Third Girl (4 page)

“Don't be absurd, David.”

“Ta-ta, then.” The young man passed them, waved an airy hand and went on down and out through the open front door.

“Horrible creature,” said Mary Restarick, with a sharpness of rancour that startled Poirot. “I can't bear him. I simply can't stand him. Why is En gland absolutely full of these people nowadays?”

“Ah, Madame, do not disquiet yourself. It is all a question of fashion. There have always been fashions. You see less in the country, but in London you meet plenty of them.”

“Dreadful,” said Mary. “Absolutely dreadful. Effeminate, exotic.”

“And yet not unlike a Vandyke portrait, do you not think so, Madame? In a gold frame, wearing a lace collar, you would not then say he was effeminate or exotic.”

“Daring to come down here like that. Andrew would have been furious. It worries him dreadfully. Daughters can be very worrying. It's not even as though Andrew knew Norma well. He's been abroad since she was a child. He left her entirely to her mother to bring up, and now he finds her a complete puzzle. So do I for that matter. I can't help feeling that she is a very odd type of girl. One has no kind of authority over them these days. They seem to like the worst type of young men. She's absolutely infatuated with this David Baker. One can't do anything. Andrew forbade him the house, and look, he turns up here, walks in as cool as a cucumber. I think—I almost think I'd better not tell Andrew. I don't want him to be unduly worried. I believe she goes about with this creature in London, and not only with him. There are some much worse ones even. The kind that don't wash, completely unshaven faces and funny sprouting beards and greasy clothes.”

Poirot said cheerfully, “Alas, Madame, you must not distress yourself. The indiscretions of youth pass.”

“I hope so, I'm sure. Norma is a
very
difficult girl. Sometimes I think she's not right in the head. She's so peculiar. She really looks sometimes as though she isn't all there. These extraordinary dislikes she takes—”

“Dislikes?”

“She hates me. Really hates me. I don't see why it's necessary. I suppose she was very devoted to her mother, but after all it's only reasonable that her father should marry again, isn't it?”

“Do you think she really hates you?”

“Oh, I know she does. I've had ample proof of it. I can't say how relieved I was when she went off to London. I didn't want to make trouble—” She stopped suddenly. It was as though for the first time she realised that she was talking to a stranger.

Poirot had the capacity to attract confidences. It was as though when people were talking to him they hardly realised who it was they were talking to. She gave a short laugh now.

“Dear me,” she said, “I don't really know why I'm saying all this to you. I expect every family has these problems. Poor stepmothers, we have a hard time of it. Ah, here we are.”

She tapped on a door.

“Come in, come in.”

It was a stentorian roar.

“Here is a visitor to see you, Uncle,” said Mary Restarick, as she walked into the room, Poirot behind her.

A broad-shouldered, square-faced, red-cheeked, irascible looking elderly man had been pacing the floor. He stumped forward
towards them. At the table behind him a girl was sitting sorting letters and papers. Her head was bent over them, a sleek, dark head.

“This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot, Uncle Roddy,” said Mary Restarick.

Poirot stepped forward gracefully into action and speech. “Ah, Sir Roderick, it is many years—many years since I have had the pleasure of meeting you. We have to go back, so far as the last war. It was, I think, in Normandy the last time. How well I remember, there was there also Colonel Race and there was General Abercromby and there was Air-Marshal Sir Edmund Collingsby. What decisions we had to take! And what difficulties we had with security. Ah, nowadays, there is no longer the need for secrecy. I recall the unmasking of that secret agent who succeeded for so long—you remember Captain Henderson.”

“Ah. Captain Henderson indeed. Lord, that damned swine! Unmasked!”

“You may not remember me, Hercule Poirot.”

“Yes, yes, of course I remember you. Ah, it was a close shave that, a close shave. You were the French representative, weren't you? There were one or two of them, one I couldn't get on with—can't remember his name. Ah well, sit down, sit down. Nothing like having a chat over old days.”

“I feared so much that you might not remember me or my colleague, Monsieur Giraud.”

“Yes, yes, of course I remember both of you. Ah, those were the days, those were the days indeed.”

