Eleven

IAndrew Restarick was writing a cheque—he made a slight grimace as hedid so.

His office was large and handsomely furnished in typical conventionaltycoon fashion—the furnishing and fittings had been Simon Restarick’sand Andrew Restarick had accepted them without interest and had madefew changes except for removing a couple of pictures and replacing themby his own portrait which he had brought up from the country, and a wa-tercolour of Table Mountain.

Andrew Restarick was a man of middle age, beginning to put on flesh,yet strangely little changed from the man some fifteen years younger inthe picture hanging above him. There was the same jutting out chin, thelips firmly pressed together, and the slightly raised quizzical eyebrows.

Not a very noticeable man—an ordinary type and at the moment not avery happy man. His secretary entered the room—she advanced towardshis desk, as he looked up.

“A Monsieur Hercule Poirot is here. He insists that he has an appoint-ment with you—but I can find no trace of one.”

“A Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” The name seemed vaguely familiar, buthe could not remember in what context. He shook his head—“I can’t re-member anything about him—though I seem to have heard the name.

What does he look like?”

“A very small man—foreign—French I should say—with an enormousmoustache—”

“Of course! I remember Mary describing him. He came to see old Roddy.

But what’s all this about an appointment with me?”

“He says you wrote him a letter.”

“Can’t remember it—even if I did. Perhaps Mary—Oh well, never mind—bring him in. I suppose I’d better see what this is all about.”

A moment or two later Claudia Reece-Holland returned ushering withher a small man with an egg-shaped head, large moustaches, pointed pat-ent leather shoes and a general air of complacency which accorded verywell with the description he had had from his wife.

“Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” said Claudia Reece-Holland.

She went out again as Hercule Poirot advanced towards the desk. Re-starick rose.

“Monsieur Restarick? I am Hercule Poirot, at your service.”

“Oh yes. My wife mentioned that you’d called upon us or rather calledupon my uncle. What can I do for you?”

“I have presented myself in answer to your letter.”

“What letter? I did not write to you, M. Poirot.”

Poirot stared at him. Then he drew from his pocket a letter, unfolded it,glanced at it and handed it across the desk with a bow.

“See for yourself, Monsieur.”

Restarick stared at it. It was typewritten on his own office stationery.

His signature was written in ink at the bottom.

Dear Monsieur Poirot,

I should be very glad if you could call upon me at the above address at yourearliest convenience. I understand from what my wife tells me and also fromwhat I have learned by making various inquiries in London, that you are aman to be trusted when you agree to accept a mission that demands discre-tion.

Yours truly,

Andrew Restarick

He said sharply:

“When did you receive this?”

“This morning. I had no matters of moment on my hands so I camealong here.”

“This is an extraordinary thing, M. Poirot. That letter was not written byme.”

“Not written by you?”

“No. My signature is quite different—look for yourself.” He cast out ahand as though looking for some example of his handwriting and withoutconscious thought turned the cheque book on which he had just writtenhis signature, so that Poirot could see it. “You see? The signature on theletter is not in the least like mine.”

“But that is extraordinary,” said Poirot. “Absolutely extraordinary. Whocould have written this letter?”

“That’s just what I’m asking myself.”

“It could not—excuse me—have been your wife?”

“No, no. Mary would never do a thing like that. And anyway why shouldshe sign it with my name? Oh no, she would have told me if she’d donesuch a thing, prepared me for your visit.”

“Then you have no idea why anyone might have sent this letter?”

“No, indeed.”

“Have you no knowledge, Mr. Restarick, as to what the matter might beon which in this letter you apparently want to engage me?”

“How could I have an idea?”

“Excuse me,” said Poirot, “you have not yet completely read this letter.

You will notice at the bottom of the first page after the signature, there is asmall p.t.o.”

Restarick turned the letter over. At the top of the next page the typewrit-ing continued.

The matter on which I wish to consult you concerns my daughter, Norma.

Restarick’s manner changed. His face darkened.

