Third Girl hp-37

by Agatha Christie

  As for Mary, she seems all right. Never looks at anything but a rose bush as far as I can make out. There's a gardener but he's eighty-three and has lived in the village all his life, and there are a couple of women always dodging about the house making a noise with Hoovers, but I can't see them in the role of spies either. So you see it's got to be an outsider. Of course Mary wears a wig," went on Sir Roderick rather inconsequently.

  "I mean it might make you think she was a spy because she wore a wig, but that's not the case. She lost her hair in a fever when she was eighteen. Pretty bad luck for a young woman. I'd no idea she wore a wig to begin with but a rose bush caught in her hair one day and whisked it sideways. Yes, very bad luck."

  "I thought there was something a little odd about the way she had arranged her hair," said Poirot.

  "Anyway, the best secret agents never wear wigs," Sir Roderick informed him.

  "Poor devils have to go to plastic surgeons and get their faces altered. But someone's been mucking about with my private papers."

  "You don't think that you may perhaps have placed them in some different container - in a drawer or a different file.

  When did you see them last?"

  "I handled these things about a year ago. I remember I thought then, they'd make rather good copy, and I noted those particular letters. Now they're gone. Somebody's taken them."

  "You do not suspect your nephew Andrew, his wife or the domestic staff.

  What about the daughter?"

  "Norma? Well Norma's a bit off her onion, I'd say. I mean she might be one of those kleptomaniacs who take people's things without knowing they're taking them but I don't see her fumbling about among my papers."

  "Then what do you think?"

  "Well, you've been in the house. You saw what the house is like. Anyone can walk in and out any time they like.

  We don't lock our doors. We never have."

  "Do you lock the door of your own room-if you go up to London, for instance?"

  "I never thought of it as necessary. I do now of course, but what's the use of that?

  Too late. Anyway, I've only an ordinary key, fits any of the doors. Someone must have come in from outside. Why nowadays that's how all the burglaries take place.

  People walk in in the middle of the day, stump up the stairs, go into any room they like, rifle the jewel box, go out again, and nobody sees them or cares who they are.

  They probably look like mods or rockers or beatniks or whatever they call these chaps nowadays with the long hair and the dirty nails. I've seen more than one of them prowling about. One doesn't like to say 'Who the devil are you?' You never know which sex they are, which is embarrassing.

  The place crawls with them. I suppose they're Norma's friends. Wouldn't have been allowed in in the old days. But you turn them out of the house, and then you find out it's Viscount Endersleigh or Lady Charlotte Marjoribanks. Don't know where you are nowadays," He paused. "If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can, Poirot." He swallowed the last mouthful of whisky and got up.

  "Well, that's that. It's up to you. You'll take it on, won't you?"

  "I will do my best," said Poirot.

  The front-door bell rang.

  "That's the little girl," said Sir Roderick.

  "Punctual to the minute. Wonderful, isn't it? Couldn't go about London without her, you know. Blind as a bat. Can't see to cross the road."

  "Can you not have glasses?"

  "I've got some somewhere, but they're always falling off my nose or else I lose them. Besides, I don't like glasses. I've never had glasses. When I was sixty-five I could see to read without glasses and that's pretty good."

  "Nothing," said Hercule Poirot, "lasts for ever." George ushered in Sonia. She was looking extremely pretty. Her slightly shy manner became her very well, Poirot thought. He moved forward with Gallic empressement.

  "Enchante, Mademoiselle," he said, bowing over her hand.

  "I'm not late, am I, Sir Roderick," she said, looking past him. "I have not kept you waiting. Please I hope not."

  "Exact to the minute, little girl," said Sir Roderick. "All ship-shape and Bristol fashion," he added.

  Sonia looked slightly perplexed.

  "Made a good tea, I hope," Sir Roderick went on. "I told you, you know, to have a good tea, buy yourself some buns or eclairs or whatever it is young ladies like nowadays, eh? You obeyed orders, I hope."

  "No, not exactly. I took the time to buy a pair of shoes. Look, they are pretty, are they not?" She stuck out a foot.

