Third Girl

“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 England, 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.”

  Twenty

  Hercule Poirot looked up at the façade of the dignified Georgian house in what had been until recently a quiet street in an old-fashioned market town. Progress was rapidly overtaking it, but the new supermarket, the Gifte Shoppe, Margery’s Boutique, Peg’s Café, and a palatial new bank, had all chosen sites in Croft Road and not encroached on the narrow High Street.

  The brass knocker on the door was brightly polished, Poirot noted with approval. He pressed the bell at the side.

  It was opened almost at once by a tall distinguished-looking woman with upswept grey hair and an energetic manner.

  “M. Poirot? You are very punctual. Come in.”

  “Miss Battersby?”

  “Certainly.” She held back the door. Poirot entered. She deposited his hat on the hall stand and led the way to a pleasant room overlooking a narrow walled garden.

  She waved towards a chair and sat down herself in an attitude of expectation. It was clear that Miss Battersby was not one to lose time in conventional utterances.

  “You are, I think, the former Principal of Meadowfield School?”

  “Yes. I retired a year ago. I understand you wished to see me on the subject of Norma Restarick, a former pupil.”

  “That is right.”

  “In your letters,” said Miss Battersby, “you gave me no further details.” She added, “I may say that I know who you are, M. Poirot. I should therefore like a little more information before I proceed further. Are you, for instance, thinking of employing Norma Restarick?”

  “That is not my intention, no.”

  “Knowing what your profession is you understand why I should want further details. Have you, for instance, an introduction to me from any of Norma’s relations?”

  “Again, no,” said Hercule Poirot. “I will explain myself further.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In actual fact, I am employed by Miss Restarick’s father, Andrew Restarick.”

  “Ah. He has recently returned to England, I believe, after many years’ absence.”

  “That is so.”

  “But you do not bring me a letter of introduction from him?”

  “I did not ask him for one.”

  Miss Battersby looked at him inquiringly.

  “He might have insisted on coming with me,” said Hercule Poirot. “That would have hampered me in asking you the questions that I wish to ask, because it is likely that the answers to them might cause him pain and distress. There is no reason why he should be caused further distress than he is already suffering at this moment.”

  “Has anything happened to Norma?”
>
  “I hope not…There is, however, a possibility of that. You remember the girl, Miss Battersby?”

  “I remember all my pupils. I have an excellent memory. Meadowfield, in any case, is not a very large school. Two hundred girls, no more.”

  “Why have you resigned from it, Miss Battersby?”

  “Really, M. Poirot, I cannot see that that is any of your business.”

  “No, I am merely expressing my quite natural curiosity.”

  “I am seventy. Is that not a reason?”

  “Not in your case, I should say. You appear to me to be in full vigour and energy, fully capable of continuing your headmistressship for a good many years to come.”

  “Times change, M. Poirot. One does not always like the way they are changing. I will satisfy your curiosity. I found I was having less and less patience with parents. Their aims for their daughters are shortsighted and quite frankly stupid.”

  Miss Battersby was, as Poirot knew from looking up her qualifications, a very well-known mathematician.

  “Do not think that I lead an idle life,” said Miss Battersby. “I lead a life where the work is far more congenial to me. I coach senior students. And now, please, may I know the reason for your interest in the girl, Norma Restarick?”

  “There is some occasion for anxiety. She has, to put it baldly, disappeared.”

  Miss Battersby continued to look quite unconcerned.

  “Indeed? When you say ‘disappeared,’ I presume you mean that she has left home without telling her parents where she was going. Oh, I believe her mother is dead, so without telling her father where she was going. That is really not at all uncommon nowadays, M. Poirot. Mr. Restarick has not consulted the police?”

  “He is adamant on that subject. He refuses definitely.”

  “I can assure you that I have no knowledge as to where the girl is. I have heard nothing from her. Indeed, I have had no news from her since she left Meadowfield. So I fear I cannot help you in any way.”

  “It is not precisely that kind of information that I want. I want to know what kind of a girl she is—how you would describe her. Not her personal appearance. I do not mean that. I mean as to her personality and characteristics.”

  “Norma, at school, was a perfectly ordinary girl. Not scholastically brilliant, but her work was adequate.”

  “Not a neurotic type?”

  Miss Battersby considered. Then she said slowly: “No, I would not say so. Not more, that is, than might be expected considering her home circumstances.”

  “You mean her invalid mother?”

  “Yes. She came from a broken home. The father, to whom I think she was very devoted, left home suddenly with another woman—a fact which her mother quite naturally resented. She probably upset her daughter more than she need have done by voicing her resentment without restraint.”

  “Perhaps it may be more to the point if I ask you your opinion of the late Mrs. Restarick?”

  “What you are asking me for is my private opinion?”

  “If you do not object?”

  “No, I have no hesitation at all in answering your question. Home conditions are very important in a girl’s life and I have always studied them as much as I can through the meagre information that comes to me. Mrs. Restarick was a worthy and upright woman, I should say. Self-righteous, censorious and handicapped in life by being an extremely stupid one!”

  “Ah,” said Poirot appreciatively.

  “She was also, I would say, a malade imaginaire. A type that would exaggerate her ailments. The type of woman who is always in and out of nursing homes. An unfortunate home background for a girl—especially a girl who has no very definite personality of her own. Norma had no marked intellectual ambitions, she had no confidence in herself, she was not a girl to whom I would recommend a career. A nice ordinary job followed by marriage and children was what I would have hoped for her.”

