III

At 4:15 that afternoon Poirot sat in Mrs. Oliver’s drawing room sippingappreciatively at a large cup of chocolate topped with foaming whippedcream which his hostess had just placed on a small table beside him. Sheadded a small plate full of langue de chats biscuits.

“Chère Madame, what kindness.” He looked over his cup with faint sur-prise at Mrs. Oliver’s coiffure and also at her new wallpaper. Both werenew to him. The last time he had seen Mrs. Oliver, her hairstyle had beenplain and severe. It now displayed a richness of coils and twists arrangedin intricate patterns all over her head. Its prolific luxury was, he suspec-ted, largely artificial. He debated in his mind how many switches of hairmight unexpectedly fall off if Mrs. Oliver was to get suddenly excited, aswas her wont. As for the wallpaper….

“These cherries—they are new?” he waved a teaspoon. It was, he felt,rather like being in a cherry orchard.

“Are there too many of them, do you think?” said Mrs. Oliver. “So hardto tell beforehand with wallpaper. Do you think my old one was better?”

Poirot cast his mind back dimly to what he seemed to remember aslarge quantities of bright coloured tropical birds in a forest. He felt in-clined to remark “Plus ?a change, plus c’est la même chose,” but restrainedhimself.

“And now,” said Mrs. Oliver, as her guest finally replaced his cup on itssaucer and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of foam-ing cream from his moustache, “what is all this about?”

“That I can tell you very simply. This morning a girl came to see me. Isuggested she might make an appointment. One has one’s routine, youcomprehend. She sent back word that she wanted to see me at once be-cause she thought she might have committed a murder.”

“What an odd thing to say. Didn’t she know?”

“Precisely! C’est inou?! so I instructed George to show her in. She stoodthere! She refused to sit down. She just stood there staring at me. Sheseemed quite half-witted. I tried to encourage her. Then suddenly she saidthat she’d changed her mind. She said she didn’t want to be rude but that—(what do you think?)—but that I was too old.…”

Mrs. Oliver hastened to utter soothing words. “Oh well, girls are likethat. Anyone over thirty- five they think is half dead. They’ve no sense,girls, you must realise that.”

“It wounded me,” said Hercule Poirot.

“Well, I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Of course it was a veryrude thing to say.”

“That does not matter. And it is not only my feelings. I am worried. Yes, Iam worried.”

“Well, I should forget all about it if I were you,” advised Mrs. Olivercomfortably.

“You do not understand. I am worried about this girl. She came to mefor help. Then she decided that I was too old. Too old to be of any use toher. She was wrong of course, that goes without saying, and then she justran away. But I tell you that girl needs help.”

“I don’t suppose she does really,” said Mrs. Oliver soothingly. “Girlsmake a fuss about things.”

“No. You are wrong. She needs help.”

“You don’t think she really has committed a murder?”

“Why not? She said she had.”

“Yes, but—” Mrs. Oliver stopped. “She said she might have,” she saidslowly. “But what can she possibly mean by that?”

“Exactly. It does not make sense.”

“Who did she murder or did she think she murdered?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“And why did she murder someone?”

Again Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course it could be all sorts of things.” Mrs. Oliver began to brightenas she set her ever prolific imagination to work. “She could have run oversomeone in her car and not stopped. She could have been assaulted by aman on a cliff and struggled with him and managed to push him over. Shecould have given someone the wrong medicine by mistake. She could havegone to one of those purple pill parties and had a fight with someone. Shecould have come to and found she had stabbed someone. She—”

“Assez, madame, assez!”

But Mrs. Oliver was well away.

“She might have been a nurse in the operating theatre and administeredthe wrong anaesthetic or—” she broke off, suddenly anxious for clearerdetails. “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 onewho can cope with difficulties. She is not one of those who can see before-hand the dangers that must come. She is one of whom others will lookround and say ‘we want a victim. That one will do.’”

