Poirot sighed. “I know,” he said. “What you outline to me is a success story! Everyone makes money! Everybody is of good family and highly respected. Their relations are distinguished. They are well thought of in business circles.
“There is only one cloud in the sky. A girl who is said to be ‘a bit wanting,’ a girl who is mixed up with a dubious boyfriend who has been on probation more than once. A girl who may quite possibly have tried to poison her stepmother, and who either suffers from hallucinations, or else has committed a crime! I tell you, none of that accords well with the success story you have brought me.”
Mr. Goby shook his head sadly and said rather obscurely:
“There’s one in every family.”
“This Mrs. Restarick is quite a young woman. I presume she is not the woman he originally ran away with?”
“Oh no, that bust up quite soon. She was a pretty bad lot by all accounts, and a tartar as well. He was a fool ever to be taken in by her.” Mr. Goby shut his notebook and looked inquiringly at Poirot. “Anything more you want me to do?”
“Yes. I want to know a little more about the late Mrs. Andrew Restarick. She was an invalid, she was frequently in nursing homes. What kind of nursing homes? Mental homes?”
“I take your point, Mr. Poirot.”
“And any history of insanity in the family—on either side?”
“I’ll see to it, Mr. Poirot.”
Mr. Goby rose to his feet. “Then I’ll take leave of you, sir. Good night.”
Poirot remained thoughtful after Mr. Goby had left. He raised and lowered his eyebrows. He wondered, he wondered very much.
Then he rang Mrs. Oliver:
“I told you before,” he said, “to be careful. I repeat that—Be very careful.”
“Careful of what?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Of yourself. I think there might be danger. Danger to anyone who goes poking about where they are not wanted. There is murder in the air—I do not want it to be yours.”
“Have you had the information you said you might have?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “I have had a little information. Mostly rumour and gossip, but it seems something happened at Borodene Mansions.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Blood in the courtyard,” said Poirot.
“Really!” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s just like the title of an old-fashioned detective story. The Stain on the Staircase. I mean nowadays you say something more like She Asked for Death.”
“Perhaps there may not have been blood in the courtyard. Perhaps it is only what an imaginative, Irish porter imagined.”
“Probably an upset milk bottle,” said Mrs. Oliver. “He couldn’t see it at night. What happened?”
Poirot did not answer directly.
“The girl thought she ‘might have committed a murder.’ Was that the murder she meant?”
“You mean she did shoot someone?”
“One might presume that she did shoot at someone, but for all intents and purposes missed them. A few drops of blood…That was all. No body.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s all very confused. Surely if anyone could still run out of a courtyard, you wouldn’t think you’d killed him, would you?”
“C’est difficile,” said Poirot, and rang off.
II
“I’m worried,” said Claudia Reece-Holland.
She refilled her cup from the coffee percolator. Frances Cary gave an enormous yawn. Both girls were breakfasting in the small kitchen of the flat. Claudia was dressed and ready to start for her day’s work. Frances was still in dressing gown and pyjamas. Her black hair fell over one eye.
“I’m worried about Norma,” continued Claudia.
Frances yawned.
“I shouldn’t worry if I were you. She’ll ring up or turn up sooner or later, I suppose.”
“Will she? You know, Fran, I can’t help wondering—”
“I don’t see why,” said Frances, pouring herself out more coffee. She sipped it doubtfully. “I mean—Norma’s not really our business, is she? I mean, we’re not looking after her or spoon-feeding her or anything. She just shares the flat. Why all this motherly solicitude? I certainly wouldn’t worry.”
“I daresay you wouldn’t. You never worry over anything. But it’s not the same for you as it is for me.”
“Why isn’t it the same? You mean because you’re the tenant of the flat or something?”
“Well, I’m in rather a special position, as you might say.”
Frances gave another enormous yawn.
“I was up too late last night,” she said. “At Basil’s party. I feel dreadful. Oh well, I suppose black coffee will be helpful. Have some more before I’ve drunk it all? Basil would make us try some new pills—Emerald Dreams. I don’t think it’s really worth trying all these silly things.”
“You’ll be late at your gallery,” said Claudia.
“Oh well, I don’t suppose it matters much. Nobody notices or cares.
“I saw David last night,” she added. “He was all dressed up and really looked rather wonderful.”
“Now don’t say you’re falling for him, too, Fran. He really is too awful.”
“Oh, I know you think so. You’re such a conventional type, Claudia.”
“Not at all. But I cannot say I care for all your arty set. Trying out all these drugs and passing out or getting fighting mad.”
Frances looked amused.
“I’m not a drug fiend, dear—I just like to see what these things are like. And some of the gang are all right. David can paint, you know, if he wants to.”
“David doesn’t very often want to, though, does he?”
“You’ve always got your knife into him, Claudia…You hate him coming here to see Norma. And talking of knives….”
“Well? Talking of knives?”
“I’ve been worrying,” said Frances slowly, “whether to tell you something or not.”
Claudia glanced at her wristwatch.
“I haven’t got time now,” she said. “You can tell me this evening if you want to tell me something. Anyway, I’m not in the mood. Oh dear,” she sighed, “I wish I knew what to do.”
“About Norma?”
“Yes. I’m wondering if her parents ought to know that we don’t know where she is….”
“That would be very unsporting. Poor Norma, why shouldn’t she slope off on her own if she wants to?”
“Well, Norma isn’t exactly—” Claudia stopped.
