Five

IHercule Poirot stood upon the landing for a moment. His head was a littleon one side with a listening air. He could hear nothing from downstairs.

He crossed to the landing window and looked out. Mary Restarick was be-low on the terrace, resuming her gardening work. Poirot nodded his headin satisfaction. He walked gently along the corridor. One by one in turn heopened the doors. A bathroom, a linen cupboard, a double bedded spareroom, an occupied single bedroom, a woman’s room with a double bed(Mary Restarick’s?). The next door was that of an adjoining room and was,he guessed, the room belonging to Andrew Restarick. He turned to theother side of the landing. The door he opened first was a single bedroom.

It was not, he judged, occupied at the time, but it was a room which pos-sibly was occupied at weekends. There were toilet brushes on the dressingtable. He listened carefully, then tiptoed in. He opened the wardrobe. Yes,there were some clothes hanging up there. Country clothes.

There was a writing table but there was nothing on it. He opened thedesk drawers very softly. There were a few odds and ends, a letter or two,but the letters were trivial and dated some time ago. He shut the deskdrawers. He walked downstairs, and going out of the house, bade farewellto his hostess. He refused her offer of tea. He had promised to get back, hesaid, as he had to catch a train to town very shortly afterwards.

“Don’t you want a taxi? We could order you one, or I could drive you inthe car.”

“No, no, Madame, you are too kind.”

Poirot walked back to the village and turned down the lane by thechurch. He crossed a little bridge over a stream. Presently he came towhere a large car with a chauffeur was waiting discreetly under a beechtree. The chauffeur opened the door of the car, Poirot got inside, sat downand removed his patent leather shoes, uttering a gasp of relief.

“Now we return to London,” he said.

The chauffeur closed the door, returned to his seat and the car purredquietly away. The sight of a young man standing by the roadside furiouslythumbing a ride was not an unusual one. Poirot’s eyes rested almost indif-ferently on this member of the fraternity, a brightly dressed young manwith long and exotic hair. There were many such but in the moment ofpassing him Poirot suddenly sat upright and addressed the driver.

“If you please, stop. Yes, and if you can reverse a little… There issomeone requesting a lift.”

The chauffeur turned an incredulous eye over his shoulder. It was thelast remark he would have expected. However, Poirot was gently noddinghis head, so he obeyed.

The young man called David advanced to the door. “Thought youweren’t going to stop for me,” he said cheerfully. “Much obliged, I’m sure.”

He got in, removed a small pack from his shoulders and let it slide to thefloor, smoothed down his copper brown locks. “So you recognised me,” hesaid.

“You are perhaps somewhat conspicuously dressed.”

“Oh, do you think so? Not really. I’m just one of a band of brothers.”

“The school of Vandyke. Very dressy.”

“Oh. I’ve never thought of it like that. Yes, there may be something inwhat you say.”

“You should wear a cavalier’s hat,” said Poirot, “and a lace collar, if Imight advise.”

“Oh, I don’t think we go quite as far as that.” The young man laughed.

“How Mrs. Restarick dislikes the mere sight of me. Actually I reciprocateher dislike. I don’t care much for Restarick, either. There is something sin-gularly unattractive about successful tycoons, don’t you think?”

“It depends on the point of view. You have been paying attentions to thedaughter, I understand.”

“That is such a nice phrase,” said David. “Paying attentions to the daugh-ter. I suppose it might be called that. But there’s plenty of fifty-fifty aboutit, you know. She’s paying attention to me, too.”

“Where is Mademoiselle now?”

David turned his head rather sharply. “And why do you ask that?”

“I should like to meet her.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t believe she’d be your type, you know, anymore than I am.

Norma’s in London.”

“But you said to her stepmother—”

“Oh! We don’t tell stepmothers everything.”

“And where is she in London?”

“She works in an interior decorator’s down the King’s Road somewherein Chelsea. Can’t remember the name of it for the moment. Susan Phelps, Ithink.”

“But that is not where she lives, I presume. You have her address?”

“Oh yes, a great block of flats. I don’t really understand your interest.”

“One is interested in so many things.”

“What do you mean?”

“What brought you to that house—(what is its name?—Crosshedges)today. Brought you secretly into the house and up the stairs.”

“I came in the back door, I admit.”

“What were you looking for upstairs?”

“That’s my business. I don’t want to be rude — but aren’t you beingrather nosy?”

“Yes, I am displaying curiosity. I would like to know exactly where thisyoung lady is.”

“I see. Dear Andrew and dear Mary—lord rot ’em—are employing you,is that it? They are trying to find her?”

“As yet,” said Poirot, “I do not think they know that she is missing.”

“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 cau-tiously. “If so, you should know where she is. Is that not so, Mr.—I amsorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, that is, that your Christianname 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 itMonday morning?”

“It depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London alittle after ten. It would make her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usu-ally she goes back on Sunday night.”

“She left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Man-sions.”

“Apparently not. So Claudia says.”

“This Miss Reece-Holland—that is her name, is it not?—was she sur-prised or worried?”

“Good lord, no, why should she be. They don’t keep tabs on each otherall 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 tellyou.”

“Are you worried, Mr. Baker?”

“No. Naturally—I mean, well, I’m damned if I know. I don’t see anyreason 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 athome. She does not like her stepmother.”

“Quite right too. She’s a bitch, that woman. Hard as nails. She doesn’tlike 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. Re-starick.”

“I believe she did go into a nursing home. No reason she should. Strongas a horse, I’d say.”

“And Miss Restarick hates her stepmother.”

“She’s a bit unbalanced sometimes, Norma. You know, goes off the deepend. 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 suggestingthat 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 poisonher stepmother? That’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely absurd.”

“It is very unlikely, I agree,” said Poirot. “Actually, people have not beensaying that.”

“Oh. Sorry. I misunderstood. But—what did you mean?”

“My dear young man,” said Poirot, “you must realise that there are ru-mours going about, and rumours are almost always about the same per-son—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 thereto inquire into any doubtful or possible case of poisoning. You must for-give me if I cannot answer your question. It is all very hush-hush, you un-derstand.”

“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 heknows a good deal. He was connected with a great many things in the pastwar. 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 realisethat 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 Roderickmight recognise. A face or a mannerism, a way of talking, a way of walk-ing, a gesture. People do remember, you know. Old people. They remem-ber, not things that have happened last week or last month or last year,but they remember something that happened, say, nearly twenty yearsago. And they may remember someone who does not want to be re-membered. And they can tell you certain things about a certain man or acertain woman or something they were mixed up in—I am speaking veryvaguely, you understand. I went to him for information.”

“You went to him for information, did you? That old boy? Gaga. And hegave 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 tosee the old boy or did you go to see the little girl, eh? Did you want toknow what she was doing in the house? I’ve wondered once or twice my-self. Do you think she took that post there to get a bit of past informationout of the old boy?”

“I do not think,” said Poirot, “that it will serve any useful purpose to dis-cuss these matters. She seems a very devoted and attentive—what shall Icall 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’tone? 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 likeMary Restarick. Perhaps you go as far as thinking that she may have madea few inquiries as to where the weed killer was kept? Bah,” he added, “thewhole thing’s ridiculous. All right. Thanks for the lift. I think I’ll get outhere.”

“Aha. This is where you want to be? We are still a good seven miles outof London.”

“I’ll get out here. Good-bye, M. Poirot.”

“Good-bye.”

Poirot leant back in his seat as David slammed the door.