Thirteen

Poirot seldom used the key to his flat. Instead, in an old-fashioned man-ner, he pressed the bell and waited for that admirable factotum, George, toopen the door. On this occasion, however, after his visit to the hospital, thedoor was opened to him by Miss Lemon.

“You’ve got two visitors,” said Miss Lemon, pitching her voice in an ad-mirable tone, not as carrying as a whisper but a good many notes lowerthan her usual pitch. “One’s Mr. Goby and the other is an old gentlemancalled Sir Roderick Horsefield. I don’t know which you want to see first.”

“Sir Roderick Horsefield,” mused Poirot. He considered this with hishead on one side, looking rather like a robin while he decided how thislatest development was likely to affect the general picture. Mr. Goby, how-ever, materialised with his usual suddenness from the small room whichwas sacred to Miss Lemon’s typewriting and where she had evidently kepthim in storage.

Poirot removed his overcoat. Miss Lemon hung it up on the hall stand,and Mr. Goby, as was his fashion, addressed the back of Miss Lemon’shead.

“I’ll have a cup of tea in the kitchen with George,” said Mr. Goby. “Mytime is my own. I’ll keep.”

He disappeared obligingly into the kitchen. Poirot went into his sittingroom where Sir Roderick was pacing up and down full of vitality.

“Run you down, my boy,” he said genially. “Wonderful thing the tele-phone.”

“You remembered my name? I am gratified.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly remember your name,” said Sir Roderick. “Names,you know, have never been my strong point. Never forget a face,” heended proudly. “No. I rang up Scotland Yard.”

“Oh!” Poirot looked faintly startled, though reflecting that that was thesort of thing that Sir Roderick would do.

“Asked me who I wanted to speak to. I said, put me on to the top. That’sthe thing to do in life, my boy. Never accept second in charge. No good. Goto the top, that’s what I say. I said who I was, mind you. Said I wanted tospeak to the top brass and I got on to it in the end. Very civil fellow. Toldhim I wanted the address of a chap in Allied Intelligence who was out withme at a certain place in France at a certain date. The chap seemed a bit atsea, so I said: ‘You know who I mean.’ A Frenchman, I said, or a Belgian.

Belgian, weren’t you? I said: ‘He’s got a Christian name something likeAchilles. It’s not Achilles,’ I said, ‘but it’s like Achilles. Little chap,’ I said,‘big moustaches.’ And then he seemed to catch on, and he said you’d be inthe telephone book, he thought. I said that’s all right, but I said: ‘He won’tbe listed under Achilles or Hercules (as he said it was), will he? and I can’tremember his second name.’ So then he gave it me. Very civil sort of fel-low. Very civil, I must say.”

“I am delighted to see you,” said Poirot, sparing a hurried thought forwhat might be said to him later by Sir Roderick’s telephone acquaintance.

Fortunately it was not likely to have been quite the top brass. It was pre-sumably someone with whom he was already acquainted, and whose jobit was to produce civility on tap for distinguished persons of a bygone day.

“Anyway,” said Sir Roderick, “I got here.”

“I am delighted. Let me offer you some refreshment. Tea, a grenadine, awhisky and soda, some sirop de cassis—”

“Good lord, no,” said Sir Roderick, alarmed at the mention of sirop decassis. “I’ll take whisky for choice. Not that I’m allowed it,” he added, “butdoctors are all fools, as we know. All they care for is stopping you havinganything you’ve a fancy for.”

Poirot rang for George and gave him the proper instructions. Thewhisky and the siphon were placed at Sir Roderick’s elbow and Georgewithdrew.

“Now,” said Poirot, “what can I do for you?”

“Got a job for you, old boy.”

After the lapse of time, he seemed even more convinced of the close li-aison between him and Poirot in the past, which was as well, thoughtPoirot, since it would produce an even greater dependence on his, Poirot’s,capabilities by Sir Roderick’s nephew.

“Papers,” said Sir Roderick, dropping his voice. “Lost some papers andI’ve got to find ’em, see? So I thought what with my eyes not being as goodas they were, and the memory being a trifle off-key sometimes, I’d bettergo to someone in the know. See? You came along in the nick of time theother day, just in time to be useful, because I’ve got to cough ’em up, youunderstand.”

“It sounds most interesting,” said Poirot. “What are these papers, if Imay ask?”