“So, that’s it! But who could know—who could possibly meddle in thismatter? Who knows about it?”

“Could it be a way of urging you to consult me? Some well-meaningfriend? You have really no idea who the writer may have been?”

“I’ve no idea whatever.”

“And you are not in trouble over a daughter of yours — a daughternamed Norma?”

Restarick said slowly:

“I have a daughter named Norma. My only daughter.” His voice changedslightly as he said the last words.

“And she is in trouble, difficulty of some kind?”

“Not that I know of.” But he hesitated slightly as he spoke the words.

Poirot leaned forward.

“I don’t think that is exactly right, Mr. Restarick. I think there is sometrouble or difficulty concerning your daughter.”

“Why should you think that? Has someone spoken to you on the sub-ject?”

“I was going entirely by your intonation, Monsieur. Many people,” ad-ded Hercule Poirot, “are in trouble over daughters at the present date.

They have a genius, young ladies, for getting into various kinds of troubleand difficulty. It is possible that the same obtains here.”

Restarick was silent for some few moments, drumming with his fingerson the desk.

“Yes, I am worried about Norma,” he said at last. “She is a difficult girl.

Neurotic, inclined to be hysterical. I—unfortunately I don’t know her verywell.”

“Trouble, no doubt, over a young man?”

“In a way, yes, but that is not entirely what is worrying me. I think—” helooked appraisingly at Poirot. “Am I to take it that you are a man of discre-tion?”

“I should be very little good in my profession if I were not.”

“It is a case, you see, of wanting my daughter found.”

“Ah?”

“She came home last weekend as she usually does to our house in thecountry. She went back on Sunday night ostensibly to the flat which sheoccupies in common with two other girls, but I now find that she did notgo there. She must have gone—somewhere else.”

“In fact, she has disappeared?”

“It sounds too much of a melodramatic statement, but it does amount tothat. I expect there’s a perfectly natural explanation, but—well, I supposeany father would be worried. She hasn’t rung up, you see, or given any ex-planation to the girls with whom she shares her flat.”

“They too are worried?”

“No, I should not say so. I think—well, I think they take such things eas-ily enough. Girls are very independent. More so than when I left En glandfifteen years ago.”

“What about the young man of whom you say you do not approve? Canshe have gone away with him?”

“I devoutly hope not. It’s possible, but I don’t—my wife doesn’t think so.

You saw him, I believe, the day you came to our house to call on my uncle—”

“Ah yes, I think I know the young man of whom you speak. A very hand-some young man but not, if I may say so, a man of whom a father wouldapprove. I noticed that your wife was not pleased, either.”

“My wife is quite certain that he came to the house that day hoping toescape observation.”

“He knows, perhaps, that he is not welcome there?”

“He knows all right,” said Restarick grimly.

“Do you not then think that it is only too likely your daughter may havejoined him?”

“I don’t know what to think. I didn’t—at first.”

“You have been to the police.”

“No.”

“In the case of anyone who is missing, it is usually much better to go tothe police. They too are discreet and they have many means at their dis-posal which persons like myself have not.”

“I don’t want to go to the police. It’s my daughter, man, you understand?

My daughter. If she’s chosen to—to go away for a short time and not let usknow, well, that’s up to her. There’s no reason to believe that she’s in anydanger or anything like that. I—I just want to know for my own satisfac-tion where she is.”

“Is it possible, Mr. Restarick—I hope I am not unduly presuming, thatthat is not the only thing that is worrying you about your daughter?”

“Why should you think there was anything else?”

“Because the mere fact that a girl is absent for a few days without tellingher parents, or the friends with whom she is living, where she is going, isnot particularly unusual nowadays. It is that, taken in conjunction withsomething else, I think, which has caused you this alarm.”

“Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s—” he looked doubtfully at Poirot. “It isvery hard to speak of these things to strangers.”

“Not really,” said Poirot. “It is infinitely easier to speak to strangers ofsuch things than it would be to speak of them to friends or acquaintances.