The girl at the table got up. She moved a chair politely towards Poirot.

“That's right, Sonia, that's right,” said Sir Roderick. “Let me
introduce you,” he said, “to my charming little secretary here. Makes a great difference to me. Helps me, you know, files all my work. Don't know how I ever got on without her.”

Poirot bowed politely. “
Enchanté,
mademoiselle,” he murmured.

The girl murmured something in rejoinder. She was a small creature with black bobbed hair. She looked shy. Her dark blue eyes were usually modestly cast down, but she smiled up sweetly and shyly at her employer. He patted her on the shoulder.

“Don't know what I should do without her,” he said. “I don't really.”

“Oh, no,” the girl protested. “I am not much good really. I cannot type very fast.”

“You type quite fast enough, my dear. You're my memory, too. My eyes and my ears and a great many other things.”

She smiled again at him.

“One remembers,” murmured Poirot, “some of the excellent stories that used to go the round. I don't know if they were exaggerated or not. Now, for instance, the day that someone stole your car and—” he proceeded to follow up the tale.

Sir Roderick was delighted. “Ha, ha, of course now. Yes, indeed, well, bit of exaggeration, I expect. But on the whole, that's how it was. Yes, yes, well, fancy your remembering
that,
after all this long time. But I could tell you a better one than that now.” He launched forth into another tale. Poirot listened, applauded. Finally he glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.

“But I must detain you no longer,” he said. “You are engaged, I can see, in important work. It was just that being in this neighbourhood I could not help paying my respects. Years pass, but you, I see, have lost none of your vigour, of your enjoyment of life.”

“Well, well, perhaps you may say so. Anyway, you mustn't pay me too many compliments—but surely you'll stay and have tea. I'm sure Mary will give you some tea.” He looked round. “Oh, she's gone away. Nice girl.”

“Yes, indeed, and very handsome. I expect she has been a great comfort to you for many years.”

“Oh! They've only married recently. She's my nephew's second wife. I'll be frank with you. I've never cared very much for this nephew of mine, Andrew—not a steady chap. Always restless. His elder brother Simon was my favourite. Not that I knew him well, either. As for Andrew, he behaved very badly to his first wife. Went off, you know. Left her high and dry. Went off with a thoroughly bad lot. Everybody knew about her. But he was infatuated with her. The whole thing broke up in a year or two: silly fellow. The girl he's married seems all right. Nothing wrong with her as far as I know. Now Simon was a steady chap—damned dull, though. I can't say I liked it when my sister married into that family. Marrying into trade, you know. Rich, of course, but money isn't everything—we've usually married into the Services. I never saw much of the Restarick lot.”

“They have, I believe, a daughter. A friend of mine met her last week.”

“Oh, Norma. Silly girl. Goes about in dreadful clothes and has picked up with a dreadful young man. Ah well, they're all alike nowadays. Long-haired young fellows, beatniks, Beatles, all sorts of names they've got. I can't keep up with them. Practically talk a foreign language. Still, nobody cares to hear an old man's criticisms, so there we are. Even Mary—I always thought she was a good, sensible sort, but as far as I can see she can be thoroughly hysterical in some
ways—mainly about her health. Some fuss about going to hospital for observation or something. What about a drink? Whisky? No? Sure you won't stop and have a drop of tea?”

“Thank you, but I am staying with friends.”

“Well, I must say I have enjoyed this chat with you very much. Nice to remember some of the things that happened in the old days. Sonia, dear, perhaps you'll take Monsieur—sorry, what's your name, it's gone again—ah, yes, Poirot. Take him down to Mary, will you?”

“No, no,” Hercule Poirot hastily waved aside the offer. “I could not dream of troubling Madame anymore. I am quite all right. Quite all right. I can find my way perfectly. It has been a great pleasure to meet you again.”

He left the room.

“Haven't the faintest idea who that chap was,” said Sir Roderick, after Poirot had gone.

“You do not know who he was?” Sonia asked, looking at him in a startled manner.