“Well, I suppose if you’re going to find them, you’ll have to ask, won’tyou? Mind you, they’re very secret and confidential. Top secret—or theywere once. And it seems as though they are going to be again. An inter-change of letters, it was. Not of any particular importance at the time—orit was thought they were of no importance; but then of course politicschange. You know the way it is. They go round and face the other way.

You know how it was when the war broke out. None of us knew whetherwe were on our head or on our heels. One war we’re pals with the Italians,next war we’re enemies. I don’t know which of them all was the worst.

First war the Japanese were our dear allies, and the next war there theyare blowing up Pearl Harbor! Never knew where you were! Start one waywith the Russians, and finish the opposite way. I tell you, Poirot, nothing’smore difficult nowadays than the question of allies. They can changeovernight.”

“And you have lost some papers,” said Poirot, recalling the old man tothe subject of his visit.

“Yes. I’ve got a lot of papers, you know, and I’ve dug ’em out lately. I had’em put away safely. In a bank, as a matter of fact, but I got ’em all out andI began sorting through them because I thought why not write my mem-oirs. All the chaps are doing it nowadays. We’ve had Montgomery andAlanbrooke and Auchinleck all shooting their mouths off in print, mostlysaying what they thought of the other generals. We’ve even had oldMoran, a respectable physician, blabbing about his important patient.

Don’t know what things will come to next! Anyway, there it is, and Ithought I’d be quite interested myself in telling a few facts about somepeople I knew! Why shouldn’t I have a go as well as everyone else? I wasin it all.”

“I am sure it could be a matter of much interest to people,” said Poirot.

“Ah-ha, yes! One knew a lot of people in the news. Everyone looked atthem with awe. They didn’t know they were complete fools, but I knew.

My goodness, the mistakes some of those brass hats made—you’d be sur-prised. So I got out my papers, and I had the little girl help me sort ’em out.

Nice little girl, that, and quite bright. Doesn’t know English very well, butapart from that, she’s very bright and helpful. I’d salted away a lot of stuff,but everything was in a bit of a muddle. The point of the whole thing is,the papers I wanted weren’t there.”

“Weren’t there?”

“No. We thought we’d given it a miss by mistake to begin with, but wewent over it again and I can tell you, Poirot, a lot of stuff seemed to me tohave been pinched. Some of it wasn’t important. Actually, the stuff I waslooking for wasn’t particularly important—I mean, nobody had thought itwas, otherwise I suppose I shouldn’t have been allowed to keep it. Butanyway, these particular letters weren’t there.”

“I wish of course to be discreet,” said Poirot, “but can you tell me at allthe nature of these letters you refer to?”

“Don’t know that I can, old boy. The nearest I can go is of somebodywho’s shooting off his mouth nowadays about what he did and what hesaid in the past. But he’s not speaking the truth, and these letters just showexactly how much of a liar he is! Mind you, I don’t suppose they’d be pub-lished now. We’ll just send him nice copies of them, and tell him this is ex-actly what he did say at the time, and that we’ve got it in writing. Ishouldn’t be surprised if—well, things went a bit differently after that.

See? I hardly need ask that, need I? You’re familiar with all that kind oftalky-talky.”

“You’re quite right, Sir Roderick. I know exactly the kind of thing youmean, but you see also that it is not easy to help you recover something ifone does not know what that something is, and where it is likely to benow.”

“First things first: I want to know who pinched ’em, because you seethat’s the important point. There may be more top secret stuff in my littlecollection, and I want to know who’s tampering with it.”

“Have you any ideas yourself?”

“You think I ought to have, heh?”

“Well, it would seem that the principal possibility—”

“I know. You want me to say it’s the little girl. Well, I don’t think it is thelittle girl. She says she didn’t, and I believe her. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Poirot with a slight sigh, “I understand.”

“For one thing she’s too young. She wouldn’t know these things were im-portant. It’s before her time.”

“Someone else might have instructed her as to that,” Poirot pointed out.

“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. But it’s too obvious as well.”

Poirot sighed. He doubted if it was any use insisting in view of Sir Roder-ick’s obvious partiality. “Who else had access?”