Surely you must agree to that?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps. I can see what you mean. Well, I will admit I am up-set about my girl. You see she—she’s not quite like other girls and there’sbeen something already that has definitely worried me—worried us both.”

Poirot said: “Your daughter, perhaps, is at that difficult age of young girl-hood, an emotional adolescence when, quite frankly, they are capable ofperforming actions for which they are hardly to be held responsible. Donot take it amiss if I venture to make a surmise. Your daughter perhaps re-sents having a stepmother?”

“That is unfortunately true. And yet she has no reason to do so, M.

Poirot. It is not as though my first wife and I had recently parted. The part-ing took place many years ago.” He paused and then said, “I might as wellspeak frankly to you. After all, there has been no concealment about thematter. My first wife and I drifted apart. I need not mince matters. I hadmet someone else, someone with whom I was quite infatuated. I left Eng-land and went to South Africa with the other woman. My wife did not ap-prove of divorce and I did not ask her for one. I made suitable financialprovision for my wife and for the child—she was only five years old at thetime—”

He paused and then went on:

“Looking back, I can see that I had been dissatisfied with life for sometime. I’d been yearning to travel. At that period of my life I hated beingtied down to an office desk. My brother reproached me several times withnot taking more interest in the family business, now that I had come inwith him. He said that I was not pulling my weight. But I didn’t want thatsort of life. I was restless. I wanted an adventurous life. I wanted to see theworld and wild places….”

He broke off abruptly.

“Anyway—you don’t want to hear the story of my life. I went to SouthAfrica and Louise went with me. It wasn’t a success. I’ll admit thatstraightaway. I was in love with her but we quarrelled incessantly. Shehated life in South Africa. She wanted to get back to London and Paris—allthe sophisticated places. We parted only about a year after we arrivedthere.”

He sighed.

“Perhaps I ought to have gone back then, back to the tame life that I dis-liked the idea of so much. But I didn’t. I don’t know whether my wifewould have had me back or not. Probably she would have considered ither duty to do so. She was a great woman for doing her duty.”

Poirot noted the slight bitterness that ran through that sentence.

“But I ought to have thought more about Norma, I suppose. Well, there itwas. The child was safely with her mother. Financial arrangements hadbeen made. I wrote to her occasionally and sent her presents, but I neveronce thought of going back to En gland and seeing her. That was not en-tirely blameworthy on my part. I had adopted a different way of life and Ithought it would be merely unsettling for the child to have a father whocame and went, and perhaps disturbed her own peace of mind. Anyway,let’s say I thought I was acting for the best.”

Restarick’s words came fast now. It was as though he was feeling a def-inite solace in being able to pour out his story to a sympathetic listener. Itwas a reaction that Poirot had often noticed before and he encouraged it.

“You never wished to come home on your own account?”

Restarick shook his head very definitely. “No. You see, I was living thekind of life I liked, the kind of life I was meant for. I went from SouthAfrica to East Africa. I was doing very well financially, everything Itouched seemed to prosper; projects with which I was associated, occa-sionally with other people, sometimes on my own, all went well. I used togo off into the bush and trek. That was the life I’d always wanted. I am bynature an out-of-door man. Perhaps that’s why when I was married to myfirst wife I felt trapped, held down. No, I enjoyed my freedom and I’d nowish to go back to the conventional type of life that I’d led here.”

“But you did come back in the end?”

Restarick sighed. “Yes. I did come back. Ah well, one grows old, I sup-pose. Also, another man and I had made a very good strike. We’d secureda concession which might have very important consequences. It wouldneed negotiation in London. There I could have depended on my brotherto act, but my brother died. I was still a partner in the firm. I could returnif I chose and see to things myself. It was the first time I had thought of do-ing so. Of returning, I mean, to City life.”

“Perhaps your wife—your second wife—”

“Yes, you may have something there. I had been married to Mary just amonth or two when my brother died. Mary was born in South Africa butshe had been to England several times and she liked the life there. Sheliked particularly the idea of having an English garden!

