Third Girl

  “I don’t know yet, I can’t tell. Remember people who take drugs are tricky. You can’t believe what they say always. We haven’t rushed things and I don’t want to startle her….

  “A father complex as a child. I’d say didn’t care much for her mother who sounds a grim woman by all accounts—the self-righteous martyr type. I’d say Father was a gay one, and couldn’t quite stand the grimness of married life—Know of anyone called Louise?…The name seemed to frighten her—She was the girl’s first hate, I should say. She took Father away at the time the child was five. Children don’t understand very much at that age, but they’re very quick to feel resentment of the person they feel was responsible. She didn’t see Father again until apparently a few months ago. I’d say she’d had sentimental dreams of being her father’s companion and the apple of his eye. She got disillusioned apparently. Father came back with a wife, a new young attractive wife. She’s not called Louise, is she?…Oh well, I only asked. I’m giving you roughly the picture, the general picture, that is.”

  The voice at the other end of the wire said sharply, “What is that you say? Say it again.”

  “I said I’m giving you roughly the picture.”

  There was a pause.

  “By the way, here’s one little fact might interest you. The girl made a rather ham-handed attempt to commit suicide. Does that startle you?…

  “Oh, it doesn’t…No, she didn’t swallow the aspirin bottle, or put her head in the gas oven. She rushed into the traffic in the path of a Jaguar going faster than it should have done…I can tell you I only got to her just in time…Yes, I’d say it was a genuine impulse…She admitted it. Usual classic phrase—she ‘wanted to get out of it all.’”

  He listened to a rapid flow of words, then he said: “I don’t know. At this stage, I can’t be sure—The picture presented is clear. A nervy girl, neurotic and in an overwrought state from taking drugs of too many kinds. No, I couldn’t tell you definitely what kind. There are dozens of these things going about all producing slightly different effects. There can be confusion, loss of memory, aggression, bewilderment, or sheer fuzzleheadedness! The difficulty is to tell what the real reactions are as opposed to the reactions produced by drugs. There are two choices, you see. Either this is a girl who is playing herself up, depicting herself as neurotic and nervy and claiming suicidal tendencies. It could be actually so. Or it could be a whole pack of lies. I wouldn’t put it past her to be putting up this story for some obscure reason of her own—wanting to give an entirely false impression of herself. If so, she’s doing it very cleverly. Every now and then, there seems something not quite right in the picture she’s giving. Is she a very clever little actress acting a part? Or is she a genuine semi-moronic suicidal victim? She could be either…What did you say?…Oh, the Jaguar!…Yes, it was being driven far too fast. You think it mightn’t have been an attempt at suicide? That the Jaguar was deliberately meaning to run her down?”

  He thought for a minute or two. “I can’t say,” he said slowly. “It just could be so. Yes, it could be so, but I hadn’t thought of it that way. The trouble is, everything’s possible, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m going to get more out of her shortly. I’ve got her in a position where she’s semi-willing to trust me, so long as I don’t go too far too quickly, and make her suspicious. She’ll become more trusting soon, and tell me more, and if she’s a genuine case, she’ll pour out her whole story to me—force it on me in the end. At the moment she’s frightened of something….

  “If, of course, she’s leading me up the garden path we’ll have to find out the reason why. She’s at Kenway Court and I think she’ll stay there. I’d suggest that you keep someone with an eye on it for a day or so and if she does attempt to leave, someone she doesn’t know by sight had better follow her.”

  Eleven

  I

  Andrew Restarick was writing a cheque—he made a slight grimace as he did so.

  His office was large and handsomely furnished in typical conventional tycoon fashion—the furnishing and fittings had been Simon Restarick’s and Andrew Restarick had accepted them without interest and had made few changes except for removing a couple of pictures and replacing them by his own portrait which he had brought up from the country, and a watercolour of Table Mountain.

  Andrew Restarick was a man of middle age, beginning to put on flesh, yet strangely little changed from the man some fifteen years younger in the picture hanging above him. There was the same jutting out chin, the lips firmly pressed together, and the slightly raised quizzical eyebrows. Not a very noticeable man—an ordinary type and at the moment not a very happy man. His secretary entered the room—she advanced towards his desk, as he looked up.

  “A Monsieur Hercule Poirot is here. He insists that he has an appointment with you—but I can find no trace of one.”

  “A Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” The name seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not remember in what context. He shook his head—“I can’t remember anything about him—though I seem to have heard the name. What does he look like?”

  “A very small man—foreign—French I should say—with an enormous moustache—”

  “Of course! I remember Mary describing him. He came to see old Roddy. But what’s all this about an appointment with me?”

  “He says you wrote him a letter.”

  “Can’t remember it—even if I did. Perhaps Mary—Oh well, never mind—bring him in. I suppose I’d better see what this is all about.”

  A moment or two later Claudia Reece-Holland returned ushering with her a small man with an egg-shaped head, large moustaches, pointed patent leather shoes and a general air of complacency which accorded very well with the description he had had from his wife.