“No, she isn’t, is she? Non compos mentis. That’s what you meant. Have you rung up that terrible place where she works? ‘Homebirds,’ or whatever it’s called? Oh yes, of course you did. I remember.”
“So where is she?” demanded Claudia. “Did David say anything last night?”
“David didn’t seem to know. Really, Claudia, I can’t see that it matters.”
“It matters for me,” said Claudia, “because my boss happens to be her father. Sooner or later, if anything peculiar has happened to her, they’ll ask me why I didn’t mention the fact that she hadn’t come home.”
“Yes, I suppose they might pitch on you. But there’s no real reason, is there, why Norma should have to report to us every time she’s going to be away from here for a day or two. Or even a few nights. I mean, she’s not a paying guest or anything. You’re not in charge of the girl.”
“No, but Mr. Restarick did mention he felt glad to know that she had got a room here with us.”
“So that entitles you to go and tittle-tattle about her every time she’s absent without leave? She’s probably got a crush on some new man.”
“She’s got a crush on David,” said Claudia. “Are you sure she isn’t holed up at his place?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t really care for her, you know.”
“You’d like to think he doesn’t,” said Claudia. “You are rather sweet on David yourself.”
“Certainly not,” said Frances s
harply. “Nothing of the kind.”
“David’s really keen on her,” said Claudia. “If not, why did he come round looking for her here the other day?”
“You soon marched him out again,” said Frances. “I think,” she added, getting up and looking at her face in a rather unflattering small kitchen mirror, “I think it might have been me he really came to see.”
“You’re too idiotic! He came here looking for Norma.”
“That girl’s mental,” said Frances.
“Sometimes I really think she is!”
“Well, I know she is. Look here, Claudia, I’m going to tell you that something now. You ought to know. I broke the string of my bra the other day and I was in a hurry. I know you don’t like anyone fiddling with your things—”
“I certainly don’t,” said Claudia.
“—but Norma never minds, or doesn’t notice. Anyway, I went into her room and I rootled in her drawer and I—well, I found something. A knife.”
“A knife!” said Claudia, surprised. “What sort of a knife?”
“You know we had that sort of shindy thing in the courtyard? A group of beats, teenagers who’d come in here and were having a fight with flick-knives and all that? And Norma came in just after.”
“Yes, yes, I remember.”
“One of the boys got stabbed, so a reporter told me, and he ran away. Well, the knife in Norma’s drawer was a flick-knife. It had got a stain on it—looked like dried blood.”
“Frances! You’re being absurdly dramatic.”
“Perhaps. But I’m sure that’s what it was. And what on earth was that doing hidden away in Norma’s drawer, I should like to know?”
“I suppose—she might have picked it up.”
“What—a souvenir? And hidden it away and never told us?”
“What did you do with it?”
“I put it back,” said Frances slowly. “I—I didn’t know what else to do…I couldn’t decide whether to tell you or not. Then yesterday I looked again and it was gone, Claudia. Not a trace of it.”
“You think she sent David here to get it?”
“Well, she might have done…I tell you, Claudia, in future I’m going to keep my door locked at night.”
Seven
Mrs. Oliver woke up dissatisfied. She saw stretching before her a day with nothing to do. Having packed off her completed manuscript with a highly virtuous feeling, work was over. She had now only, as many times before, to relax, to enjoy herself; to lie fallow until the creative urge became active once more. She walked about her flat in a rather aimless fashion, touching things, picking them up, putting them down, looking in the drawers of her desk, realising that there were plenty of letters there to be dealt with but feeling also that in her present state of virtuous accomplishment, she was certainly not going to deal with anything so tiresome as that now. She wanted something interesting to do. She wanted—what did she want?
She thought about the conversation she had had with Hercule Poirot, the warning he had given her. Ridiculous! After all, why shouldn’t she participate in this problem which she was sharing with Poirot? Poirot might choose to sit in a chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and set his grey cells whirring to work while his body reclined comfortably within four walls. That was not the procedure that appealed to Ariadne Oliver. She had said, very forcibly, that she at least was going to do something. She was going to find out more about this mysterious girl. Where was Norma Restarick? What was she doing? What more could she, Ariadne Oliver, find out about her?
Mrs. Oliver prowled about, more and more disconsolate. What could one do? It wasn’t very easy to decide. Go somewhere and ask questions? Should she go down to Long Basing? But Poirot had already been there—and found out presumably what there was to be found out. And what excuse could she offer for barging into Sir Roderick Horsefield’s house?
She considered another visit to Borodene Mansions. Something still to be found out there, perhaps? She would have to think of another excuse for going there. She wasn’t quite sure what excuse she would use but anyway, that seemed the only possible place where more information could be obtained. What was the time? Ten a.m. There were certain possibilities….
On the way there she concocted an excuse. Not a very original excuse. In fact, Mrs. Oliver would have liked to have found something more intriguing, but perhaps, she reflected prudently, it was just as well to keep to something completely everyday and plausible. She arrived at the stately if grim elevation of Borodene Mansions and walked slowly round the courtyard considering it.
A porter was conversing with a furniture van—A milkman, pushing his milk float, came to join Mrs. Oliver near the service lift.
He rattled bottles, cheerfully whistling, whilst Mrs. Oliver continued to stare abstractedly at the furniture van.
“Number 76 moving out,” explained the milkman to Mrs. Oliver, mistaking her interest. He transferred a clutch of bottles from his float to the lift.
“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, she gets two other girls to go in with her.”
“Oh yes, I think I met them both. Miss Cary’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—”