But Mrs. Oliver was no longer listening. She was clutching her rich coilsof 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 relaxedher grip on her head and uttered a deep sigh. Hair detached itself from itsbonds and tumbled over her shoulders, a super imperial coil of hair de-tached itself completely and fell on the floor. Poirot picked it up and put itdiscreetly on the table.

“Now then,” said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly restored to calm. She pushed in ahairpin or two, and nodded her head while she thought. “Who told thisgirl 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 wasnatural was that Poirot himself was sure that everyone had always heardof him. Actually large numbers of people would only look at you blankly ifthe name of Hercule Poirot was mentioned, especially the younger genera-tion. “But how am I going to put that to him,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “in sucha 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. Theydon’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, ordisc jockeys—that sort of thing. If you need someone special, I mean a doc-tor 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 QueenAnne’s Street, twists your legs three times round your head and you’recured,’ or ‘All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have been furi-ous, 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 athing.’—That’s the way it happens all the time. Someone sent that girl toyou.”

“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 ofsomeone I’d actually seen. Quite lately. And then it came to me who itwas.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talk-ing—about private detectives and private eyes—and I spoke about youand 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 anythinglike that. I thought we were just talking. But I’d mentioned the name sev-eral times, and of course it would be easy to look you up in the telephonebook and just come along.”

“Were you talking about murder?”

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

“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’tcome into it except that they took me over to some friends of theirs fordrinks. There were several people there—and I didn’t enjoy myself muchbecause, as you know, I don’t really like drink, and so people have to finda soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people saythings to me—you know—how much they like my books, and how they’vebeen longing to meet me—and it all makes me feel hot and bothered andrather silly. But I manage to cope more or less. And they say how muchthey 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 talkabout detectives in real life grew out of all that, and I talked a bit aboutyou, and this girl was standing around listening. When you said an unat-tractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought: ‘Now who does that re-mind me of?’ And then it came to me: ‘Of course. The girl at the party thatday.’ I rather think she belonged there unless I’m confusing her with someother 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 ty-coon. Rich. Something in the City, but he’s spent most of his life in SouthAfrica—”

“He has a wife?”

“Yes. Very good- looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots ofgolden hair. Second wife. The daughter was the first wife’s daughter. Thenthere was an uncle of incredible antiquity. Rather deaf. He’s frightfullydistinguished—strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an air mar-shal or something. He’s an astronomer too, I think. Anyway, he’s got akind of big telescope sticking out of the roof. Though I suppose that mightbe just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too, who sort of trots aboutafter the old boy. Goes up to London with him, I believe, and sees hedoesn’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 eld-erly 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—any-more children?”

“I don’t think so—but I don’t really know. The daughter doesn’t live athome, by the way. She was only down for the weekend. Doesn’t get onwith the stepmother, I expect. She’s got a job in London, and she’s pickedup 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. Alwayschattering about someone or other. One hears a lot of gossip about thepeople all around. Sometimes, though, one gets them mixed up. I probablyhave. I wish I could remember that girl’s Christian name. Something con-nected with a song…Thora? Speak to me, Thora. Thora, Thora. Somethinglike that, or Myra? Myra, oh Myra my love is all for thee. Something likethat. I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls. Norma? Or do I mean Maritana?

Norma — Norma Restarick. That’s right, I’m sure.” She added inconse-quently, “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 TheTimes?”

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

“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 pagesover and brought it to him. “Here you are—look. ‘THIRD GIRL for comfort-able second floor flat, own room, central heating, Earl’s Court.’ ‘Third girlwanted 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. Secondgirl is usually a friend. Then they find a third girl by advertising if theydon’t know one. And, as you see, very often they manage to squeeze in afourth girl. First girl takes the best room, second girl pays rather less, thirdgirl less still and is stuck in a cat-hole. They fix it among themselves whichone has the flat to herself which night a week—or something like that. Itworks reasonably well.”

“And where does this girl whose name might just possibly be Norma livein 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 enteringinto 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 andthings—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. Moder-ation.”

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—somethingto write down names or addresses or places?”

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

Mrs. Oliver turned back to the receiver she held and launched herselfinto speech. Poirot listened attentively to one side of a telephone conversa-tion.