  “Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” said Claudia Reece-Holland.

  She went out again as Hercule Poirot advanced towards the desk. Restarick rose.

  “Monsieur Restarick? I am Hercule Poirot, at your service.”

  “Oh yes. My wife mentioned that you’d called upon us or rather called upon my uncle. What can I do for you?”

  “I have presented myself in answer to your letter.”

  “What letter? I did not write to you, M. Poirot.”

  Poirot stared at him. Then he drew from his pocket a letter, unfolded it, glanced at it and handed it across the desk with a bow.

  “See for yourself, Monsieur.”

  Restarick stared at it. It was typewritten on his own office stationery. His signature was written in ink at the bottom.

  Dear Monsieur Poirot,

  I should be very glad if you could call upon me at the above address at your earliest convenience. I understand from what my wife tells me and also from what I have learned by making various inquiries in London, that you are a man to be trusted when you agree to accept a mission that demands discretion.

  Yours truly,

  Andrew Restarick

  He said sharply:

  “When did you receive this?”

  “This morning. I had no matters of moment on my hands so I came along here.”

  “This is an extraordinary thing, M. Poirot. That letter was not written by me.”

  “Not written by you?”

  “No. My signature is quite different—look for yourself.” He cast out a hand as though looking for some example of his handwriting and without conscious thought turned the cheque book on which he had just written his signature, so that Poirot could see it. “You see? The signature on the letter is not in the least like mine.”

  “But that is extraordinary,” said Poirot. “Absolutely extraordinary. Who could have written this letter?”

  “That’s just what I’m asking myself.”

  “It could not—excuse me—have been your wife?”

  “No, no. Mary would never do a thing like that. And anyway why should she sign it with my name? Oh no, she would have told me if she’d done such a thing, prepared me for your visit.”

  “Then you have no idea why anyone might have
sent this letter?”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Have you no knowledge, Mr. Restarick, as to what the matter might be on which in this letter you apparently want to engage me?”

  “How could I have an idea?”

  “Excuse me,” said Poirot, “you have not yet completely read this letter. You will notice at the bottom of the first page after the signature, there is a small p.t.o.”

  Restarick turned the letter over. At the top of the next page the typewriting continued.

  The matter on which I wish to consult you concerns my daughter, Norma.

  Restarick’s manner changed. His face darkened.

  “So, that’s it! But who could know—who could possibly meddle in this matter? Who knows about it?”

  “Could it be a way of urging you to consult me? Some well-meaning friend? You have really no idea who the writer may have been?”

  “I’ve no idea whatever.”

  “And you are not in trouble over a daughter of yours—a daughter named Norma?”

  Restarick said slowly:

  “I have a daughter named Norma. My only daughter.” His voice changed slightly as he said the last words.

  “And she is in trouble, difficulty of some kind?”

  “Not that I know of.” But he hesitated slightly as he spoke the words.

  Poirot leaned forward.

  “I don’t think that is exactly right, Mr. Restarick. I think there is some trouble or difficulty concerning your daughter.”

  “Why should you think that? Has someone spoken to you on the subject?”

  “I was going entirely by your intonation, Monsieur. Many people,” added Hercule Poirot, “are in trouble over daughters at the present date. They have a genius, young ladies, for getting into various kinds of trouble and difficulty. It is possible that the same obtains here.”

  Restarick was silent for some few moments, drumming with his fingers on the desk.

  “Yes, I am worried about Norma,” he said at last. “She is a difficult girl. Neurotic, inclined to be hysterical. I—unfortunately I don’t know her very well.”

  “Trouble, no doubt, over a young man?”

  “In a way, yes, but that is not entirely what is worrying me. I think—” he looked appraisingly at Poirot. “Am I to take it that you are a man of discretion?”

  “I should be very little good in my profession if I were not.”

  “It is a case, you see, of wanting my daughter found.”

  “Ah?”

  “She came home last weekend as she usually does to our house in the country. She went back on Sunday night ostensibly to the flat which she occupies in common with two other girls, but I now find that she did not go there. She must have gone—somewhere else.”

  “In fact, she has disappeared?”

  “It sounds too much of a melodramatic statement, but it does amount to that. I expect there’s a perfectly natural explanation, but—well, I suppose any father would be worried. She hasn’t rung up, you see, or given any explanation to the girls with whom she shares her flat.”

  “They too are worried?”

  “No, I should not say so. I think—well, I think they take such things easily enough. Girls are very independent. More so than when I left En gland fifteen years ago.”

  “What about the young man of whom you say you do not approve? Can she have gone away with him?”

  “I devoutly hope not. It’s possible, but I don’t—my wife doesn’t think so. You saw him, I believe, the day you came to our house to call on my uncle—”

  “Ah yes, I think I know the young man of whom you speak. A very handsome young man but not, if I may say so, a man of whom a father would approve. I noticed that your wife was not pleased, either.”

  “My wife is quite certain that he came to the house that day hoping to escape observation.”

  “He knows, perhaps, that he is not welcome there?”

