“Someone must be employing you.”
“You are exceedingly perceptive,” said Poirot. He leant back.
“I wondered what you were up to,” said David. “That’s why I hailed you. I hoped you’d stop and give me a bit of dope. She’s my girl. You know that, I suppose?”
“I understand that that is supposed to be the idea,” said Poirot cautiously. “If so, you should know where she is. Is that not so, Mr.—I am sorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, that is, that your Christian name is David.”
“Baker.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Baker, you have had a quarrel.”
“No, we haven’t had a quarrel. Why should you think we had?”
“Miss Norma Restarick left Crosshedges on Sunday evening, or was it Monday morning?”
“It depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London a little after ten. It would make her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usually she goes back on Sunday night.”
“She left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Mansions.”
“Apparently not. So Claudia says.”
“This Miss Reece-Holland—that is her name, is it not?—was she surprised or worried?”
“Good lord, no, why should she be. They don’t keep tabs on each other all the time, these girls.”
“But you thought she was going back there?”
“She didn’t go back to work either. They’re fed up at the shop, I can tell you.”
“Are you worried, Mr. Baker?”
“No. Naturally—I mean, well, I’m damned if I know. I don’t see any reason I should be worried, only time’s getting on. What is it today—Thursday?”
“She has not quarrelled with you?”
“No. We don’t quarrel.”
“But you are worried about her, Mr. Baker?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“It is no business of mine but there has, I understand, been trouble at home. She does not like her stepmother.”
“Quite right too. She’s a bitch, that woman. Hard as nails. She doesn’t like Norma either.”
“She has been ill, has she not? She had to go to hospital.”
“Who are you talking about—Norma?”
“No, I am not talking about Miss Restarick. I am talking about Mrs. Restarick.”
“I believe she did go into a nursing home. No reason she should. Strong as a horse, I’d say.”
“And Miss Restarick hates her stepmother.”
“She’s a bit unbalanced sometimes, Norma. You know, goes off the deep end. I tell you, girls always hate their stepmothers.”
“Does that always make stepmothers ill? Ill enough to go to hospital?”
“What the hell are you getting at?”
“Gardening perhaps—or the use of weed killer.”
“What do you mean by talking about weed killer? Are you suggesting that Norma—that she’d dream of—that—”
“People talk,” said Poirot. “Talk goes round the neighbourhood.”
“Do you mean that somebody has said that Norma has tried to poison her stepmother? That’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely absurd.”
“It is very unlikely, I agree,” said Poirot. “Actually, people have not been saying that.”
“Oh. Sorry. I misunderstood. But—what did you mean?”
“My dear young man,” said Poirot, “you must realise that there are rumours going about, and rumours are almost always about the same person—a husband.”
“What, poor old Andrew? Most unlikely I should say.”
“Yes. Yes, it does not seem to me very likely.”
“Well, what were you there for then? You are a detective, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then?”
“We are talking at cross-purposes,” said Poirot. “I did not go down there to inquire into any doubtful or possible case of poisoning. You must forgive me if I cannot answer your question. It is all very hush-hush, you understand.”
“What on earth do you mean by that?”
“I went there,” said Poirot, “to see Sir Roderick Horsefield.”
“What, that old boy? He’s practically gaga, isn’t he?”
“He is a man,” said Poirot, “who is in possession of a great many secrets. I do not mean that he takes an active part in such things nowadays, but he knows a good deal. He was connected with a great many things in the past war. He knew several people.”
“That’s all over years ago, though.”
“Yes, yes, his part in things is all over years ago. But do you not realise that there are certain things that it might be useful to know?”
“What sort of things?”
“Faces,” said Poirot. “A well-known face perhaps, which Sir Roderick might recognise. A face or a mannerism, a way of talking, a way of walking, a gesture. People do remember, you know. Old people. They remember, not things that have happened last week or last month or last year, but they remember something that happened, say, nearly twenty years ago. And they may remember someone who does not want to be remembered. And they can tell you certain things about a certain man or a certain woman or something they were mixed up in—I am speaking very vaguely, you understand. I went to him for information.”
“You went to him for information, did you? That old boy? Gaga. And he gave it to you?”
“Let us say that I am quite satisfied.”
David continued to stare at him. “I wonder now,” he said. “Did you go to see the old boy or did you go to see the little girl, eh? Did you want to know what she was doing in the house? I’ve wondered once or twice myself. Do you think she took that post there to get a bit of past information out of the old boy?”
“I do not think,” said Poirot, “that it will serve any useful purpose to discuss these matters. She seems a very devoted and attentive—what shall I call her—secretary?”
“A mixture of a hospital nurse, a secretary, a companion, an au pair girl, an uncle’s help? Yes, one could find a good many names for her, couldn’t one? He’s besotted about her. You noticed that?”
“It is not unnatural under the circumstances,” said Poirot primly.
“I can tell you someone who doesn’t like her, and that’s our Mary.”
“And she perhaps does not like Mary Restarick either.”