“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 Idon’t…Practically blind?…I thought he was going up to London with thelittle 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 forwas 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 prom-ised her a book and I wrote down the address, but of course I’ve lost it asusual. I can’t even remember her name. Is it Thora or Norma?… Yes, Ithought it was Norma:…Wait a minute, I’ll get a pencil…Yes, I’m ready…67Borodene Mansions… I know — that great block that looks rather likeWormwood Scrubs prison…Yes, I believe the flats are very comfortablewith central heating and everything…Who are the other two girls she liveswith?…Friends of hers?…or advertisements?…Claudia Reece-Holland…herfather’s the MP, is he? Who’s the other one?…No, I suppose you wouldn’tknow—she’s quite nice, too, I suppose…What do they all do? They alwaysseem to be secretaries, don’t they?…Oh, the other girl’s an interior decor-ator—you think—or to do with an art gallery—No, Naomi, of course I don’treally want to know — one just wonders — what do all the girls donowadays?—well, it’s useful for me to know because of my books—onewants to keep up to date… What was it you told me about some boy-friend…Yes, but one’s so helpless, isn’t one? I mean girls do just exactly asthey like…does he look very awful? Is he the unshaven dirty kind? Oh,that kind—Brocade waistcoats, and long curling chestnut hair—lying onhis 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…Whatdid you say? That Andrew Restarick simply hates him?…Yes, men usuallydo…Mary Restarick?…Well, I suppose you do usually have rows with astepmother. I expect she was quite thankful when the girl got a job in Lon-don. What do you mean about people saying things…Why, couldn’t theyfind out what was the matter with her?…Who said?…Yes, but what didthey hush up?…Oh—a nurse?—talked to the Jenners’ governess? Do youmean her husband? Oh, I see — The doctors couldn’t find out… No, butpeople are so ill-natured. I do agree with you. These things are usuallyquite untrue… Oh, gastric, was it?… But how ridiculous. Do you meanpeople said what’s his name—Andrew—You mean it would be easy withall those weed killers about—Yes, but why?…I mean, it’s not a case of somewife he’s hated for years—she’s the second wife—and much younger thanhe is and good-looking…Yes, I suppose that could be—but why should theforeign girl want to either?…You mean she might have resented thingsthat Mrs. Restarick said to her…She’s quite an attractive little thing—I sup-pose Andrew might have taken a fancy to her—nothing serious of course—but it might have annoyed Mary, and then she might have pitched intothe girl and—”

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

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

She laid down the receiver, hurried across the room, and backed Poirotinto 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 signallingabout? 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 pre-text for me to visit the Restaricks—an old friend of yours, shortly to be inthe 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 somethingalways 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. Butthere was something else I wanted to—oh, I remember. An old friend ofmine. A most fascinating little man. Actually I was talking about him theother day down there. Hercule Poirot his name is. He’s going to be stayingquite close to the Restaricks and he is most tremendously anxious to meetold Sir Roderick. He knows a lot about him and has a terrific admirationfor him, and for some wonderful discovery of his in the war—or some sci-entific thing he did—anyway, he is very anxious to ‘call upon him andpresent his respects,’ that’s how he put it. Will that be all right, do youthink? Will you warn them? Yes, he’ll probably just turn up out of theblue. 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 lotwhich I suppose is what you want. And one can always be vague about sci-entific subjects if one is a woman, and you can think up something moredefinite that sounds probable by the time you arrive. Now, do you want tohear 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 innature—and the doctors were puzzled. They sent her into hospital and shegot 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 doctorswere puzzled. And then people began to talk. A rather irresponsible nursestarted it and her sister told a neighbour, and the neighbour went out ondaily work and told someone else, and how queer it all was. And thenpeople began saying that her husband must be trying to poison her. Thesort of thing people always say—but in this case it really didn’t seem tomake sense. And then Naomi and I wondered about the au pair girl, she’sa kind of secretary companion to the old boy—so really there isn’t anykind 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.”