“And I? Well, for the first time perhaps I felt I would like life in England,too. And I thought of Norma as well. Her mother had died two yearsearlier. I talked to Mary about it all, and she was quite willing to help memake a home for my daughter. The prospects all seemed good and so—”

he smiled, “—and so I came home.”

Poirot looked at the portrait that hung behind Restarick’s head. It was ina better light here than it had been at the house in the country. It showedvery plainly the man who was sitting at the desk; there were the distinct-ive features, the obstinancy of the chin, the quizzical eyebrows, the poiseof the head, but the portrait had one thing that the man sitting in the chairbeneath it lacked. Youth!

Another thought occurred to Poirot. Why had Andrew Restarick movedthe portrait from the country to his London office? The two portraits ofhim and his wife had been companion portraits done at the same time andby that particular fashionable artist of the day whose speciality was por-trait painting. It would have been more natural, Poirot thought, to haveleft them together, as they had been meant to be originally. But Restarickhad moved one portrait, his own, to his office. Was it a kind of vanity onhis part—a wish to display himself as a City man, as someone important tothe City? Yet he was a man who had spent his time in wild places, whoprofessed to prefer wild places. Or did he perhaps do it in order to keepbefore his mind himself in his City personality? Did he feel the need of re-inforcement?

“Or, of course,” thought Poirot, “it could be simple vanity!

“Even I myself,” said Poirot to himself, in an unusual fit of modesty,“even I myself am capable of vanity on occasions.”

The short silence, of which both men had seemed unaware, was broken.

Restarick spoke apologetically.

“You must forgive me, M. Poirot. I seem to have been boring you withthe story of my life.”

“There is nothing to excuse, Mr. Restarick. You have been talking reallyonly of your life as it may have affected that of your daughter. You aremuch disquieted about your daughter. But I do not think that you have yettold me the real reason. You want her found, you say?”

“Yes, I want her found.”

“You want her found, yes, but do you want her found by me? Ah, do nothesitate. La politesse—it is very necessary in life, but it is not necessaryhere. Listen. I tell you, if you want your daughter found I advise you, I—Hercule Poirot—to go to the police for they have the facilities. And frommy own knowledge they can be discreet.”

“I won’t go to the police unless—well, unless I get very desperate.”

“You would rather go to a private agent?”

“Yes. But you see, I don’t know anything about private agents. I don’tknow who—who can be trusted. I don’t know who—”

“And what do you know about me?”

“I do know something about you. I know, for instance, that you held aresponsible position in Intelligence during the war, since, in fact, my ownuncle vouches for you. That is an admitted fact.”

The faintly cynical expression on Poirot’s face was not perceived by Re-starick. The admitted fact was, as Poirot was well aware, a complete illu-sion—although Restarick must have known how undependable Sir Roder-ick was in the matter of memory and eyesight—he had swallowed Poirot’sown account of himself, hook, line and sinker. Poirot did not disillusionhim. It merely confirmed him in his long-held belief that you should neverbelieve anything anyone said without first checking it. Suspect everybody,had been for many years, if not his whole life, one of his first axioms.

“Let me reassure you,” said Poirot. “I have been throughout my careerexceptionally successful. I have been indeed in many ways unequalled.”

Restarick looked less reassured by this than he might have been! Indeed,to an Englishman, a man who praised himself in such terms aroused somemisgivings.

He said: “What do you feel yourself, M. Poirot? Have you confidence thatyou can find my daughter?”

“Probably not as quickly as the police could do, but yes. I shall find her.”

“And—and if you do—”

“But if you wish me to find her, Mr. Restarick, you must tell me all thecircumstances.”

“But I have told them to you. The time, the place, where she ought to be.

I can give you a list of her friends….”

Poirot was making some violent shakings of his head. “No, no, I suggestyou tell me the truth.”