“So that’s what you think, is it?” said David. “That Sonia doesn’t like Mary Restarick. Perhaps you go as far as thinking that she may have made a few inquiries as to where the weed killer was kept? Bah,” he added, “the whole thing’s ridiculous. All right. Thanks for the lift. I think I’ll get out here.”
“Aha. This is where you want to be? We are still a good seven miles out of London.”
“I’ll get out here. Good-bye, M. Poirot.”
“Good-bye.”
Poirot leant back in his seat as David slammed the door.
II
Mrs. Oliver prowled round her sitting room. She was very restless. An hour ago she had parcelled up a typescript that she had just finished correcting. She was about to send it off to her publisher who was anxiously awaiting it and constantly prodding her about it every three or four days.
“There you are,” said Mrs. Oliver, addressing the empty air and conjuring up an imaginary publisher. “There you are, and I hope you like it! I don’t. I think it’s lousy! I don’t believe you know whether anything I write is good or bad. Anyway, I warned you. I told you it was frightful. You said ‘Oh! no, no, I don’t believe that for a moment.’
“You just wait and see,” said Mrs. Oliver vengefully. “You just wait and see.”
She opened the door, called to Edith, her maid, gave her the parcel and directed that it should be taken to the post at once.
“And now,” said Mrs. Oliver, “what am I going to do with myself?”
She began strolling about again. “Yes,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “I wish I had those tropical birds and things back on the wall instead of these idiotic
cherries. I used to feel like something in a tropical wood. A lion or a tiger or a leopard or a cheetah! What could I possibly feel like in a cherry orchard except a bird scarer?”
She looked round again. “Cheeping like a bird, that’s what I ought to be doing,” she said gloomily. “Eating cherries…I wish it was the right time of year for cherries. I’d like some cherries. I wonder now—” She went to the telephone. “I will ascertain, Madam,” said the voice of George in answer to her inquiry. Presently another voice spoke.
“Hercule Poirot, at your service, Madame,” he said.
“Where’ve you been?” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve been away all day. I suppose you went down to look up the Restaricks. Is that it? Did you see Sir Roderick? What did you find out?”
“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot.
“How dreadfully dull,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“No, I do not think it is really so dull. It is rather astonishing that I have not found out anything.”
“Why is it so astonishing? I don’t understand.”
“Because,” said Poirot, “it means either there was nothing to find out, and that, let me tell you, does not accord with the facts; or else something was being very cleverly concealed. That, you see, would be interesting. Mrs. Restarick, by the way, did not know the girl was missing.”
“You mean—she has nothing to do with the girl having disappeared?”
“So it seems. I met there the young man.”
“You mean the unsatisfactory young man that nobody likes?”
“That is right. The unsatisfactory young man.”
“Did you think he was unsatisfactory?”
“From whose point of view?”
“Not from the girl’s point of view, I suppose.”
“The girl who came to see me I am sure would have been highly delighted with him.”
“Did he look very awful?”
“He looked very beautiful,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Beautiful?” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know that I like beautiful young men.”
“Girls do,” said Poirot.
“Yes, you’re quite right. They like beautiful young men. I don’t mean good-looking young men or smart-looking young men or well-dressed or well-washed looking young men. I mean they either like young men looking as though they were just going on in a Restoration comedy, or else very dirty young men looking as though they were just going to take some awful tramp’s job.”
“It seemed that he also did not know where the girl is now—”
“Or else he wasn’t admitting it.”
“Perhaps. He had gone down there. Why? He was actually in the house. He had taken the trouble to walk in without anyone seeing him. Again why? For what reason? Was he looking for the girl? Or was he looking for something else?”
“You think he was looking for something?”
“He was looking for something in the girl’s room,” said Poirot.
“How do you know? Did you see him there?”
“No, I only saw him coming down the stairs, but I found a very nice little piece of damp mud in Norma’s room that could have come from his shoe. It is possible that she herself may have asked him to bring her something from that room—there are a lot of possibilities. There is another girl in that house—and a pretty one—He may have come down there to meet her. Yes—many possibilities.”
“What are you going to do next?” demanded Mrs. Oliver.
“Nothing,” said Poirot.
“That’s very dull,” said Mrs. Oliver disapprovingly.
“I am going to receive, perhaps, a little information from those I have employed to find it; though it is quite possible that I shall receive nothing at all.”
“But aren’t you going to do something?”
“Not till the right moment,” said Poirot.
“Well, I shall,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Pray, pray be very careful,” he implored her.
“What nonsense! What could happen to me?”
“Where there is murder, anything can happen. I tell that to you. I, Poirot.”
Six
I
Mr. Goby sat in a chair. He was a small shrunken little man, so nondescript as to be practically nonexistent.
He looked attentively at the claw foot of an antique table and addressed his remarks to it. He never addressed anybody direct.
“Glad you got the names for me, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “Otherwise, you know, it might have taken a lot of time. As it is, I’ve got the main facts—and a bit of gossip on the side…Always useful, that. I’ll begin at Borodene Mansions, shall I?”
Poirot inclined his head graciously.
