Third Girl

  But Mrs. Oliver was well away.

  “She might have been a nurse in the operating theatre and administered the wrong anaesthetic or—” she broke off, suddenly anxious for clearer details. “What did she look like?”

  Poirot considered for a moment.

  “An Ophelia devoid of physical attraction.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I can almost see her when you say that. How queer.”

  “She is not competent,” said Poirot. “That is how I see her. She is not one who can cope with difficulties. She is not one of those who can see beforehand the dangers that must come. She is one of whom others will look round and say ‘we want a victim. That one will do.’”

  But Mrs. Oliver was no longer listening. She was clutching her rich coils of hair with both hands in a gesture with which Poirot was familiar.

  “Wait,” she cried in a kind of agony. “Wait!”

  Poirot waited, his eyebrows raised.

  “You didn’t tell me her name,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  “She did not give it. Unfortunate, I agree with you.”

  “Wait!” implored Mrs. Oliver, again with the same agony. She relaxed her grip on her head and uttered a deep sigh. Hair detached itself from its bonds and tumbled over her shoulders, a super imperial coil of hair detached itself completely and fell on the floor. Poirot picked it up and put it discreetly on the table.

  “Now then,” said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly restored to calm. She pushed in a hairpin or two, and nodded her head while she thought. “Who told this girl about you, M. Poirot?”

  “No one, so far as I know. Naturally, she had heard about me, no doubt.”

  Mrs. Oliver thought that “naturally” was not the word at all. What was natural was that Poirot himself was sure that everyone had always heard of him. Actually large numbers of people would only look at you blankly if the name of Hercule Poirot was mentioned, especially the younger generation. “But how am I going to put that to him,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “in such a way that it won’t hurt his feelings?”

  “I think you’re wrong,” she said. “Girls—well, girls and young men—they don’t know very much about detectives and things like that. They don’t hear about them.”

  “Everyone must have heard about Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot, superbly.

  It was an article of belief for Hercule Poirot.

  “But they are all so badly educated nowadays,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Really, the only people whose names they know are pop singers, or groups, or disc jockeys—that sort of thing. If you need someone special, I mean a doctor or a detective or a dentist—well, then, I mean you would ask someone—ask who’s the right person to go to? And then the other person says—‘My dear, you must go to that absolutely wonderful man in Queen Anne’s Street, twists your legs three times round your head and you’re cured,’ or ‘All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have been furious, so I couldn’t go to the police, but there’s a simply uncanny detective, most discreet, and he got them back for me and Henry never knew a thing.’—That’s the way it happens all the time. Someone sent that girl to you.”

  “I doubt it very much.”

  “You wouldn’t know until you were told. And you’re going to be told now. It’s only just come to me. I sent that girl to you.”

  Poirot stared. “You? But why did you not say so at once?”

  “Because it’s only just come to me—when you spoke about Ophelia—long wet-looking hair, and rather plain. It seemed a description of someone I’d actually seen. Quite lately. And then it came to me who it was.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talking—about private detectives and private eyes—and I spoke about you and some of the amazing things you had done.”

  “And you gave her my address?”

  “No, of course I didn’t. I’d no idea she wanted a detective or anything like that. I thought we were just talking. But I’d mentioned the name several times, and of course it would be easy to look you up in the telephone book and just come along.”

  “Were you talking about murder?”

  “Not that I can remember. I don’t even know how we came to be talking about detectives—unless, yes, perhaps it was she who started the subject….”

  “Tell me then, tell me all you can—even if you do not know her name, tell me all you know about her.”

  “Well, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don’t come into it except that they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there—and I didn’t enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don’t really like drink, and so people have to find a soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me—you know—how much they like my books, and how they’ve been longing to meet me—and it all makes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I manage to cope more or less. And they say how much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But my publisher always says I’m not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real life grew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing around listening. When you said an unattractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought: ‘Now who does that remind me of?’ And then it came to me: ‘Of course. The girl at the party that day.’ I rather think she belonged there unless I’m confusing her with some other girl.”

  Poirot sighed. With Mrs. Oliver one always needed a lot of patience.

  “Who were these people with whom you went to have drinks?”

  “Trefusis, I think, unless it was Treherne. That sort of name—he’s a tycoon. Rich. Something in the City, but he’s spent most of his life in South Africa—”

  “He has a wife?”

  “Yes. Very good-looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots of golden hair. Second wife. The daughter was the first wife’s daughter. Then there was an uncle of incredible antiquity. Rather deaf. He’s frightfully distinguished—strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an air marshal or something. He’s an astronomer too, I think. Anyway, he’s got a kind of big telescope sticking out of the roof. Though I suppose that might be just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too, who sort of trots about after the old boy. Goes up to London with him, I believe, and sees he doesn’t get run over. Rather pretty, she was.”

  Poirot sorted out the information Mrs. Oliver had supplied him with, feeling rather like a human computer.

  “There lives then in the house Mr. and Mrs. Trefusis—”

  “It’s not Trefusis—I remember now—It’s Restarick.”

  “That is not at all the same type of name.”

  “Yes it is. It’s a Cornish name, isn’t it?”

