Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  "Not that she hasn't moved already in a manner of speaking," he added, emerging again. He seemed a cheery kind of milkman. He pointed a thumb upwards. "Pitched herself out of a window -- seventh floor - only a week ago, it was. Five o'clock in the morning. Funny time to choose." Mrs. Oliver didn't think it so funny.

  "Why?"

  "Why did she do it? Nobody knows. Balance of mind disturbed, they said."

  "Was she — young?"

  "Nah! Just an old trout. Fifty if she was a day." Two men struggled in the van with a chest of drawers. It resisted them and two mahogany drawers crashed to the ground — a loose piece of paper floated toward Mrs. Oliver who caught it.

  "Don't smash everything, Charlie," said the cheerful milkman reprovingly, and went up in the lift with his cargo of bottles. An altercation broke out between the furniture movers. Mrs. Oliver offered them the piece of paper, but they waved it away. Making up her mind, Mrs. Oliver entered the building and went up to No. 67. A clank came from inside and presently the door was opened by a middle aged woman with a mop who was clearly engaged in household labours.

  "Oh," said Mrs. Oliver, using her favourite monosyllable. "Good-morning. Is -- I wonder -- is anyone in?"

  "No, I'm afraid not. Madam. They're all out. They've gone to work."

  "Yes, of course... As a matter of fact when I was here last I left a little diary behind. So annoying. It must be in the sitting-room somewhere."

  "Well, I haven't picked up anything of the kind. Madam, as far as I know. Of course I mightn't have known it was yours. Would you like to come in?" She opened the door hospitably, set aside the mop with which she had been treating the kitchen floor, and accompanied Mrs. Oliver into the sitting-room.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, determined to establish friendly relations, "yes, I see here -- that's the book I left for Miss Restarick, Miss Norma. Is she back from the country yet?"

  "I don't think she's living here at the moment. Her bed wasn't slept in. Perhaps she's still down with her people in the country. I know she was going there last weekend."

  "Yes, I expect that's it," said Mrs. Oliver. "This was a book I brought her. One of my books." One of Mrs. Oliver's books did not seem to strike any chord of interest in the cleaning woman. "I was sitting here," went on Mrs. Oliver, patting an armchair, "at least I think so. And then I moved to the window and perhaps to the sofa." She dug down vehemently behind the cushions of the chair. The cleaning woman obliged by doing the same thing to the sofa cushions.

  "You've no idea how maddening it is when one loses something like that," went on Mrs. Oliver, chattily. "One has all one's engagements written down there. I'm quite sure I'm lunching with someone very important today, and I can't remember who it was or where the luncheon was to be. Only, of course, it may be tomorrow. If so, I'm lunching with someone else quite different. Oh dear."

  "Very trying for you, ma'am, I'm sure," said the cleaning woman with sympathy. "They're such nice flats, these," said Mrs. Oliver, looking round. "A long way up."

  "Well, that gives you a very good view, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, but if they face east you get a lot of cold wind in winter. Comes right through these metal window frames. Some people have had double windows put in. Oh yes, I wouldn't care for a flat facing this way in winter. No, give me a nice ground floor flat every time. Much more convenient too if you've got children. For prams and all that, you know. Oh yes, I'm all for the ground floor, I am. Think if there was to be a fire."

  "Yes, of course, that would be terrible," said Mrs. Oliver. "I suppose there are fire escapes?"

  "You can't always get to a fire door. Terrified of fire, I am. Always have been. And they're ever so expensive, these flats. You wouldn't believe the rents they ask! That's why Miss Holland gets two other girls to go in with her."

  "Oh yes, I think I met them both. Miss Gary's an artist, isn't she?"

  "Works for an art gallery, she does. Don't work at it very hard, though. She paints a bit — cows and trees that you'd never recognise as being what they're meant to be. An untidy young lady. The state her room is in—you wouldn't believe it! Now Miss Holland, everything is always as neat as a new pin. She was a secretary in the Coal Board at one time but she's a private secretary in the City now. She likes it better, she says. She's secretary to a very rich gentleman just come back from South America or somewhere like that. He's Miss Norma's father, and it was he who asked Miss Holland to take her as a boarder when the last young lady went off to get married — and she mentioned as she was looking for another girl. Well, she couldn't very well refuse, could she? Not since he was her employer."