“Do you suggest I haven’t told you the truth?”

“You have not told me all of it. Of that I am assured. What are you afraidof? What are the unknown facts—the facts that I have to know if I am tohave success? Your daughter dislikes her stepmother. That is plain. Thereis nothing strange about that. It is a very natural reaction. You must re-member that she may have secretly idealised you for many many years.

That is quite possible in the case of a broken marriage where a child hashad a severe blow in her affections. Yes, yes, I know what I am talkingabout. You say a child forgets. That is true. Your daughter could have for-gotten you in the sense that when she saw you again she might not re-member your face or your voice. She would make her own image of you.

You went away. She wanted you to come back. Her mother, no doubt, dis-couraged her from talking about you, and therefore she thought about youperhaps all the more. You mattered to her all the more. And because shecould not talk about you to her own mother she had what is a very naturalreaction with a child—the blaming of the parent who remains for the ab-sence of the parent who has gone. She said to herself something in thenature of ‘Father was fond of me. It’s Mother he didn’t like,’ and from thatwas born a kind of idealisation, a kind of secret liaison between you andher. What had happened was not her father’s fault. She will not believe it!

“Oh yes, that often happens, I assure you. I know something of the psy-chology. So when she learns that you are coming home, that you and shewill be reunited, many memories that she has pushed aside and notthought of for years return. Her father is coming back! He and she will behappy together! She hardly realises the stepmother, perhaps, until shesees her. And then she is violently jealous. It is most natural, I assure you.

She is violently jealous partly because your wife is a good-looking woman,sophisticated, and well poised, which is a thing girls often resent becausethey frequently lack confidence in themselves. She herself is possiblygauche with perhaps an inferiority complex. So when she sees her com-petent and good- looking stepmother, quite possibly she hates her; buthates her as an adolescent girl who is still half a child might do.”

“Well—” Restarick hesitated. “That is more or less what the doctor saidwhen we consulted him—I mean—”

“Aha,” said Poirot, “so you consulted a doctor? You must have had somereason, is it not so, for calling in a doctor?”

“Nothing really.”

“Ah no, you cannot say that to Hercule Poirot. It was not nothing. It wassomething serious and you had better tell me, because if I know just whathas been in this girl’s mind, I shall make more progress. Things will goquicker.”

Restarick was silent for several moments, then he made up his mind.

“This is in absolute confidence, M. Poirot? I can rely on you—I have yourassurance as to that?”

“By all means. What was the trouble?”

“I cannot be—be sure.”

“Your daughter entered into some action against your wife? Somethingmore than being merely childishly rude or saying unpleasant things. Itwas something worse than that—something more serious. Did she per-haps attack her physically?”

“No, it was not an attack — not a physical attack but — nothing wasproved.”

“No, no. We will admit that.”

“My wife became far from well—” He hesitated.

“Ah,” said Poirot. “Yes, I see…And what was the nature of her illness? Di-gestive, possibly? A form of enteritis?”

“You’re quick, M. Poirot. You’re very quick. Yes, it was digestive. Thiscomplaint of my wife’s was puzzling, because she had always had excel-lent health. Finally they sent her to hospital for ‘observation,’ as they callit. A check-up.”

“And the result?”

“I don’t think they were completely satisfied…She appeared to regainher health completely and was sent home in due course. But the troublerecurred. We went carefully over the meals she had, the cooking. Sheseemed to be suffering from a form of intestinal poisoning for which thereappeared to be no cause. A further step was taken, tests were made of thedishes she ate. By taking samples of everything, it was definitely provedthat a certain substance had been administered in various dishes. In eachcase it was a dish of which only my wife had partaken.”

“In plain language somebody was giving her arsenic. Is that right?”

“Quite right. In small doses which would in the end have a cumulativeeffect.”

“You suspected your daughter?”

“No.”

“I think you did. Who else could have done it? You suspected yourdaughter.”

Restarick gave a deep sigh.

“Frankly, yes.”