Three

Mrs. Oliver drove into the inner court of Borodene Mansions. There weresix cars filling the parking space. As Mrs. Oliver hesitated, one of the carsreversed out and drove away. Mrs. Oliver hurried neatly into the vacantspace.

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

It was a busy time. Cars and people were going in and out of the court-yard as the day’s work came to a close.

Mrs. Oliver glanced down at her wrist. Ten minutes to seven. About theright time, as far as she could judge. The kind of time when girls in jobsmight be presumed to have returned, either to renew their makeup,change their clothes to tight exotic pants or whatever their particular ad-diction was, and go out again, or else to settle down to home life and washtheir smalls and their stockings. Anyway, quite a sensible time to try. Theblock was exactly the same on the east and the west, with big swing doorsset in the centre. Mrs. Oliver chose the left- hand side but immediatelyfound that she was wrong. All this side was numbers from 100 to 200. Shecrossed 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 modernlifts.

Crash. The doors came to again. The lift went up. It stopped almost im-mediately (that was frightening too!). Mrs. Oliver scuttled out like afrightened rabbit.

She looked up at the wall and went along the right-hand passage. Shecame to a door marked 67 in metal numbers affixed to the centre of thedoor. 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 wincedwith pain and picked the number up gingerly and affixed it by its spike tothe door again.

She pressed the bell. Perhaps everyone was out.

However, the door opened almost at once. A tall handsome girl stood inthe 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 toMrs. Oliver.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Oliver, galvanizing herself to say the right thing. “Is MissRestarick 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 ac-tion by producing a parcel rather untidily done up in brown paper. “Ipromised her a book,” she explained. “One of mine that she hadn’t read. Ihope I’ve remembered actually which it was. She won’t be in soon, I sup-pose?”

“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. Iwrite books,” she added in the usual guilty style in which she invariablymade such an announcement.

“Won’t you come in?”

Mrs. Oliver accepted the invitation, and Claudia Reece-Holland led herinto a sitting room. All the rooms of the flats were papered the same withan artificial raw wood pattern. Tenants could then display their modernpictures or apply any forms of decoration they fancied. There was afoundation of modern built-in furniture, cupboard, bookshelves and so on,a large settee and a pullout type of table. Personal bits and pieces could beadded by the tenants. There were also signs of individuality displayedhere by a gigantic Harlequin pasted on one wall, and a stencil of a monkeyswinging from branches of palm fronds on another wall.

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

This girl had the brisk manner of a really good secretary. Mrs. Oliver re-fused.

“You’ve got a splendid view up here,” she said, looking out of the win-dow 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 needsfrequent 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 updead-white face, and eyebrows and eyelashes slightly slanted upwards—the effect heightened by mascara. She wore tight velvet pants and a heavysweater. 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 ex-changed a glance.

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

“Oh yes,” said Claudia. “She’s in an interior decorating place. She’s sentdown with patterns occasionally to places in the country.” She smiled.

“We live rather separate lives here,” she explained. “Come and go as welike—and don’t usually bother to leave messages. But I won’t forget to giveher 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 metyou,” 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 onMonday? Where has she gone?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“She didn’t stay on down with her people? That’s where she went for theweekend.”

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

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

“She’s not really queerer than anyone else.” But the opinion soundeduncertain.

“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’tadmit it. Loyalty to your employer, I suppose.”