  It was certainly a very pretty foot. Sir Roderick beamed at it.

  "Well, we must go and catch our train," he said. "I may be old-fashioned but I'm all for trains. Start to time and get there on time, or they should do. But these cars, they get in a queue in the rush hour and you may idle the time away for about an hour and a half more than you need. Cars!

  Pah!"

  "Shall I ask George to get you a taxi," asked Hercule Poirot. "It will be no trouble, I assure you."

  "I have a taxi already waiting," said Sonia.

  "There you are," said Sir Roderick, "you see, she thinks of everything." He patted her on the shoulder. She looked at him in a way that Hercule Poirot fully appreciated.

  Poirot accompanied them to the hall door and took a polite leave of them. Mr. Goby had come out of the kitchen and was standing in the hall giving, it could be said, an excellent performance of a man who had come to see about the gas.

  George shut the hall door as soon as they had disappeared into the lift, and turned to meet Poirot's gaze.

  "And what is your opinion of that young lady, Georges, may I ask?" said Poirot.

  It was sometimes his habit to seek information from George. On certain points he always said George was infallible.

  "Well, sir," said George, "if I might put it that way, if you'll allow me, I would say he'd got it badly, sir. All over her as you might say."

  "I think you are right," said Hercule Poirot.

  "It's not unusual of course with gentlemen of that age. I remember Lord Mountbryan.

  He'd had a lot of experience in his life and you'd say he was as fly as anyone.

  But you'd be surprised. A young woman came to give him a massage. You'd be surprised at what he gave her. An evening frock, and a pretty bracelet. Forget-me-nots, it was. Turquoise and diamonds.

  Not too expensive but costing quite a pretty penny all the same. Then a fur wrap - not mink, Russian ermine, and a petty point evening bag. After that her brother got into trouble, debt or something, though whether she ever had a brother I sometimes wondered.

  Lord Mountbryan gave her the money to square it - she was so upset about it! All platonic, mind you, too.

  Gentlemen seem to lose their sense that way when they get to that age. It's the clinging ones they go for, not the bold type."

  "I have no doubt that you are quite right, Georges," said Poirot. "It is all the same not a complete answer to my question.

  I asked what you thought of the young lady."

  "Oh, the young lady… Well, sir, I wouldn't like to say definitely, but she's quite a definite type. There's never anything that you could put your finger on.

  But they know what they're doing, I'd say." Poirot entered his sitting-room and Mr. Goby followed him, obeying Poirot's gesture. Mr. Goby sat down on an upright chair in his usual attitude. Knees together, toes turned in. He took a rather dog-eared little notebook from his pocket, opened it carefully and then proceeded to survey the soda water siphon severely.

  "Re the backgrounds you asked me to look up.

  "Restarick family, perfectly respectable and of good standing. No scandal. The father, James Patrick Restarick, said to be a sharp man over a bargain. Business has been in the family three generations.

  Grandfather founded it, father enlarged it, Simon Restarick kept it going. Simon Restarick had coronary trouble two years ago, health declined. Died of coronary thrombosis, about a year ago.

  "Younger brother Andrew
Restarick came into the business soon after he came down from Oxford, married Miss Grace Baldwin. One daughter, Norma. Left his wife and went out to South Africa. A Miss Birell went with him. No divorce proceedings.

  Mrs. Andrew Restarick died two and a half years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. Miss Norma Restarick was a boarder at Meadowfield Girls' School.

  Nothing against her." Allowing his eyes to sweep across Hercule Poirot's face, Mr. Goby observed, "In fact everything about the family seems quite O.K. and according to Cocker."

  "No black sheep, no mental instability?"

  "It doesn't appear so."

  "Disappointing," said Poirot.

  Mr. Goby let this pass. He cleared his throat, licked his finger, and turned over a leaf of his little book.

  "David Baker. Unsatisfactory record.

  Been on probation twice. Police are inclined to be interested in him. He's been on the fringe of several rather dubious affairs, thought to have been concerned in an important art robbery but no proof.