  “There lives there then, Mr. and Mrs. Restarick, the distinguished elderly uncle. Is his name Restarick too?”

  “It’s Sir Roderick something.”

  “And there is the au pair girl, or whatever she is, and a daughter—anymore children?”

  “I don’t think so—but I don’t really know. The daughter doesn’t live at home, by the way. She was only down for the weekend. Doesn’t get on with the stepmother, I expect. She’s got a job in London, and she’s picked up with a boyfriend they don’t much like, so I understand.”

  “You seem to know quite a lot about the family.”

  “Oh well, one picks things up. The Lorrimers are great talkers. Always chattering about someone or other. One hears a lot of gossip about the people all around. Sometimes, though, one gets them mixed up. I probably have. I wish I could remember that girl’s Christian name. Something connected with a song…Thora? Speak to me, Thora. Thora, Thora. Something like that, or Myra? Myra, oh Myra my love is all for thee. Something like that. I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls. Norma? Or do I mean Maritana? Norma—Norma Restarick. That’s right, I’m sure.” She added inconsequently, “She’s a third girl.”

  “I thought you said you thought she was an only
child.”

  “So she is—or I think so.”

  “Then what do you mean by saying she is the third girl?”

  “Good gracious, don’t you know what a third girl is? Don’t you read The Times?”

  “I read the births, deaths, and marriages. And such articles as I find of interest.”

  “No, I mean the front advertisement page. Only it isn’t in the front now. So I’m thinking of taking some other paper. But I’ll show you.”

  She went to a side table and snatched up The Times, turned the pages over and brought it to him. “Here you are—look. ‘THIRD GIRL for comfortable second floor flat, own room, central heating, Earl’s Court.’ ‘Third girl wanted to share flat. 5gns. week own room.’ ‘4th girl wanted. Regent’s park. Own room.’ It’s the way girls like living now. Better than PGs or a hostel. The main girl takes a furnished flat, and then shares out the rent. Second girl is usually a friend. Then they find a third girl by advertising if they don’t know one. And, as you see, very often they manage to squeeze in a fourth girl. First girl takes the best room, second girl pays rather less, third girl less still and is stuck in a cat-hole. They fix it among themselves which one has the flat to herself which night a week—or something like that. It works reasonably well.”

  “And where does this girl whose name might just possibly be Norma live in London?”

  “As I’ve told you I don’t really know anything about her.”

  “But you could find out?”

  “Oh yes, I expect that would be quite easy.”

  “You are sure there was no talk, no mention of an unexpected death?”

  “Do you mean a death in London—or at the Restaricks’ home?”

  “Either.”

  “I don’t think so. Shall I see what I can rake up?”

  Mrs. Oliver’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She was by now entering into the spirit of the thing.

  “That would be very kind.”

  “I’ll ring up the Lorrimers. Actually now would be quite a good time.” She went towards the telephone. “I shall have to think of reasons and things—perhaps invent things?”

  She looked towards Poirot rather doubtfully.

  “But naturally. That is understood. You are a woman of imagination—you will have no difficulty. But—not too fantastic, you understand. Moderation.”

  Mrs. Oliver flashed him an understanding glance.

  She dialled and asked for the number she wanted. Turning her head, she hissed: “Have you got a pencil and paper—or a notebook—something to write down names or addresses or places?”

  Poirot had already his notebook arranged by his elbow and nodded his head reassuringly.

  Mrs. Oliver turned back to the receiver she held and launched herself into speech. Poirot listened attentively to one side of a telephone conversation.

  “Hallo. Can I speak to—Oh, it’s you, Naomi. Ariadne Oliver here. Oh, yes—well, it was rather a crowd…Oh, you mean the old boy?…No, you know I don’t…Practically blind?…I thought he was going up to London with the little foreign girl…Yes, it must be rather worrying for them sometimes—but she seems to manage him quite well…One of the things I rang up for was to ask you what the girl’s address was—No, the Restarick girl, I mean—somewhere in South Ken, isn’t it? Or was it Knightsbridge? Well, I promised her a book and I wrote down the address, but of course I’ve lost it as usual. I can’t even remember her name. Is it Thora or Norma?…Yes, I thought it was Norma:…Wait a minute, I’ll get a pencil…Yes, I’m ready…67 Borodene Mansions…I know—that great block that looks rather like Wormwood Scrubs prison…Yes, I believe the flats are very comfortable with central heating and everything…Who are the other two girls she lives with?…Friends of hers?…or advertisements?…Claudia Reece-Holland…her father’s the MP, is he? Who’s the other one?…No, I suppose you wouldn’t know—she’s quite nice, too, I suppose…What do they all do? They always seem to be secretaries, don’t they?…Oh, the other girl’s an interior decorator—you think—or to do with an art gallery—No, Naomi, of course I don’t really want to know—one just wonders—what do all the girls do nowadays?—well, it’s useful for me to know because of my books—one wants to keep up to date…What was it you told me about some boyfriend…Yes, but one’s so helpless, isn’t one? I mean girls do just exactly as they like…does he look very awful? Is he the unshaven dirty kind? Oh, that kind—Brocade waistcoats, and long curling chestnut hair—lying on his shoulders—yes, so hard to tell whether they’re girls or boys, isn’t it?—Yes, they do look like Vandykes sometimes if they’re good-looking…What did you say? That Andrew Restarick simply hates him?…Yes, men usually do…Mary Restarick?…Well, I suppose you do usually have rows with a stepmother. I expect she was quite thankful when the girl got a job in London. What do you mean about people saying things…Why, couldn’t they find out what was the matter with her?…Who said?…Yes, but what did they hush up?…Oh—a nurse?—talked to the Jenners’ governess? Do you mean her husband? Oh, I see—The doctors couldn’t find out…No, but people are so ill-natured. I do agree with you. These things are usually quite untrue…Oh, gastric, was it?…But how ridiculous. Do you mean people said what’s his name—Andrew—You mean it would be easy with all those weed killers about—Yes, but why?…I mean, it’s not a case of some wife he’s hated for years—she’s the second wife—and much younger than he is and good-looking…Yes, I suppose that could be—but why should the foreign girl want to either?…You mean she might have resented things that Mrs. Restarick said to her…She’s quite an attractive little thing—I suppose Andrew might have taken a fancy to her—nothing serious of course—but it might have annoyed Mary, and then she might have pitched into the girl and—”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Oliver perceived Poirot signalling wildly to her.

