Third Girl (16 page)

P
oirot paused at the doorway of the Wedderburn Gallery to inspect a picture which depicted three aggressive-looking cows with vastly elongated bodies overshadowed by a colossal and complicated design of windmills. The two seemed to have nothing to do with each other or the very curious purple colouring.

“Interesting, isn't it?” said a soft purring voice.

A middle-aged man, who at first sight seemed to have shown a smile which exhibited an almost excessive number of beautiful white teeth, was at his elbow.

“Such
freshness.
”

He had large white plump hands which he waved as though he was using them in an arabesque.

“Clever exhibition. Closed last week. Claude Raphael show opened the day before yesterday. It's going to do well. Very well indeed.”

“Ah,” said Poirot and was led through grey velvet curtains into a long room.

Poirot made a few cautious if doubtful remarks. The plump man took him in hand in a practised manner. Here was someone, he obviously felt, who must not be frightened away. He was a very experienced man in the art of salesmanship. You felt at once that you were welcome to be in his gallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solely looking at these delightful pictures—though when you entered the gallery you might not have thought that they
were
delightful. But by the time you went out you were convinced that delightful was exactly the word to describe them. After receiving some useful artistic instruction, and making a few of the amateur's stock remarks such as “I rather like that one,” Mr. Boscombe responded encouragingly by some such phrase as:

“Now that's very interesting that you should say that. It shows, if I may say so, great perspicacity. Of course you know it isn't the ordinary reaction. Most people prefer something—well, shall I say slightly
obvious
like that”—he pointed to a blue and green striped effect arranged in one corner of the canvas—“but this, yes, you've spotted the quality of the thing. I'd say myself—of course it's only my personal opinion—that that's one of Raphael's masterpieces.”

Poirot and he looked together with both their heads on one side at an orange lopsided diamond with two human eyes depending from it by what looked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relations established and time obviously being infinite, Poirot remarked:

“I think a Miss Frances Cary works for you, does she not?”

“Ah yes. Frances. Clever girl that. Very artistic and very competent too. Just come back from Portugal where she's been ar
ranging an art show for us. Very successful. Quite a good artist herself, but not I should say really creative, if you understand me. She is better on the business side. I think she recognises that herself.”

“I understand that she is a good patron of the arts?”

“Oh yes. She's interested in
Les Jeunes.
Encourages talent, persuaded me to give a show for a little group of young artists last spring. It was quite successful—the Press noticed it—all in a small way, you understand. Yes, she has her protégés.”

“I am, you understand, somewhat old-fashioned. Some of these young men—
vraiment!
” Poirot's hands went up.

“Ah,” said Mr. Boscombe indulgently, “you mustn't go by their appearances. It's just a fashion, you know. Beards and jeans or brocades and hair. Just a passing phase.”

“David someone,” said Poirot. “I forget his last name. Miss Cary seemed to think highly of him.”

“Sure you don't mean Peter Cardiff? He's her present protégé. Mind you, I'm not
quite
so sure about him as she is. He's really not so much
avant-garde
as he is—well, positively reactionary. Quite—quite—Burne-Jones sometimes! Still, one never knows. You do get these reactions. She acts as his model occasionally.”

“David Baker—that was the name I was trying to remember,” said Poirot.

“He is not bad,” said Mr. Boscombe, without enthusiasm. “Not much
originality,
in my opinion. He was one of the group of artists I mentioned, but he didn't make any particular impression. A
good
painter, mind, but not striking. Derivative!”

Poirot went home. Miss Lemon presented him with letters to sign, and departed with them duly signed. George served him with
an
omellette fines herbes
garnished, as you might say, with a discreetly sympathetic manner. After lunch, as Poirot was setting himself in his square-backed armchair with his coffee at his elbow, the telephone rang.

“Mrs. Oliver, sir,” said George, lifting the telephone and placing it at his elbow.

Poirot picked up the receiver reluctantly. He did not want to talk to Mrs. Oliver. He felt that she would urge upon him something which he did not want to do.

“M. Poirot?”

“
C'est moi.
”

“Well, what are you doing? What have you done?”

“I am sitting in this chair,” said Poirot. “Thinking,” he added.

“Is that all?” said Mrs. Oliver.

“It is the important thing,” said Poirot. “Whether I shall have success in it or not I do not know.”

“But you must find that girl. She's probably been kidnapped.”

“It would certainly seem so,” said Poirot. “And I have a letter here which came by the midday post from her father, urging me to come and see him and tell him what progress I have made.”

“Well, what progress
have
you made?”

“At the moment,” said Poirot reluctantly, “none.”

“Really, M. Poirot, you really must take a grip on yourself.”

“You, too!”

“What do you mean, me too?”

“Urging me on.”

“Why don't you go down to that place in Chelsea, where I was hit on the head?”

“And get myself hit on the head also?”

“I simply don't understand you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “
I
gave you a clue by finding the girl in the café. You said so.”

“I know, I know.”

“What about that woman who threw herself out of a window? Haven't you got anything out of that?”