“Andrew and Mary, of course, but I doubt if Andrew would even be in-terested in such things. Anyway, he’s always been a very decent boy. Al-ways was. Not that I’ve ever known him very well. Used to come for theholidays once or twice with his brother and that’s about all. Of course, heditched his wife, and went off with an attractive bit of goods to SouthAfrica, but that might happen to any man, especially with a wife likeGrace. Not that I ever saw much of her, either. Kind of woman who lookeddown her nose and was full of good works. Anyway you can’t imagine achap like Andrew being a spy. As for Mary, she seems all right. Neverlooks at anything but a rose bush as far as I can make out. There’s agardener but he’s eighty-three and has lived in the village all his life, andthere are a couple of women always dodging about the house making anoise with Hoovers, but I can’t see them in the role of spies either. So yousee it’s got to be an outsider. Of course Mary wears a wig,” went on Sir Ro-derick rather inconsequently. “I mean it might make you think she was aspy because she wore a wig, but that’s not the case. She lost her hair in afever when she was eighteen. Pretty bad luck for a young woman. I’d noidea she wore a wig to begin with but a rose bush caught in her hair oneday and whisked it sideways. Yes, very bad luck.”

“I thought there was something a little odd about the way she had ar-ranged her hair,” said Poirot.

“Anyway, the best secret agents never wear wigs,” Sir Roderick in-formed him. “Poor devils have to go to plastic surgeons and get their facesaltered. But someone’s been mucking about with my private papers.”

“You don’t think that you may perhaps have placed them in some differ-ent container—in a drawer or a different file. When did you see themlast?”

“I handled these things about a year ago. I remember I thought then,they’d make rather good copy, and I noted those particular letters. Nowthey’re gone. Somebody’s taken them.”

“You do not suspect your nephew Andrew, his wife or the domesticstaff. What about the daughter?”

“Norma? Well Norma’s a bit off her onion, I’d say. I mean she might beone of those kleptomaniacs who take people’s things without knowingthey’re taking them but I don’t see her fumbling about among my papers.”

“Then what do you think?”

“Well, you’ve been in the house. You saw what the house is like. Anyonecan walk in and out anytime they like. We don’t lock our doors. We neverhave.”

“Do you lock the door of your own room—if you go up to London, for in-stance?”

“I never thought of it as necessary. I do now of course, but what’s theuse of that? Too late. Anyway, I’ve only an ordinary key, fits any of thedoors. Someone must have come in from outside. Why nowadays that’show all the burglaries take place. People walk in in the middle of the day,stump up the stairs, go into any room they like, rifle the jewel box, go outagain, and nobody sees them or cares who they are. They probably looklike mods or rockers or beatniks or whatever they call these chapsnowadays with the long hair and the dirty nails. I’ve seen more than oneof them prowling about. One doesn’t like to say ‘Who the devil are you?’

You never know which sex they are, which is embarrassing. The placecrawls with them. I suppose they’re Norma’s friends. Wouldn’t have beenallowed in the old days. But you turn them out of the house, and then youfind out it’s Viscount Endersleigh or Lady Charlotte Marjoribanks. Don’tknow where you are nowadays.” He paused. “If anyone can get to the bot-tom of it, you can, Poirot.” He swallowed the last mouthful of whisky andgot up.

“Well, that’s that. It’s up to you. You’ll take it on, won’t you?”

“I will do my best,” said Poirot.

The front-door bell rang.

“That’s the little girl,” said Sir Roderick. “Punctual to the minute. Won-derful, isn’t it? Couldn’t go about London without her, you know. Blind asa bat. Can’t see to cross the road.”

“Can you not have glasses?”

“I’ve got some somewhere, but they’re always falling off my nose or elseI lose them. Besides, I don’t like glasses. I’ve never had glasses. When I wassixty-five I could see to read without glasses and that’s pretty good.”

“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot, “lasts forever.”

George ushered in Sonia. She was looking extremely pretty. Her slightlyshy manner became her very well, Poirot thought. He moved forwardwith Gallic empressement.

“Enchanté, Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing over her hand.

“I’m not late, am I, Sir Roderick,” she said, looking past him. “I have notkept you waiting. Please I hope not.”

“Exactly to the minute, little girl,” said Sir Roderick. “All shipshape andBristol fashion,” he added.

Sonia looked slightly perplexed.

“Made a good tea, I hope,” Sir Roderick went on. “I told you, you know,to have a good tea, buy yourself some buns or éclairs or whatever it isyoung ladies like nowadays, eh? You obeyed orders, I hope.”

“No, not exactly. I took the time to buy a pair of shoes. Look, they arepretty, are they not?” She stuck out a foot.

It was certainly a very pretty foot. Sir Roderick beamed at it.

“Well, we must go and catch our train,” he said. “I may be old-fashionedbut I’m all for trains. Start to time and get there on time, or they shoulddo. But these cars, they get in a queue in the rush hour and you may idlethe time away for about an hour and a half more than you need. Cars!