“Personally I don't remember who half the people are who come up and talk to me nowadays. Of course, I have to make a good shot at it. One learns to get away with that, you know. Same thing at parties. Up comes a chap and says, ‘Perhaps you don't remember me. I last saw you in 1939.' I have to say ‘Of course I remember,' but I don't. It's a handicap being nearly blind and deaf. We got pally with a lot of frogs like that towards the end of the war. Don't remember half of them. Oh, he'd been there all right. He knew me and I knew a good many of the chaps he talked about. That story about me and the stolen car, that was true enough. Exaggerated a bit, of course, they made a pretty good story of it at the time. Ah
well, I don't think he knew I didn't remember him. Clever chap, I should say, but a thorough frog, isn't he? You know, mincing and dancing and bowing and scraping. Now then, where were we?”

Sonia picked up a letter and handed it to him. She tentatively proffered a pair of spectacles which he immediately rejected.

“Don't want those damned things—I can see all right.”

He screwed up his eyes and peered down at the letter he was holding. Then he capitulated and thrust it back into her hands.

“Well, perhaps you'd better read it to me.”

She started reading it in her clear soft voice.

I

H
ercule Poirot stood upon the landing for a moment. His head was a little on one side with a listening air. He could hear nothing from downstairs. He crossed to the landing window and looked out. Mary Restarick was below on the terrace, resuming her gardening work. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction. He walked gently along the corridor. One by one in turn he opened the doors. A bathroom, a linen cupboard, a double bedded spare room, an occupied single bedroom, a woman's room with a double bed (Mary Restarick's?). The next door was that of an adjoining room and was, he guessed, the room belonging to Andrew Restarick. He turned to the other side of the landing. The door he opened first was a single bedroom. It was not, he judged, occupied at the time, but it was a room which possibly was occupied at weekends. There were toilet brushes on the dressing table. He listened carefully, then tiptoed in. He opened the wardrobe. Yes, there were some clothes hanging up there. Country clothes.

There was a writing table but there was nothing on it. He opened the desk drawers very softly. There were a few odds and ends, a letter or two, but the letters were trivial and dated some time ago. He shut the desk drawers. He walked downstairs, and going out of the house, bade farewell to his hostess. He refused her offer of tea. He had promised to get back, he said, as he had to catch a train to town very shortly afterwards.

“Don't you want a taxi? We could order you one, or I could drive you in the car.”

“No, no, Madame, you are too kind.”

Poirot walked back to the village and turned down the lane by the church. He crossed a little bridge over a stream. Presently he came to where a large car with a chauffeur was waiting discreetly under a beech tree. The chauffeur opened the door of the car, Poirot got inside, sat down and removed his patent leather shoes, uttering a gasp of relief.

“Now we return to London,” he said.

The chauffeur closed the door, returned to his seat and the car purred quietly away. The sight of a young man standing by the roadside furiously thumbing a ride was not an unusual one. Poirot's eyes rested almost indifferently on this member of the fraternity, a brightly dressed young man with long and exotic hair. There were many such but in the moment of passing him Poirot suddenly sat upright and addressed the driver.

“If you please, stop. Yes, and if you can reverse a little…There is someone requesting a lift.”

The chauffeur turned an incredulous eye over his shoulder. It was the last remark he would have expected. However, Poirot was gently nodding his head, so he obeyed.

The young man called David advanced to the door. “Thought you weren't going to stop for me,” he said cheerfully. “Much obliged, I'm sure.”

He got in, removed a small pack from his shoulders and let it slide to the floor, smoothed down his copper brown locks. “So you recognised me,” he said.

“You are perhaps somewhat conspicuously dressed.”

“Oh, do you think so? Not really. I'm just one of a band of brothers.”

“The school of Vandyke. Very dressy.”

“Oh. I've never thought of it like that. Yes, there may be something in what you say.”

“You should wear a cavalier's hat,” said Poirot, “and a lace collar, if I might advise.”

“Oh, I don't think we go quite as far as that.” The young man laughed. “How Mrs. Restarick dislikes the mere sight of me. Actually I reciprocate her dislike. I don't care much for Restarick, either. There is something singularly unattractive about successful tycoons, don't you think?”

“It depends on the point of view. You have been paying attentions to the daughter, I understand.”