  He's one of the arty lot. No particular means of subsistence but he does quite well. Prefers girls with money. Not above living on some of the girls who are keen on him. Not above being paid off by their fathers either. Thorough bad lot if you ask me but enough brains to keep himself out of trouble." Mr. Goby shot a sudden glance at Poirot.

  "You met him?"

  "Yes," said Poirot.

  "What conclusions did you form, if I may ask?"

  "The same as you," said Poirot. "A gaudy creature," he added thoughtfully.

  "Appeals to women," said Mr. Goby. "Trouble is nowadays they won't look twice at a nice hard-working lad. They prefer the bad lots - the scroungers. They usually say 'he hasn't had a chance; poor boy'."

  "Strutting about like peacocks," said Poirot.

  "Well, you might put it like that," said Mr. Goby, rather doubtfully.

  "Do you think he'd use a cosh on anyone?" Mr. Goby thought, then very slowly shook his head at the electric fire.

  "Nobody's accused him of anything like that. I don't say he'd be past it, but I wouldn't say it was his line. He is a smooth spoken type, not one for the rough stuff."

  "No," said Poirot, "no, I should not have thought so. He could be bought off? That was your opinion?"

  "He'd drop any girl like a hot coal if it was made worth his while." Poirot nodded. He was remembering something. Andrew Restarick turning a cheque towards him so that he could read the signature on it. It was not only the signature that Poirot had read, it was the person to whom the cheque was made out.

  It had been made out to David Baker and it was for a large sum. Would David Baker demur at taking such a cheque, Poirot wondered. He thought not on the whole.

  Mr. Goby clearly was of that opinion.

  Undesirable young men had been bought off in any time or age, so had undesirable young women. Sons had sworn and daughters had wept but money was money.

  To Norma, David had been urging marriage. Was he sincere? Could it be that he really cared for Norma? If so, he would not be easily paid off. He had sounded genuine enough. Norma no doubt believed him genuine. Andrew Restarick and Mr. Goby and Hercule Poirot thought differently. They were very much more likely to be right.

  Mr. Goby cleared his throat and went on. "Miss Claudia Reece-Holland? She's all right. Nothing against her. Nothing dubious, that is. Father a Member of Parliament, well off. No scandals. Not like some M.P.s we've heard about. Educated Roe- clean, Lady Margaret Hall, came down and did a secretarial course. First secretary to a doctor in Harley Street, then went to the Coal Board. First-class secretary. Has been secretary to Mr. Restarick for the last two months. No special attachments, just what you'd call minor boy friends. Eligible and useful if she wants a date. Nothing to show there's anything between her and Restarick.

  I shouldn't say there is, myself. Has had a flat in Borodene Mansions for the last three years. Quite a high rent there. She usually has two other girls sharing it, no special friends. They come and go. Young lady Frances Cary, the second girl, has been there some time. Was at R.A.D.A. for a time, then went to the Slade. Works for the Wedderburn Gallery - well-known place in Bond Street. Specialises in arranging art shows in Manchester, Birmingham, sometimes abroad. Goes to Switzerland and Portugal. Arty type and has a lot of friends amongst artists and actors." He paused, cleared his throat and gave a brief look at the little notebook.

  "Haven't been able to get much from South Africa yet. Don't suppose I shall.

  Restarick moved about a lot. Kenya, Uganda, Gold Coast, South America for a while. He just moved about. Restless chap.

  Nobody seems to have known him particularly well. He'd got plenty of money of his own to go where he liked. He made money, too, quite a lot of it. Liked going to out of the way places. Everyone who came across him seems to have liked him. Just seems as though he was a born wanderer. He never kept in touch with anyone. Three times I believe he was reported dead - gone off into the bush and not turned up again - but he always did in the end. Five or six months and he'd pop up in some entirely different place or country.

  "Then last year his brother in London died suddenly. They had a bit of trouble in tracing him. His brother's death seemed to give him a shock. Perhaps he'd had enough, and perhaps he'd met the right woman at last. Good bit younger than him, she was, and a teacher, they say. The steady kind.