  "Did she want to refuse?" The woman sniffed.

  "I think she would have—if she'd known."

  "Known what?" The question was too direct.

  "It's not for me to say anything, I'm sure. It's not my business"

  Mrs. Oliver continued to look mildly enquiring. Mrs. Mop fell. It's not that she isn't a nice young lady. Scatty — but then they're nearly all scatty. But I think as a doctor ought to see her. There are times when she doesn't seem to know rightly what she's doing, or where she is. It gives you quite a turn, sometimes — Looks just how my husband's nephew does after he's had a fit. (Terrible fits he has — you wouldn't believe!) Only I've never known her have fits. Maybe she takes things —a lot do."

  "I believe there is a young man her family doesn't approve of." "Yes, so I've heard. He's come here to call for her once or twice — though I've never seen him. One of these Mods by all accounts. Miss Holland doesn't like it— but what can you do nowadays? Girls go their own way."

  "Sometimes one feels very upset about girls nowadays" said Mrs. Oliver, and tried to look serious and responsible.

  "Not brought up right, that's what says."

  "I'm afraid not. No, I'm afraid not. One feels really a girl like Norma Restarick would be better at home than coming all alone to London and earning her living as an interior decorator."

  "She don't like it at home."

  "Really?"

  "Got a stepmother. Girls don't like stepmothers. From what I've heard the stepmother's done her best, tried to pull her up, tried to keep flashy young men out of the house, that sort of thing. She knows girls pick up with the wrong young man and a lot of harm may come of it. Sometimes" the cleaning woman spoke impressively, I'm thankful I've never had any daughters."

  "Have you got sons?"

  "Two boys, we've got. One's doing very well at school, and the other one, he's in a printers, doing well there too. Yes, very nice boys they are. Mind you, boys can cause you trouble, too. But girls is more worrying, I think. You feel you ought to be able to do something about them."

  "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, thoughtfully, "one does feel that." She saw signs of the cleaning woman wishing to return to her cleaning.

  "It's too bad about my diary," she said.

  "Well, thank you very much and I hope I haven't wasted your time."

  "Well, I hope you'll find it, I'm sure," said the other woman obligingly.

  Mrs. Oliver went out of the flat and considered what she should do next. She couldn't think of anything she could do further that day, but a plan for tomorrow began to form in her mind. When she got home, Mrs. Oliver, in an important way, got out a notebook and jotted down in it various things under the heading "Facts I have learned". On the whole the facts did not amount to very much but Mrs. Oliver, true to her calling, managed to make the most of them that could be made. Possibly the fact that Claudia Reece-Holland was employed by Norma's father was the most salient fact of any. She had not known that before, she rather doubted if Hercule Poirot had known it either. She thought of ringing him up on the telephone and acquainting him with it but decided to keep it to herself for the moment because of her plan for the morrow.

  In fact, Mrs. Oliver felt at this moment less like a detective novelist than like an ardent bloodhound. She was on the trail, nose down on the scent, and tomorrow morning -- well, tomorrow morning she would see. True to her pl
an, Mrs. Oliver rose early, partook of two cups of tea and a boiled egg and started out on her quest. Once more she arrived in the vicinity of Borodene Mansions. She wondered whether she might be getting a bit well known there, so this time she did not enter the courtyard, but skulked around either one entrance to it or the other, scanning the various people who were turning out into the morning drizzle to trot off on their way to work.

  They were mostly girls, and looked deceptively alike. How extraordinary human beings were when you considered them like this, emerging purposefully from these large tall buildings -- just like anthills, thought Mrs. Oliver. One had never considered an anthill properly, she decided. It always looked so aimless, as one disturbed it with the toe of a shoe. All those little things rushing about with bits of grass in their mouths, streaming along industriously, worried, anxious, looking as though they were running to and fro and going nowhere, but presumably they were just as well organised as these human beings here. That man, for instance, who had just passed her. Scurrying along, muttering to himself. "I wonder what's upsetting you^ thought Mrs. Oliver. She walked up and down a little more, then she drew back suddenly.