“That is such a nice phrase,” said David. “Paying attentions to the daughter. I suppose it might be called that. But there's plenty of fifty-fifty about it, you know. She's paying attention to me, too.”

“Where is Mademoiselle now?”

David turned his head rather sharply. “And why do you ask that?”

“I should like to meet her.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don't believe she'd be your type, you know, anymore than I am. Norma's in London.”

“But you said to her stepmother—”

“Oh! We don't tell stepmothers everything.”

“And where is she in London?”

“She works in an interior decorator's down the King's Road somewhere in Chelsea. Can't remember the name of it for the moment. Susan Phelps, I think.”

“But that is not where she lives, I presume. You have her address?”

“Oh yes, a great block of flats. I don't really understand your interest.”

“One is interested in so many things.”

“What do you mean?”

“What brought you to that house—(what is its name?—Crosshedges) today. Brought you secretly into the house and up the stairs.”

“I came in the back door, I admit.”

“What were you looking for upstairs?”

“That's my business. I don't want to be rude—but aren't you being rather nosy?”

“Yes, I am displaying curiosity. I would like to know exactly where this young lady is.”

“I see. Dear Andrew and dear Mary—lord rot 'em—are employing you, is that it? They are trying to find her?”

“As yet,” said Poirot, “I do not think they know that she is missing.”

“Someone must be employing you.”

“You are exceedingly perceptive,” said Poirot. He leant back.

“I wondered what you were up to,” said David. “That's why I hailed you. I hoped you'd stop and give me a bit of dope. She's my girl. You know that, I suppose?”

“I understand that that is supposed to be the idea,” said Poirot cautiously. “If so, you should know where she is. Is that not so, Mr.—I am sorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, that is, that your Christian name is David.”

“Baker.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Baker, you have had a quarrel.”

“No, we haven't had a quarrel. Why should you think we had?”

“Miss Norma Restarick left Crosshedges on Sunday evening, or was it Monday morning?”

“It depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London a little after ten. It would make her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usually she goes back on Sunday night.”

“She left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Mansions.”

“Apparently not. So Claudia says.”

“This Miss Reece-Holland—that is her name, is it not?—was she surprised or worried?”

“Good lord, no, why should she be. They don't keep tabs on each other all the time, these girls.”

“But you thought she was going back there?”

“She didn't go back to work either. They're fed up at the shop, I can tell you.”

“Are
you
worried, Mr. Baker?”

“No. Naturally—I mean, well, I'm damned if I know. I don't see any reason I should be worried, only time's getting on. What is it today—Thursday?”

“She has not quarrelled with you?”

“No. We don't quarrel.”

“But you are worried about her, Mr. Baker?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It is no business of mine but there has, I understand, been trouble at home. She does not like her stepmother.”

“Quite right too. She's a bitch, that woman. Hard as nails. She doesn't like Norma either.”

“She has been ill, has she not? She had to go to hospital.”

“Who are you talking about—Norma?”

“No, I am not talking about Miss Restarick. I am talking about Mrs. Restarick.”

“I believe she did go into a nursing home. No reason she should. Strong as a horse, I'd say.”

“And Miss Restarick hates her stepmother.”

“She's a bit unbalanced sometimes, Norma. You know, goes off the deep end. I tell you, girls always hate their stepmothers.”

“Does that always make stepmothers ill? Ill enough to go to hospital?”

“What the hell are you getting at?”

“Gardening perhaps—or the use of weed killer.”

“What do you mean by talking about weed killer? Are you suggesting that Norma—that she'd dream of—that—”

“People talk,” said Poirot. “Talk goes round the neighbourhood.”

“Do you mean that somebody has said that Norma has tried to poison her stepmother? That's ridiculous. It's absolutely absurd.”

“It is very unlikely, I agree,” said Poirot. “Actually, people have
not
been saying that.”

“Oh. Sorry. I misunderstood. But—what
did
you mean?”

“My dear young man,” said Poirot, “you must realise that there are rumours going about, and rumours are almost always about the same person—a husband.”

“What, poor old Andrew? Most unlikely I should say.”