  “He knows all right,” said Restarick grimly.

  “Do you not then think that it is only too likely your daughter may have joined him?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I didn’t—at first.”

  “You have been to the police.”

  “No.”

  “In the case of anyone who is missing, it is usually much better to go to the police. They too are discreet and they have many means at their disposal which persons like myself have not.”

  “I don’t want to go to the police. It’s my daughter, man, you understand? My daughter. If she’s chosen to—to go away for a short time and not let us know, well, that’s up to her. There’s no reason to believe that she’s in any danger or anything like that. I—I just want to know for my own satisfaction where she is.”

  “Is it possible, Mr. Restarick—I hope I am not unduly presuming, that that is not the only thing that is worrying you about your daughter?”

  “Why should you think there was anything else?”

  “Because the mere fact that a girl is absent for a few days without telling her parents, or the friends with whom she is living, where she is going, is not particularly unusual nowadays. It is that, taken in conjunction with something else, I think, which has caused you this alarm.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s—” he looked doubtfully at Poirot. “It is very hard to speak of these things to strangers.”

  “Not really,” said Poirot. “It is infinitely easier to speak to strangers of such things than it would be to speak of them to friends or acquaintances. Surely you must agree to that?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. I can see what you mean. Well, I will admit I am upset about my girl. You see she—she’s not quite like other girls and there’s been something already that has definitely worried me—worried us both.”

  Poirot said: “Your daughter, perhaps, is at that difficult age of young girlhood, an emotional adolescence when, quite frankly, they are capable of performing actions for which they are hardly to be held responsible. Do not take it amiss if I venture to make a surmise. Your daughter perhaps resents having a stepmother?”

  “That is unfortunately true. And yet she has no reason to do so, M. Poirot. It is not as though my first wife and I had recently parted. The parting took place many years ago.” He paused and then said, “I might as well speak frankly to you. After all, there has been no concealment about the matter. My first wife and I drifted apart. I need not mince matters. I had met someone else, someone with whom I was quite infatuated. I left England and went to South Africa with the other woman. My wife did not approve of divorce and I did not ask her for one. I made suitable financial provision for my wife and for the child—she was only five years old at the time—”

  He paused and then went on:

  “Looking back, I can see that I had been dissatisfied with life for some time. I’d been yearning to travel. At that period of my life I hated being tied down to an office desk. My brother reproached me several times with not taking more interest in the family business, now that I had come in with him. He said that I was not pulling my weight. But I didn’t want that sort of life. I was restless. I wanted an adventurous life. I wanted to see the world and wild places….”

  He broke off abruptly.

  “Anyway—you don’t want to hear the story of my life. I went to South Africa and Louise went with me. It wasn’t a success. I’ll admit that straightaway. I was in love with her but we quarrelled incessantly. She hated life in South Africa. She wanted to get back to London and Paris—all the sophisticated places. We parted only about a year after we arrived there.”

  He sighed.

  “Perhaps I ought to have gone back then, back to the tame life that I disliked the idea of so much. But I didn’t. I don’t know whether my wife would have had me back or not. Probably she would have considered it her duty to do so. She was a great woman for doing her duty.”

  Poirot noted the slight bitterness that ran through that sentence.

  “But I ought to have thought more about Norma, I suppose. Well, t
here it was. The child was safely with her mother. Financial arrangements had been made. I wrote to her occasionally and sent her presents, but I never once thought of going back to En gland and seeing her. That was not entirely blameworthy on my part. I had adopted a different way of life and I thought it would be merely unsettling for the child to have a father who came and went, and perhaps disturbed her own peace of mind. Anyway, let’s say I thought I was acting for the best.”

  Restarick’s words came fast now. It was as though he was feeling a definite solace in being able to pour out his story to a sympathetic listener. It was a reaction that Poirot had often noticed before and he encouraged it.

  “You never wished to come home on your own account?”

  Restarick shook his head very definitely. “No. You see, I was living the kind of life I liked, the kind of life I was meant for. I went from South Africa to East Africa. I was doing very well financially, everything I touched seemed to prosper; projects with which I was associated, occasionally with other people, sometimes on my own, all went well. I used to go off into the bush and trek. That was the life I’d always wanted. I am by nature an out-of-door man. Perhaps that’s why when I was married to my first wife I felt trapped, held down. No, I enjoyed my freedom and I’d no wish to go back to the conventional type of life that I’d led here.”

  “But you did come back in the end?”

  Restarick sighed. “Yes. I did come back. Ah well, one grows old, I suppose. Also, another man and I had made a very good strike. We’d secured a concession which might have very important consequences. It would need negotiation in London. There I could have depended on my brother to act, but my brother died. I was still a partner in the firm. I could return if I chose and see to things myself. It was the first time I had thought of doing so. Of returning, I mean, to City life.”

  “Perhaps your wife—your second wife—”

  “Yes, you may have something there. I had been married to Mary just a month or two when my brother died. Mary was born in South Africa but she had been to England several times and she liked the life there. She liked particularly the idea of having an English garden!