“I have made inquiries, yes.”

“Well?”

“Nothing. The woman is one of many. They are attractive when young, they have affairs, they are passionate, they have still more affairs, they get less attractive, they are unhappy and drink too much, they think they have cancer or some fatal disease and so at last in despair and loneliness they throw themselves out of a window!”

“You said her death was important—that it
meant
something.”

“It ought to have done.”

“Really!” At a loss for further comment, Mrs. Oliver rang off.

Poirot leant back in his armchair, as far as he could lean back since it was of an upright nature, waved to George to remove the coffee pot and also the telephone and proceeded to reflect upon what he did or did not know. To clarify his thoughts he spoke out loud. He recalled three philosophic questions.

“What do I know? What can I hope? What ought I to do?”

He was not sure that he got them in the right order or indeed if they were quite the right questions, but he reflected upon them.

“Perhaps I
am
too old,” said Hercule Poirot, at the bottom depths of despair. “What
do
I know?”

Upon reflection he thought that he knew too much! He laid that question aside for the moment.

“What can I hope?” Well, one could always hope. He could
hope that those excellent brains of his, so much better than anybody else's, would come up sooner or later with an answer to a problem which he felt uneasily that he did not really understand.

“What ought I to do?” Well, that was very definite. What he ought to do was to go and call upon Mr. Andrew Restarick who was obviously distraught about his daughter, and who would no doubt blame Poirot for not having by now delivered the daughter in person. Poirot could understand that, and sympathised with his point of view, but disliked having to present himself in such a very unfavourable light. The only other thing he could do was to telephone to a certain number and ask what developments there had been.

But before he did that, he would go back to the question he had laid aside.

“What do I know?”

He knew that the Wedderburn Gallery was under suspicion—so far it had kept on the right side of the law, but it would not hesitate at swindling ignorant millionaires by selling them dubious pictures.

He recalled Mr. Boscombe with his plump white hands and his plentiful teeth, and decided that he did not like him. He was the kind of man who was almost certainly up to dirty work, though he would no doubt protect
himself
remarkably well. That was a fact that might come into use because it might connect up with David Baker. Then there was David Baker himself, the Peacock. What did he know about him? He had met him, he had conversed with him, and he had formed certain opinions about him. He would do a crooked deal of any kind for money, he would marry a rich heiress for her money and not for love, he might perhaps be bought off. Yes, he probably could be bought off. Andrew Restarick certainly believed so and he was probably right. Unless—

He considered Andrew Restarick, thinking more of the picture on the wall hanging above him than of the man himself. He remembered the strong features, the jutting out chin, the air of resolution, of decision. Then he thought of Mrs. Andrew Restarick, deceased. The bitter lines of her mouth…Perhaps he would go down to Crosshedges again and look at that portrait, so as to see it more clearly because there might be a clue to Norma in that. Norma—no, he must not think of Norma yet. What else was there?

There was Mary Restarick whom the girl Sonia said must have a lover because she went up to London so often. He considered that point but he did not think that Sonia was right. He thought Mrs. Restarick was much more likely to go to London in order to look at possible properties to buy, luxury flats, houses in Mayfair, decorators, all the things that money in the metropolis could buy.

Money
…It seemed to him that all the points that had been passing through his mind came to this in the end. Money. The importance of money. There was a great deal of money in this case. Somehow, in some way that was not obvious, money counted. Money played its part. So far there had been nothing to justify his belief that the tragic death of Mrs. Charpentier had been the work of Norma. No sign of evidence, no motive; yet it seemed to him that there
was
an undeniable link. The girl had said that she “might have committed a murder.” A death had taken place only a day or two previously. A death that had occurred in the building where she lived. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence that that death should not be connected in any way? He thought again of the mysterious illness which had affected Mary Restarick. An occurrence so simple as to be classic in its outline. A poison case where the poisoner was—must be—one of the household. Had
Mary Restarick poisoned herself, had her husband tried to poison her, had the girl Sonia administered poison? Or had Norma been the culprit? Everything pointed, Hercule Poirot had to confess, to Norma as being the logical person.

“
Tout de même,
” said Poirot, “since I cannot find anything,
et bien
then the logic falls out of the window.”

He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He must keep his appointment with Andrew Restarick.

C
laudia Reece-Holland was not in the office today. Instead, a middle-aged woman received Poirot. She said that Mr. Restarick was waiting for him and ushered him into Restarick's room.

“Well?” Restarick hardly waited until he had come through the door. “Well, what about my daughter?”

Poirot spread out his hands.

“As yet—nothing.”

“But look here, man, there must be something—some clue. A girl can't just disappear into thin air.”

“Girls have done it before now and will do it again.”

“Did you understand that no expense was to be spared, none whatever? I—I can't go on like this.”

He seemed completely on edge by this time. He looked thinner and his red-rimmed eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

“I know what your anxiety must be, but I assure you that I have
done everything possible to trace her. These things, alas, cannot be hurried.”