  “You saw—forgive me for asking—no signs at any time of mental instability?”

  “Mental instability?” said Miss Battersby. “Rubbish!”

  “So that is what you say. Rubbish! And not neurotic?”

  “Any girl, or almost any girl, can be neurotic, especially in adolescence, and in her first encounters with the world. She is still immature, and needs guidance in her first encounters with sex. Girls are frequently attracted to completely unsuitable, sometimes even dangerous young men. There are, it seems, no parents nowadays, or hardly any, with the strength of character to save them from this, so they often go through a time of hysterical misery, and perhaps make an unsuitable marriage which ends not long after in divorce.”

  “But Norma showed no signs of mental instability?” Poirot persisted with the question.

  “She is an emotional but normal girl,” said Miss Battersby. “Mental instability! As I said before—rubbish! She’s probably run away with some young man to get married, and there’s nothing more normal than that!”

  Twenty-one

  Poirot sat in his big square armchair. His hands rested on the arms, his eyes looked at the chimneypiece in front of him without seeing it. By his elbow was a small table and on it, neatly clipped together, were various documents. Reports from Mr. Goby, information obtained from his friend, Chief Inspector Neele, a series of separate pages under the heading of “Hearsay, gossip, rumour” and the sources from which it had been obtained.

  At the moment he had no need to consult these documents. He had, in fact, read them through carefully and laid them there in case there was any particular point he wished to refer to once more. He wanted now to assemble together in his mind all that he knew and had learned because he was convinced that these things must form a pattern. There must be a pattern there. He was considering now, from what exact angle to approach it. He was not one to trust in enthusiasm for some particular intuition. He was not an intuitive person—but he did have feelings. The important thing was not the feelings themselves—but what might have caused them. It was the cause that was interesting, the cause was so often not what you thought it was. You had very often to work it out by logic, by sense and by knowledge.

  What did he feel about this case—what kind of a case was it? Let him start from the general, then proceed to the particular. What were the salient facts of this case?

  Money was one of them, he thought, though he did not know how. Somehow or other, money…He also thought, increasingly so, that there was evil somewhere. He knew evil. He had met it before. He knew the tang of it, the taste of it, the way it went. The trouble was that here he did not yet know exactly where it was. He had taken certain steps to combat evil. He hoped they would be sufficient. Something was happening, something was in progress, that was not yet accomplished. Someone, somewhere, was in danger.

  The trouble was that the facts pointed both ways. If the person he thought was in danger was really in danger, there seemed so far as he could see no reason why. Why should that particular person be in danger? There was no motive. If the person he thought was in danger was not in danger, then the whole approach might have to be completely reversed…Everything that pointed one way he must turn round and look at from the complete opposite point of view.

  He left that for the moment in the balance, and he came from there to the personalities—to the people. What pattern did they make? What part were they playing?

  First—Andrew Restarick. He had accumulated by now a fair amount of information about Andrew Restarick. A general picture of his life before and after going abroad. A restless man, never sticking to one place or purpose long, but generally liked. Nothing of the wastrel about him, nothing shoddy or tricky. Not, perhaps, a strong personality? Weak in many ways?

  Poirot frowned, dissatisfied. That picture did not somehow fit the Andrew Restarick that he himself had met. Not weak surely, with that thrust-out chin, the steady eyes, the air of resolution. He had been a successful businessman, too, apparently. Good at his job in the earlier years, and he had put through good deals in South Africa and in
South America. He had increased his holdings. It was a success story that he had brought home with him, not one of failure. How then could he be a weak personality? Weak, perhaps, only where women were concerned. He had made a mistake in his marriage—married the wrong woman…Pushed into it perhaps by his family? And then he had met the other woman. Just that one woman? Or had there been several women? It was hard to find a record of that kind after so many years. Certainly he had not been a notoriously unfaithful husband. He had had a normal home, he had been fond, by all accounts, of his small daughter. But then he had come across a woman whom he had cared for enough to leave his home and to leave his country. It had been a real love affair.

  But had it, perhaps, matched up with any additional motive? Dislike of office work, the City, the daily routine of London? He thought it might. It matched the pattern. He seemed, too, to have been a solitary type. Everyone had liked him both here and abroad, but there seemed no intimate friends. Indeed, it would have been difficult for him to have intimate friends abroad because he had never stopped in any one spot long enough. He had plunged into some gamble, attempted a coup, had made good, then tired of the thing and gone on somewhere else. Nomadic! A wanderer.

  It still did not quite accord with his own picture of the man…A picture? The word stirred in his mind the memory of the picture that hung in Restarick’s office, on the wall behind his desk. It had been a portrait of the same man fifteen years ago. How much difference had those fifteen years made in the man sitting there? Surprisingly little, on the whole! More grey in the hair, a heavier set to the shoulders, but the lines of character on the face were much the same. A determined face. A man who knew what he wanted, who meant to get it. A man who would take risks. A man with a certain ruthlessness.

  Why, he wondered, had Restarick brought that picture up to London? They had been companion portraits of a husband and wife. Strictly speaking artistically, they should have remained together. Would a psychologist have said that subconsciously Restarick wanted to dissociate himself from his former wife once more, to separate himself from her? Was he then mentally still retreating from her personality although she was dead? An interesting point….