Third Girl (2 page)

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.”

M
rs. 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.

It was a busy time. Cars and people were going in and out of the courtyard as the day's work came to a close.

Mrs. Oliver glanced down at her wrist. Ten minutes to seven. About the right time, as far as she could judge. The kind of time
when girls in jobs might be presumed to have returned, either to renew their makeup, change their clothes to tight exotic pants or whatever their particular addiction was, and go out again, or else to settle down to home life and wash their smalls and their stockings. Anyway, quite a sensible time to try. The block was exactly the same on the east and the west, with big swing doors set in the centre. Mrs. Oliver chose the left-hand side but immediately found that she was wrong. All this side was numbers from 100 to 200. She crossed over to the other side.

No. 67 was on the sixth floor. Mrs. Oliver pressed the button of the lift. The doors opened like a yawning mouth with a menacing clash. Mrs. Oliver hurried into the yawning cavern. She was always afraid of modern lifts.

Crash. The doors came to again. The lift went up. It stopped almost immediately (that was frightening too!). Mrs. Oliver scuttled out like a frightened rabbit.

She looked up at the wall and went along the right-hand passage. She came to a door marked 67 in metal numbers affixed to the centre of the door. The numeral 7 detached itself and fell on her feet as she arrived.

“This place doesn't like me,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself as she winced with pain and picked the number up gingerly and affixed it by its spike to the door again.

She pressed the bell. Perhaps everyone was out.

However, the door opened almost at once. A tall handsome girl stood in the doorway. She was wearing a dark well-cut suit with a very short skirt, a white silk shirt, and was very well shod. She had swept-up dark hair, good but discreet makeup, and for some reason was slightly alarming to Mrs. Oliver.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Oliver, galvanizing herself to say the right thing. “Is Miss Restarick in, by any chance?”

“No, I'm sorry, she's out. Can I give her a message?”

Mrs. Oliver said, “Oh” again—before proceeding. She made a play of action by producing a parcel rather untidily done up in brown paper. “I promised her a book,” she explained. “One of mine that she hadn't read. I hope I've remembered actually which it was. She won't be in soon, I suppose?”

“I really couldn't say. I don't know what she is doing tonight.”

“Oh. Are you Miss Reece-Holland?”

The girl looked slightly surprised.

“Yes, I am.”

“I've met your father,” said Mrs. Oliver. She went on, “I'm Mrs. Oliver. I write books,” she added in the usual guilty style in which she invariably made such an announcement.

“Won't you come in?”

Mrs. Oliver accepted the invitation, and Claudia Reece-Holland led her into a sitting room. All the rooms of the flats were papered the same with an artificial raw wood pattern. Tenants could then display their modern pictures or apply any forms of decoration they fancied. There was a foundation of modern built-in furniture, cupboard, bookshelves and so on, a large settee and a pullout type of table. Personal bits and pieces could be added by the tenants. There were also signs of individuality displayed here by a gigantic Harlequin pasted on one wall, and a stencil of a monkey swinging from branches of palm fronds on another wall.

“I'm sure Norma will be thrilled to get your book, Mrs. Oliver. Won't you have a drink? Sherry? Gin?”

This girl had the brisk manner of a really good secretary. Mrs. Oliver refused.

“You've got a splendid view up here,” she said, looking out of the window and blinking a little as she got the setting sun straight in her eyes.

“Yes. Not so funny when the lift goes out of order.”

“I shouldn't have thought
that
lift would dare to go out of order. It's so—so—robot-like.”

“Recently installed, but none the better for that,” said Claudia. “It needs frequent adjusting and all that.”

Another girl came in, talking as she entered.

“Claudia, have you any idea where I put—”

She stopped, looking at Mrs. Oliver.

Claudia made a quick introduction.

“Frances Cary—Mrs. Oliver. Mrs.
Ariadne
Oliver.”

“Oh, how exciting,” said Frances.

She was a tall willowy girl, with long black hair, a heavily made up dead-white face, and eyebrows and eyelashes slightly slanted upwards—the effect heightened by mascara. She wore tight velvet pants and a heavy sweater. She was a complete contrast to the brisk and efficient Claudia.

“I brought a book I'd promised Norma Restarick,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Oh!—what a pity she's still in the country.”

“Hasn't she come back?”

There was quite definitely a pause. Mrs. Oliver thought the two girls exchanged a glance.

“I thought she had a job in London,” said Mrs. Oliver, endeavouring to convey innocent surprise.

“Oh yes,” said Claudia. “She's in an interior decorating place. She's sent down with patterns occasionally to places in the country.” She smiled. “We live rather separate lives here,” she explained. “Come and go as we like—and don't usually bother to leave messages. But I won't forget to give her your book when she does get back.”

Nothing could have been easier than the casual explanation.

Mrs. Oliver rose. “Well, thank you very much.”

Claudia accompanied her to the door. “I shall tell my father I've met you,” she said. “He's a great reader of detective stories.”

Closing the door she went back into the sitting room.

The girl Frances was leaning against the window.

“Sorry,” she said. “Did I boob?”

“I'd just said that Norma was out.”

Frances shrugged her shoulders.

“I couldn't tell. Claudia, where
is
that girl? Why didn't she come back on Monday? Where has she gone?”

“I can't imagine.”

“She didn't stay on down with her people? That's where she went for the weekend.”

“No. I rang up, actually, to find out.”

“I suppose it doesn't really matter…All the same, she is—well, there's something queer about her.”

“She's not really queerer than anyone else.” But the opinion sounded uncertain.

“Oh yes, she is,” said Frances. “Sometimes she gives me the shivers. She's not normal, you know.”

She laughed suddenly.

“Norma isn't normal! You know she isn't, Claudia, although you won't admit it. Loyalty to your employer, I suppose.”