Six

IMr. Goby sat in a chair. He was a small shrunken little man, so nondes-cript as to be practically nonexistent.

He looked attentively at the claw foot of an antique table and addressedhis remarks to it. He never addressed anybody direct.

“Glad you got the names for me, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “Otherwise, youknow, it might have taken a lot of time. As it is, I’ve got the main facts—and a bit of gossip on the side…Always useful, that. I’ll begin at BorodeneMansions, shall I?”

Poirot inclined his head graciously.

“Plenty of porters,” Mr. Goby informed the clock on the chimneypiece. “Istarted there, used one or two different young men. Expensive, but worthit. Didn’t want it thought that there was anyone making any particular in-quiries! Shall I use initials, or names?”

“Within these walls you can use the names,” said Poirot.

“Miss Claudia Reece-Holland spoken of as a very nice young lady. Fatheran MP. Ambitious man. Gets himself in the news a lot. She’s his onlydaughter. She does secretarial work. Serious girl. No wild parties, nodrink, no beatniks. Shares flat with two others. Number two works for theWedderburn Gallery in Bond Street. Arty type. Whoops it up a bit with theChelsea set. Goes around to places arranging exhibitions and art shows.

“The third one is your one. Not been there long. General opinion is thatshe’s a bit ‘wanting.’ Not all there in the top storey. But it’s all a bit vague.

One of the porters is a gossipy type. Buy him a drink or two and you’ll besurprised at the things he’ll tell you! Who drinks, and who drugs, andwho’s having trouble with his income tax, and who keeps his cash behindthe cistern. Of course you can’t believe it all. Anyway, there was somestory about a revolver being fired one night.”

“A revolver fired? Was anyone injured?”

“There seems a bit of doubt as to that. His story is he heard a shot firedone night, and he comes out and there was this girl, your girl, standingthere with a revolver in her hand. She looked sort of dazed. And then oneof the other young ladies—or both of them, in fact—they come runningalong. And Miss Cary (that’s the arty one) says, ‘Norma, what on earthhave you done?’ and Miss Reece-Holland, she says sharp-like, ‘Shut up,can’t you, Frances. Don’t be a fool!’ and she took the revolver away fromyour girl and says, ‘Give me that.’ She slams it into her handbag and thenshe notices this chap Micky, and goes over to him and says, laughing-like,‘That must have startled you, didn’t it?’ and Micky he says it gave himquite a turn, and she says, ‘You needn’t worry. Matter of fact, we’d no ideathis thing was loaded. We were just fooling about.’ And then she says:

‘Anyway, if anybody asks you questions, tell them it is quite all right,’ andthen she says: ‘Come on, Norma,’ and took her arm and led her along tothe elevator, and they all went up again.

“But Micky said he was a bit doubtful still. He went and had a good lookround the courtyard.”

Mr. Goby lowered his eyes and quoted from his notebook:

“‘I’ll tell you, I found something, I did! I found some wet patches. Sure asanything I did. Drops of blood they were. I touched them with my finger. Itell you what I think. Somebody had been shot—some man as he was run-ning away…I went upstairs and I asked if I could speak to Miss Holland. Isays to her: “I think there may have been someone shot, Miss,” I says.

“There are some drops of blood in the courtyard.” “Good gracious,” shesays, “How ridiculous. I expect, you know,” she says, “it must have beenone of the pigeons.” And then she says: “I’m sorry if it gave you a turn.

Forget about it,” and she slipped me a five pound note. Five pound note,no less! Well, naturally, I didn’t open my mouth after that.’

“And then, after another whisky, he comes out with some more. ‘If youask me, she took a potshot at that low class young chap that comes to seeher. I think she and he had a row and she did her best to shoot him. That’swhat I think. But least said soonest mended, so I’m not repeating it. If any-one asks me anything I’ll say I don’t know what they’re talking about.’”

Mr. Goby paused.

“Interesting,” said Poirot.

“Yes, but it’s as likely as not that it’s a pack of lies. Nobody else seems toknow anything about it. There’s a story about a gang of young thugs whocame barging into the courtyard one night, and had a bit of a fight—flick-knives out and all that.”

“I see,” said Poirot. “Another possible source of blood in the courtyard.”

“Maybe the girl did have a row with her young man, threatened to shoothim, perhaps. And Micky overheard it and mixed the whole thing up—es-pecially if there was a car backfiring just then.”

“Yes,” said Hercule Poirot, and sighed, “that would account for thingsquite well.”

Mr. Goby turned over another leaf of his notebook and selected his con-fidant. He chose an electric radiator.

“Joshua Restarick Ltd. Family firm. Been going over a hundred years.

Well thought of in the City. Always very sound. Nothing spectacular. Foun-ded by Joshua Restarick in 1850. Launched out after the first war, withgreatly increased investments abroad, mostly South Africa, West Africaand Australia. Simon and Andrew Restarick—the last of the Restaricks. Si-mon, the elder brother, died about a year ago, no children. His wife haddied some years previously. Andrew Restarick seems to have been a rest-less chap. His heart was never really in the business though everyone sayshe had plenty of ability. Finally ran off with some woman, leaving his wifeand a daughter of five years old. Went to South Africa, Kenya, and variousother places. No divorce. His wife died two years ago. Had been an invalidfor some time. He travelled about a lot, and wherever he went he seems tohave made money. Concessions for minerals mostly. Everything hetouched prospered.

“After his brother’s death, he seems to have decided it was time to settledown. He’d married again and he thought the right thing to do was tocome back and make a home for his daughter. They’re living at the mo-ment with his uncle Sir Roderick Horsefield—uncle by marriage that is.

That’s only temporary. His wife’s looking at houses all over London. Ex-pense no object. They’re rolling in money.”

Poirot sighed. “I know,” he said. “What you outline to me is a successstory! Everyone makes money! Everybody is of good family and highly re-spected. Their relations are distinguished. They are well thought of inbusiness circles.

“There is only one cloud in the sky. A girl who is said to be ‘a bit want-ing,’ a girl who is mixed up with a dubious boyfriend who has been onprobation more than once. A girl who may quite possibly have tried topoison her stepmother, and who either suffers from hallucinations, or elsehas committed a crime! I tell you, none of that accords well with the suc-cess 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 thewoman 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. Gobyshut his notebook and looked inquiringly at Poirot. “Anything more youwant 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 ofnursing 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 andlowered 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 care-ful.”

“Careful of what?” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Of yourself. I think there might be danger. Danger to anyone who goespoking about where they are not wanted. There is murder in the air—I donot 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 andgossip, 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-fashioneddetective story. The Stain on the Staircase. I mean nowadays you say some-thing more like She Asked for Death.”

“Perhaps there may not have been blood in the courtyard. Perhaps it isonly what an imaginative, Irish porter imagined.”

“Probably an upset milk bottle,” said Mrs. Oliver. “He couldn’t see it atnight. What happened?”

Poirot did not answer directly.

“The girl thought she ‘might have committed a murder.’ Was that themurder she meant?”

“You mean she did shoot someone?”

“One might presume that she did shoot at someone, but for all intentsand 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 anyonecould still run out of a courtyard, you wouldn’t think you’d killed him,would you?”

“C’est difficile,” said Poirot, and rang off.