  Anyway he seems to have made up his mind then and there to chuck wandering about, and come home to England. Besides being a very rich man himself, he's his brother's heir."

  "A success story and an unhappy girl," said Poirot. "I wish I knew more about her.

  You have ascertained for me all that you could, the facts I needed. The people who surrounded that girl, who might have influenced her, who perhaps did influence her. I wanted to know something about her father, her stepmother, the boy she is in love with, the people she lived with, and worked for in London. You are sure that in connection with this girl there have been no deaths? That is important - "

  "Not a smell of one," said Mr. Goby.

  "She worked for a firm called Homebirds - on the verge of bankruptcy, and they didn't pay her much. Stepmother was in hospital for observation recently - in the country, that was. A lot of rumours flying about, but they didn't seem to come to anything."

  "She did not die," said Poirot. "What I need," he added in a blood-thirsty manner, "is a death." Mr. Goby said he was sorry about that and rose to his feet. "Will there be anything more you are wanting at present?"

  "Not in the nature of information."

  "Very good, sir." As he replaced his notebook in his pocket, Mr. Goby said: "You'll excuse me, sir. If I'm speaking out of turn, but that young lady you had here just now - "

  "Yes, what about her?"

  "Well, of course it's - I don't suppose it's anything to do with this, but I thought I might just mention it to you, sir - "

  "Please do. You have seen her before, I gather?"

  "Yes. Couple of months ago."

  "Where did you see her?"

  "Kew Gardens."

  "Kew Gardens?" Poirot looked slightly surprised.

  "I wasn't following her. I was following someone else, the person who met her."

  "And who was that?"

  "I don't suppose as it matters mentioning it to you, sir. It was one of the junior attaches of the Hertzogovinian Embassy." Poirot raised his eyebrows. "That is interesting. Yes, very interesting. Kew Gardens," he mused. "A pleasant place for a rendezvous. Very pleasant."

  "I thought so at the time."

  "They talked together?"

  "No, sir, you wouldn't have said they knew each other. The young lady had a book with her. She sat down on a seat. She read the book for a little then she laid it down beside her. Then my bloke came and sat there on the seat also. They didn't speak - only the young lady got up and wandered away. He just sat there and presently he gets up and walks off. He takes with him the book that the young lady has left behind. That's all, sir."


  "Yes," said Poirot. "It is very interesting."

  Mr. Goby looked at the bookcase and said Good-night to it. He went.

  Poirot gave an exasperated sigh.

  "Enfiny" he said, "it is too much! There is far too much. Now we have espionage and counter espionage. All I am seeking is one perfectly simple murder. I begin to suspect that that murder only occurred in a drug addict's brain!"

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Madame," Poirot bowed and presented Mrs. Oliver with a bouquet very stylised, a posy in the Victorian manner.

  "M. Poirot! Well, really, that is very nice of you, and it's very like you somehow.

  All my flowers are always so untidy." She looked towards a vase of rather temperamental looking chrysanthemums, then back to the prim circle of rosebuds. "And how nice of you to come and see me."

  "I come, Madame, to offer you my felicitations on your recovery."

  "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "I suppose I am all right again." She shook her head to and fro rather gingerly. "I get headaches, though," she said. "Quite bad headaches."

  "You remember, Madame, that I warned you not to do anything dangerous."

  "Not to stick my neck out, in fact. That I suppose is just what I did do." She added, "I felt something evil was about. I was frightened, too, and I told myself I was a fool to be frightened, because what was I frightened of? I mean, it was London.

  Right in the middle of London. People all about. I mean - how could I be frightened.

  It wasn't like a lonely wood or anything." Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He wondered, had Mrs. Oliver really felt this nervous fear, had she really suspected the presence of evil, the sinister feeling that something or someone wished her ill, or had she read it into the whole thing afterwards?

  He knew only too well how easily that could be done. Countless clients had spoken in much the same words that Mrs. Oliver had just used. "I knew something was wrong.