  Claudia Reece-Holland came out of the entrance way walking at a brisk business-like pace. As before, she looked very well turned out. Mrs. Oliver turned away so that she should not be recognised. Once she had allowed Claudia to get a sufficient distance ahead of her, she wheeled round again and followed in her tracks. Claudia Reece-Holland came to the end of the street and turned right into a main thoroughfare. She came to a bus stop and joined the queue. Mrs. Oliver, still following her, felt a momentary uneasiness. Supposing Claudia should turn round, look at her, recognise her? All Mrs. Oliver could think of was to do several protracted but noiseless blows of the nose. But Claudia Reece Holland seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts. She looked at none of her fellow waiters for buses. Mrs. Oliver was about third in the queue behind her. Finally the right bus came and there was a surge forward. Claudia got on the bus and went straight up to the top. Mrs. Oliver got inside and was able to get a seat close to the door as the uncomfortable third person.

  When the conductor came round for fares Mrs. Oliver pressed a reckless one and sixpence into his hand. After all, she had no idea by what route the bus went or indeed how far the distance was to what the cleaning woman had described vaguely as "one of those new buildings by St. Paul's". She was on the alert and ready when the venerable dome was at last sighted. Any time now, she thought to herself and fixed a steady eye on those who descended from the platform above. Ah yes, there came Claudia, neat and chic in her smart suit. She got off the bus. Mrs. Oliver followed her in due course and kept at a nicely calculated distance. "Very interesting," thought Mrs. Oliver. "Here I am actually trailing someone! Just like in my books. And, what's more, I must be doing it very well because she hasn't the least idea." Claudia Reece-Holland, indeed, looked very much absorbed in her own thoughts.

  "That's a very capable looking girl," thought Mrs. Oliver, as indeed she had thought before. "If I was thinking of having a go at guessing a murderer, a good capable murderer, I'd choose someone very like her." Unfortunately, nobody had been murdered yet, that is to say, unless the girl Norma had been entirely right in her assumption that she herself had committed a murder.

  This part of London seemed to have suffered or profited from a large amount of building in the recent years. Enormous skyscrapers, most of which Mrs. Oliver thought very hideous, mounted to the sky with a square matchbox-like air. Claudia turned into a building. "Now I shall find out exactly," thought Mrs. Oliver and turned into it after her. Four lifts appeared to be all going up and down with frantic haste. This, Mrs. Oliver thought, was going to be more difficult. However, they were of a very large size and by getting into Claudia's one at the last minute Mrs. Oliver was able to interpose large masses of tall men between herself and the figure she was following.

  Claudia's destination turned out to be the fourth floor. She went along a corridor and Mrs. Oliver, lingering behind two of her tall men, noted the door where she went in. Three doors from the end of the corridor. Mrs. Oliver arrived at the same door in due course and was able to read the legend on it. "Joshua Restarick Ltd" was the legend it bore.

  Having got as far as that Mrs. Oliver felt as though she did not quite know what to do next. She had found Norma's father's place of business and the place where Claudia worked, but now, slightly disabused, she felt that this was not so much of a discovery as it might have been. Frankly, did it help? Probably it didn't.

  She waited around a few moments, walking from one end to the other of the corridor looking to see if anybody else interesting went in at the door of Restarick Enterprises. Two or three girls did but they did not look particularly interesting. Mrs. Oliver went down again in the lift and walked rather disconsolately out of the building. She couldn't quite think what to do next. She took a walk round the adjacent streets, she meditated a visit to St. Paul's. "I might go up in the Whispering Gallery and whisper," thought Mrs. Oliver.

  "I wonder now how the Whispering Gallery would do for the scene of a murder?"