  “Just a moment, darling,” said Mrs. Oliver into the telephone. “It’s the baker.” Poirot looked affronted. “Hang on.”

  She laid down the receiver, hurried across the room, and backed Poirot into a breakfast nook.

  “Yes,” she demanded breathlessly.

  “A baker,” said Poirot with scorn. “Me!”

  “Well, I had to think of something quickly. What were you signalling about? Did you understand what she—”

  Poirot cut her short.

  “You shall tell me presently. I know enough. What I want you to do is, with your rapid powers of improvisation, to arrange some plausible pretext for me to visit the Restaricks—an old friend of yours, shortly to be in the neighbourhood. Perhaps you could say—”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll think of something. Shall you give a false name?”

  “Certainly not. Let us at least try to keep it simple.”

  Mrs. Oliver nodded, and hurried back to the abandoned telephone.

  “Naomi? I can’t remember what we were saying. Why does something always come to interrupt just when one has settled down to a nice gossip? I can’t even remember now what I rang you up for to begin with—Oh yes—that child Thora’s address—Norma, I mean—and you gave it to me. But there was something else I wanted to—oh, I remember. An old friend of mine. A most fascinating little man. Actually I was talking about him the other day down there. Hercule Poirot his name is. He’s going to be staying quite close to the Restaricks and he is most tremendously anxious to meet old Sir Roderick. He knows a lot about him and has a terrific admiration for him, and for some wonderful discovery of his in the war—or some scientific thing he did—anyway, he is very anxious to ‘call upon him and present his respects,’ that’s how he put it. Will that be all right, do you think? Will you warn them? Yes, he’ll probably just turn up out of the blue. Tell them to make him tell them some wonderful espionage stories…He—what? Oh! your mowers? Yes, of course you must go. Good-bye.”

  She put back the receiver and sank down in an armchair. “Goodness, how exhausting. Was that all right?”

  “Not bad,” said Poirot.

  “I thought I’d better
pin it all to the old boy. Then you’ll get to see the lot which I suppose is what you want. And one can always be vague about scientific subjects if one is a woman, and you can think up something more definite that sounds probable by the time you arrive. Now, do you want to hear what she was telling me?”

  “There has been gossip, I gather. About the health of Mrs. Restarick?”

  “That’s it. It seems she had some kind of mysterious illness—gastric in nature—and the doctors were puzzled. They sent her into hospital and she got quite all right, but there didn’t seem any real cause to account for it. And she went home, and it all began to start again—and again the doctors were puzzled. And then people began to talk. A rather irresponsible nurse started it and her sister told a neighbour, and the neighbour went out on daily work and told someone else, and how queer it all was. And then people began saying that her husband must be trying to poison her. The sort of thing people always say—but in this case it really didn’t seem to make sense. And then Naomi and I wondered about the au pair girl, she’s a kind of secretary companion to the old boy—so really there isn’t any kind of reason why she should administer weed killer to Mrs. Restarick.”

  “I heard you suggesting a few.”

  “Well, there is usually something possible.…”

  “Murder desired…” said Poirot thoughtfully…“But not yet committed.”

  Three

  Mrs. Oliver drove into the inner court of Borodene Mansions. There were six cars filling the parking space. As Mrs. Oliver hesitated, one of the cars reversed out and drove away. Mrs. Oliver hurried neatly into the vacant space.

  She descended, banged the door and stood looking up to the sky. It was a recent block, occupying a space left by the havoc of a land mine in the last war. It might, Mrs. Oliver thought, have been lifted en bloc from the Great West Road and, first deprived of some such legend as SKYLARK’S FEATHER RAZOR BLADES, have been deposited as a block of flats in situ. It looked extremely functional and whoever had built it had obviously scorned any ornamental additions.