The Clocks – Agatha Christie
Now, Ednathat is not the way Ive told you to speak when answering the telephone. Enunciate clearly, and keep your breath behind your tone.
Sorry, Miss Martindale.
Thats better. You can do it when you try. Send Sheila Webb in to me.
Shes not back from lunch yet, Miss Martindale.
Ah. Miss Martindales eye consulted the clock on her desk. 2.36. Exactly six minutes late. Sheila Webb had been getting slack lately. Send her in when she comes.
Yes, Miss Martindale.
Edna restored the toffee to the centre of her tongue and, sucking pleasurably, resumed her typing of Naked Love by Armand Levine. Its painstaking eroticism left her uninterestedas indeed it did most of Mr Levines readers, in spite of his efforts. He was a notable example of the fact that nothing can be duller than dull pornography. In spite of lurid jackets and provocative titles, his sales went down every year, and his last typing bill had already been sent in three times.
The door opened and Sheila Webb came in, slightly out of breath.
Sandy Cats asking for you, said Edna.
Sheila Webb made a face.
Just my luckon the one day Im late back!
She smoothed down her hair, picked up pad and pencil, and knocked at the Principals door.
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