“Yes. Yes, it does not seem to me very likely.”

“Well, what were you there for then? You
are
a detective, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then?”

“We are talking at cross-purposes,” said Poirot. “I did not go down there to inquire into any doubtful or possible case of poisoning. You must forgive me if I cannot answer your question. It is all very hush-hush, you understand.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

“I went there,” said Poirot, “to see Sir Roderick Horsefield.”

“What, that old boy? He's practically gaga, isn't he?”

“He is a man,” said Poirot, “who is in possession of a great many secrets. I do not mean that he takes an active part in such things nowadays, but he knows a good deal. He was connected with a great many things in the past war. He
knew
several people.”

“That's all over years ago, though.”

“Yes, yes,
his
part in things is all over years ago. But do you not realise that there are certain things that it might be useful to know?”

“What sort of things?”

“Faces,” said Poirot. “A well-known face perhaps, which Sir Roderick might recognise. A face or a mannerism, a way of talking, a way of walking, a gesture. People do remember, you know.
Old people. They remember, not things that have happened last week or last month or last year, but they remember something that happened, say, nearly twenty years ago. And they may remember someone who does not want to be remembered. And they can tell you certain things about a certain man or a certain woman or something they were mixed up in—I am speaking very vaguely, you understand. I went to him for information.”

“You went to him for information, did you?
That
old boy? Gaga. And he gave it to you?”

“Let us say that I am quite satisfied.”

David continued to stare at him. “I wonder now,” he said. “Did you go to see the old boy or did you go to see the little girl, eh? Did you want to know what
she
was doing in the house? I've wondered once or twice myself. Do you think she took that post there to get a bit of past information out of the old boy?”

“I do not think,” said Poirot, “that it will serve any useful purpose to discuss these matters. She seems a very devoted and attentive—what shall I call her—secretary?”

“A mixture of a hospital nurse, a secretary, a companion, an
au pair
girl, an uncle's help? Yes, one could find a good many names for her, couldn't one? He's besotted about her. You noticed that?”

“It is not unnatural under the circumstances,” said Poirot primly.

“I can tell you someone who doesn't like her, and that's our Mary.”

“And she perhaps does not like Mary Restarick either.”

“So that's what you think, is it?” said David. “That Sonia doesn't like Mary Restarick. Perhaps you go as far as thinking that
she may have made a few inquiries as to where the weed killer was kept? Bah,” he added, “the whole thing's ridiculous. All right. Thanks for the lift. I think I'll get out here.”

“Aha. This is where you want to be? We are still a good seven miles out of London.”

“I'll get out here. Good-bye, M. Poirot.”

“Good-bye.”

Poirot leant back in his seat as David slammed the door.

II

Mrs. Oliver prowled round her sitting room. She was very restless. An hour ago she had parcelled up a typescript that she had just finished correcting. She was about to send it off to her publisher who was anxiously awaiting it and constantly prodding her about it every three or four days.

“There you are,” said Mrs. Oliver, addressing the empty air and conjuring up an imaginary publisher. “There you are, and I hope you like it!
I
don't. I think it's
lousy!
I don't believe
you
know whether anything I write is good or bad. Anyway, I warned you. I
told
you it was frightful. You said ‘Oh! no, no, I don't believe that for a moment.'

“You just wait and see,” said Mrs. Oliver vengefully. “You just wait and see.”

She opened the door, called to Edith, her maid, gave her the parcel and directed that it should be taken to the post at once.

“And now,” said Mrs. Oliver, “what am I going to do with myself?”

She began strolling about again. “Yes,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “I wish I had those tropical birds and things back on the wall instead of these idiotic cherries. I used to feel like something in a tropical wood. A lion or a tiger or a leopard or a cheetah! What could I possibly feel like in a cherry orchard except a bird scarer?”

She looked round again. “Cheeping like a bird, that's what I ought to be doing,” she said gloomily. “Eating cherries…I wish it was the right time of year for cherries. I'd like some cherries. I wonder now—” She went to the telephone. “I will ascertain, Madam,” said the voice of George in answer to her inquiry. Presently another voice spoke.