  "No," she decided,

  "too profane, I'm afraid. No, I don't think that would be quite nice." She walked thoughtfully towards the Mermaid Theatre. That, she thought, had far more possibilities. She walked back in the direction of the various new buildings. Then, feeling the lack of a more substantial breakfast than she had had, she turned into a local cafe. It was moderately well filled with people having extra late breakfast or else early "elevenses". Mrs. Oliver, looking round vaguely for a suitable table, gave a gasp. At a table near the wall the girl Norma was sitting, and opposite her was sitting a young man with lavish chestnut hair curled on his shoulders, wearing a red velvet waistcoat and a very fancy jacket.

  "David," said Mrs. Oliver under her breath. "It must be David." He and the girl Norma were talking excitedly together. Mrs. Oliver considered a plan of campaign, made up her mind, and nodding her head in satisfaction, crossed the floor of the cafe to a discreet door marked "Ladies".

  Mrs. Oliver was not quite sure whether Norma was likely to recognise her or not. It was not always the vaguest looking people who proved the vaguest in fact. At the moment Norma did not look as though she was likely to look at anybody but David, but who knows?

  "I expect I can do something to myself anyway," thought Mrs. Oliver. She looked at herself in a small fly-blown mirror provided by the cafe's management, studying particularly what she considered to be the focal point of a woman's appearance, her hair. No one knew this better than Mrs. Oliver, owing to the innumerable times that she had changed her mode of hairdressing, and had failed to be recognised by her friends in consequence. Giving her head an appraising eye she started work.

  Out came the pins, she took off several coils of hair, wrapped them up in her handkerchief and stuffed them into her handbag, parted her hair in the middle, combed it sternly back from her face and rolled it up into a modest bun at the back of her neck. She also took out a pair of spectacles and put them on her nose. There was a really earnest look about her now! "Almost intellectual," Mrs. Oliver thought approvingly. She altered the shape of her mouth by an application of lipstick, and emerged once more into the cafe, moving carefully since the spectacles were only for reading and in consequence that landscape was blurred. She crossed the cafe, and made her way to an empty table next to that occupied by Norma and David. She sat down so that she was facing David.

  Norma, on the near side, sat with her back to her. Norma, therefore, would not see her unless she turned her head right round. The waitress drifted up. Mrs. Oliver ordered coffee and a Bath bun and settled down to be inconspicuous. Norma and David did not even notice her. They were deeply in the middle of a passionate discussion. It took Mrs. Oliver just a minute or two to tune in to them. " But you only fancy these things," David was saying. "You imagine them. They're all utter, utter nonsense, my dear girl."

  "I don't know. I can't tell." Norma's voice had a
queer lack of resonance in it. Mrs. Oliver could not hear her as well as she heard David, since Norma's back was turned to her, but the dullness of the girl's tone struck her disagreeably. There was something wrong here, she thought. Very wrong. She remembered the story as Poirot had first told it to her. "She thinks she may have committed a murder." What was the matter with the girl. Hallucinations? Was her mind really slightly affected, or was it no more and no less than truth, and in consequence the girl had suffered a bad shock? "If you ask me, it's all fuss on Mary's part! She's a thoroughly stupid woman anyway, and she imagines she has illnesses and all that sort of thing."

  "She was ill." "All right then, she was ill. Any sensible woman would get the doctor to give her some antibiotic or other, and not get het up."

  "She thought he did it to her. My father thinks so too."

  "I tell you, Norma, you imagine all these things."

  "You just say that to me, David. You say it to me to cheer me up. Supposing I did give her the stuff?"

  "What do you mean, suppose? You must know whether you did or you didn't. You can't be so idiotic, Norma."

  "I don't know."

  "You keep saying that. You keep coming back to that, and saying it again and again. 'I don't know. I don't know.' "

  "You don't understand. You don't understand in the least what hate is. I hated her from the first moment I saw her."

  "I know. You told me that."

  "That's the queer part of it. I told you that and yet I don't even remember telling you that. D'you see? Every now and then I -- I tell people things. I tell people things that I want to do, or that I have done, or that I'm going to do. But I don't even remember telling them the things. It's as though I was thinking all these things in my mind, and sometimes they come out in the open and I say them to people. I did say them to you, didn't I?"