCouldn’t you have got on to him sooner that way? He spent the money, didn’t he? He didn’t salt it away.”
    â€œOh, no, he splashed it about all right. Actually, we got on to him a little sooner than we’re admitting.”
    Hardcastle nodded his head understandingly.
    â€œI see. You tumbled and then you used him for a bit. Is that it?”
    â€œMore or less. He had passed out some quite valuable information before we got on to him, so we let him pass out more information, also apparently valuable. In the Service I belong to, we have to resign ourselves to looking fools now and again.”
    â€œI don’t think I’d care for your job, Colin,” said Hardcastle thoughtfully.
    â€œIt’s not the exciting job that people think it is,” I said. “As a matter of fact, it’s usually remarkably tedious. But there’s something beyond that. Nowadays one gets to feeling that nothing really is secret. We know Their secrets and They know our secrets. Our agents are often Their agents, too, and Their agents are very often our agents. And in the end who is double-crossing who becomes a kind of nightmare! Sometimes I think that everybody knows everybody else’s secrets and that they enter into a kind of conspiracy to pretend that they don’t.”
    â€œI see what you mean,” Dick said thoughtfully.
    Then he looked at me curiously.
    â€œI can see why you should still be hanging around Portlebury. But Crowdean’s a good ten miles from Portlebury.”
    â€œWhat I’m really after,” I said, “are Crescents.”
    â€œCrescents?” Hardcastle looked puzzled.
    â€œYes. Or alternatively, moons. New moons, rising moons and so on. I started my quest in Portlebury itself. There’s a pub there called The Crescent Moon. I wasted a long time over that. It sounded ideal. Then there’s The Moon and Stars. The Rising Moon, The Jolly Sickle, The Cross and the Crescent—that was in a little place called Seamede. Nothing doing. Then I abandoned moons and started on Crescents. Several Crescents in Portlebury. Lansbury Crescent, Aldridge Crescent, Livermead Crescent, Victoria Crescent.”
    I caught sight of Dick’s bewildered face and began to laugh.
    â€œDon’t look so much at sea, Dick. I had something tangible to start me off.”
    I took out my wallet, extracted a sheet of paper and passed it over to him. It was a single sheet of hotel writing paper on which a rough sketch had been drawn.
    â€œA chap called Hanbury had this in his wallet. Hanbury did a lot of work in the Larkin case. He was good—very good. He was run over by a hit and run car in London. Nobody got its number. I don’t know what this means, but it’s something that Hanbury jotted down, or copied, because he thought it was important. Some idea that he had? Or something that he’d seen or heard? Something to do with a moon or crescent, the number 61 and the initial M. I took over after his death. I don’t know what I’m looking for yet,but I’m pretty sure there’s something to find. I don’t know what 61 means. I don’t know what M means. I’ve been working in a radius from Portlebury outwards. Three weeks of unremitting and unrewarding toil. Crowdean is on my route. That’s all there is to it. Frankly, Dick, I didn’t expect very much of Crowdean. There’s only one Crescent here.