“Plenty of porters,” Mr. Goby informed the clock on the chimneypiece. “I started there, used one or two different young men. Expensive, but worth it. Didn’t want it thought that there was anyone making any particular inquiries! Shall I use initials, or names?”
“Within these walls you can use the names,” said Poirot.
“Miss Claudia Reece-Holland spoken of as a very nice young lady. Father an MP. Ambitious man. Gets himself in the news a lot. She’s his only daughter. She does secretarial work. Serious girl. No wild parties, no drink, no beatniks. Shares flat with two others. Number two works for the Wedderburn Gallery in Bond Street. Arty type. Whoops it up a bit with the Chelsea set. Goes around to places arranging exhibitions and art shows.
“The third one is your one. Not been there long. General opinion is that she’s a bit ‘wanting.’ Not all there in the top storey. But it’s all a bit vague. One of the porters is a gossipy type. Buy him a drink or two and you’ll be surprised at the things he’ll tell you! Who drinks, and who drugs, and who’s having trouble with his income tax, and who keeps his cash behind the cistern. Of course you can’t believe it all. Anyway, there was some story about a revolver being fired one night.”
“A revolver fired? Was anyone injured?”
“There seems a bit of doubt as to that. His story is he heard a shot fired one night, and he comes out and there was this girl, your girl, standing there with a revolver in her hand. She looked sort of dazed. And then one of the other young ladies—or both of them, in fact—they come running along. And Miss Cary (that’s the arty one) says, ‘Norma, what on earth have you done?’ and Miss Reece-Holland, she says sharp-like, ‘Shut up, can’t you, Frances. Don’t be a fool!’ and she took the revolver away from your girl and says, ‘Give me that.’ She slams it into her handbag and then she notices this chap Micky, and goes over to him and says, laughing-like, ‘That must have startled you, didn’t it?’ and Micky he says it gave him quite a turn, and she says, ‘You needn’t worry. Matter of fact, we’d no idea this thing was loaded. We were just fooling about.’ And then she says: ‘Anyway, if anybody asks you questions, tell them it is quite all right,’ and then she says: ‘Come on, Norma,’ and took her arm and led her along to the elevator, and they all went up again.
“But Micky said he was a bit doubtful still. He went and had a good look round the courtyard.”
Mr. Goby lowered his eyes and quoted from his notebook:
“‘I’ll tell you, I found something, I did! I found some wet patches. Sure as anything I did. Drops of blood they were. I touched them with my finger. I tell you what I think. Somebody had been shot—some man as he was running away…I went upstairs and I asked if I could speak to Miss Holland. I says to her: “I think there may have been someone shot, Miss,” I says. “There are some drops of blood in the courtyard.” “Good gracious,” she says, “How ridiculous. I expect, you know,” she says, “it must have been one of the pigeons.” And then she says: “I’m sorry if it gave you a turn. Forget about it,” and she slipped me a five pound note. Five pound note, no less! Well, naturally, I didn’t open my mouth after that.’
“And then, after another whisky, he comes out with some more. ‘If you ask me, she took a potshot at that low class young chap that comes to see her. I think she and he had a row and she did her best to
shoot him. That’s what I think. But least said soonest mended, so I’m not repeating it. If anyone asks me anything I’ll say I don’t know what they’re talking about.’” Mr. Goby paused.
“Interesting,” said Poirot.
“Yes, but it’s as likely as not that it’s a pack of lies. Nobody else seems to know anything about it. There’s a story about a gang of young thugs who came barging into the courtyard one night, and had a bit of a fight—flick-knives out and all that.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “Another possible source of blood in the courtyard.”
“Maybe the girl did have a row with her young man, threatened to shoot him, perhaps. And Micky overheard it and mixed the whole thing up—especially if there was a car backfiring just then.”
“Yes,” said Hercule Poirot, and sighed, “that would account for things quite well.”
Mr. Goby turned over another leaf of his notebook and selected his confidant. He chose an electric radiator.
“Joshua Restarick Ltd. Family firm. Been going over a hundred years. Well thought of in the City. Always very sound. Nothing spectacular. Founded by Joshua Restarick in 1850. Launched out after the first war, with greatly increased investments abroad, mostly South Africa, West Africa and Australia. Simon and Andrew Restarick—the last of the Restaricks. Simon, the elder brother, died about a year ago, no children. His wife had died some years previously. Andrew Restarick seems to have been a restless chap. His heart was never really in the business though everyone says he had plenty of ability. Finally ran off with some woman, leaving his wife and a daughter of five years old. Went to South Africa, Kenya, and various other places. No divorce. His wife died two years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. He travelled about a lot, and wherever he went he seems to have made money. Concessions for minerals mostly. Everything he touched prospered.
“After his brother’s death, he seems to have decided it was time to settle down. He’d married again and he thought the right thing to do was to come back and make a home for his daughter. They’re living at the moment with his uncle Sir Roderick Horsefield—uncle by marriage that is. That’s only temporary. His wife’s looking at houses all over London. Expense no object. They’re rolling in money.”