“She may have lost her memory or—or she may—I mean, she might be sick. Ill.”

Poirot thought he knew what the broken form of the sentence meant. Restarick had been about to say “she may perhaps be dead.”

He sat down on the other side of the desk and said:

“Believe me, I appreciate your anxiety and I have to say to you once again that the results would be a lot quicker if you consulted the police.”

“
No!
” The word broke out explosively.

“They have greater facilities, more lines of inquiry. I assure you it is not only a question of money. Money cannot give you the same result as a highly efficient organisation can do.”

“Man, it's no use your talking in that soothing way. Norma is my daughter. My only daughter, the only flesh and blood I've got.”

“Are you sure that you have told me everything—everything possible—about your daughter?”

“What more
can
I tell you?”

“That is for you to say, not me. Have there been, for instance, any incidents in the past?”

“Such as? What do you mean, man?”

“Any definite history of mental instability.”

“You think that—that—”

“How do I know? How can I know?”

“And how do I know?” said Restarick, suddenly bitter. “What do I know of her? All these years. Grace was a bitter woman. A woman who did not easily forgive or forget. Sometimes I feel—I feel that she was the wrong person to have brought Norma up.”

He got up, walked up and down the room and then sat down again.

“Of course I shouldn't have left my wife. I know that. I left her to bring up the child. But then at the time I suppose I made excuses for myself. Grace was a woman of excellent character devoted to Norma. A thoroughly good guardian for her. But was she? Was she really? Some of the letters Grace wrote to me were as though they breathed anger and revenge. Well, I suppose that's natural enough. But I was away all those years. I should have come back, come back more often and found out how the child was getting on. I suppose I had a bad conscience. Oh, it's no good making excuses now.”

He turned his head sharply.

“Yes. I did think when I saw her again that Norma's whole attitude was neurotic, indisciplined. I hoped she and Mary would—would get on better after a little while but I have to admit that I don't feel the girl was entirely normal. I felt it would be better for her to have a job in London and come home for weekends, but not to be forced into Mary's company the whole time. Oh, I suppose I've made a mess of everything. But where is she, M. Poirot? Where is she? Do you think she may have lost her memory? One hears of such things.”

“Yes,” said Poirot, “that is a possibility. In her state, she may be wandering about quite unaware of who she is. Or she may have had an accident. That is less likely. I can assure you that I have made all inquiries in hospitals and other places.”

“You don't think she is—you don't think she's
dead?
”

“She would be easier to find dead than alive, I can assure you. Please calm yourself, Mr. Restarick. Remember she may have friends of whom you know nothing. Friends in any part of En
gland, friends whom she has known while living with her mother, or with her aunt, or friends who were friends of school friends of hers. All these things take time to sort out. It may be—you must prepare yourself—that she is with a boyfriend of some kind.”

“David Baker? If I thought that—”

“She is not with David Baker. That,” said Poirot dryly, “I ascertained first of all.”

“How do I know what friends she has?” He sighed. “If I find her,
when
I find her—I'd rather put it that way—I'm going to take her out of all this.”

“Out of all what?”

“Out of this country. I have been miserable, M. Poirot, miserable ever since I returned here. I always hated City life. The boring round of office routine, continual consultations with lawyers and financiers. The life I liked was always the same. Travelling, moving about from place to place, going to wild and inaccessible places. That's the life for me. I should never have left it. I should have sent for Norma to come out to me and, as I say, when I find her that's what I'm going to do. Already I'm being approached with various takeover bids. Well, they can have the whole caboodle on very advantageous terms. I'll take the cash and go back to a country that
means
something, that's
real.
”

“Aha! And what will your wife say to that?”

“Mary? She's used to that life. That's where she comes from.”

“To
les femmes
with plenty of money,” said Poirot, “London can be very attractive.”

“She'll see it my way.”

The telephone rang on his desk. He picked it up.

“Yes? Oh. From Manchester? Yes. If it's Claudia Reece-Holland, put her through.”

He waited a minute.

“Hallo, Claudia. Yes. Speak up—it's a very bad line, I can't hear you. They agreed?…Ah, pity…No, I think you did very well…Right…All right then. Take the evening train back. We'll discuss it further tomorrow morning.”

He replaced the telephone on its rest.

“That's a competent girl,” he said.

“Miss Reece-Holland?”

“Yes. Unusually competent. Takes a lot of bother off my shoulders. I gave her pretty well
carte blanche
to put through this deal in Manchester on her own terms. I really felt I couldn't concentrate. And she's done exceedingly well. She's as good as a man in some ways.”

He looked at Poirot, suddenly bringing himself back to the present.

“Ah yes, M. Poirot. Well, I'm afraid I've rather lost my grip. Do you need more money for expenses?”

“No, Monsieur. I assure you that I will do my utmost to restore your daughter sound and well. I have taken all possible precautions for her safety.”

He went out through the outer office. When he reached the street he looked up at the sky.

“A definite answer to one question,” he said, “that is what I need.”