Pah!”

“Shall I ask Georges to get you a taxi?” asked Hercule Poirot. “It will beno trouble, I assure you.”

“I have a taxi already waiting,” said Sonia.

“There you are,” said Sir Roderick, “you see, she thinks of everything.”

He patted her on the shoulder. She looked at him in a way that HerculePoirot fully appreciated.

Poirot accompanied them to the hall door and took a polite leave ofthem. Mr. Goby had come out of the kitchen and was standing in the hallgiving, it could be said, an excellent performance of a man who had cometo see about the gas.

George shut the hall door as soon as they had disappeared into the lift,and turned to meet Poirot’s gaze.

“And what is your opinion of that young lady, Georges, may I ask?” saidPoirot. On certain points he always said George was infallible.

“Well, sir,” said George, “if I might put it that way, if you’ll allow me, Iwould say he’d got it badly, sir. All over her as you might say.”

“I think you are right,” said Hercule Poirot.

“It’s not unusual of course with gentlemen of that age. I remember LordMountbryan. He’d had a lot of experience in his life and you’d say he wasas fly as anyone. But you’d be surprised. A young woman as came to givehim massage. You’d be surprised at what he gave her. An evening frock,and a pretty bracelet. Forget-me-nots, it was. Turquoise and diamonds.

Not too expensive but costing quite a pretty penny all the same. Then a furwrap—not mink, Russian ermine, and a petty point evening bag. After thather brother got into trouble, debt or something, though whether she everhad a brother I sometimes wondered. Lord Mountbryan gave her themoney to square it—she was so upset about it! All platonic, mind you, too.

Gentlemen seem to lose their sense that way when they get to that age. It’sthe clinging ones they go for, not the bold type.”

“I have no doubt that you are quite right, Georges,” said Poirot. “It is allthe same not a complete answer to my question. I asked what you thoughtof the young lady.”

“Oh, the young lady…Well, sir, I wouldn’t like to say definitely, but she’squite a definite type. There’s never anything that you could put your fin-ger on. But they know what they’re doing, I’d say.”

Poirot entered his sitting room and Mr. Goby followed him, obeyingPoirot’s gesture. Mr. Goby sat down on an upright chair in his usual atti-tude. Knees together, toes turned in. He took a rather dog-eared little note-book from his pocket, opened it carefully and then proceeded to surveythe soda water siphon severely.

“Re the backgrounds you asked me to look up.

“Restarick family, perfectly respectable and of good standing. No scan-dal. The father, James Patrick Restarick, said to be a sharp man over a bar-gain. Business has been in the family three generations. Grandfather foun-ded it, father enlarged it, Simon Restarick kept it going. Simon Restarickhad coronary trouble two years ago, health declined. Died of coronarythrombosis, about a year ago.

“Young brother Andrew Restarick came into the business soon after hecame down from Oxford, married Miss Grace Baldwin. One daughter,Norma. Left his wife and went out to South Africa. A Miss Birell went withhim. No divorce proceedings. Mrs. Andrew Restarick died two and a halfyears ago. Had been an invalid for some time. Miss Norma Restarick was aboarder at Meadowfield Girls’ School. Nothing against her.”

Allowing his eyes to sweep across Hercule Poirot’s face, Mr. Goby ob-served, “In fact everything about the family seems quite OK and accordingto Cocker.”

“No black sheep, no mental instability?”

“It doesn’t appear so.”

“Disappointing,” said Poirot.

Mr. Goby let this pass. He cleared his throat, licked his finger, andturned over a leaf of his little book.

“David Baker. Unsatisfactory record. Been on probation twice. Policeare inclined to be interested in him. He’s been on the fringe of severalrather dubious affairs, thought to have been concerned in an importantart robbery but no proof. He’s one of the arty lot. No particular means ofsubsistence but he does quite well. Prefers girls with money. Not aboveliving on some of the girls who are keen on him. Not above being paid offby their fathers either. Thorough bad lot if you ask me but enough brainsto keep himself out of trouble.”

Mr. Goby shot a sudden glance at Poirot.

“You met him?”

“Yes,” said Poirot.

“What conclusions did you form, if I may ask?”

“The same as you,” said Poirot. “A gaudy creature,” he added thought-fully.

“Appeals to women,” said Mr. Goby. “Trouble is nowadays they won’tlook twice at a nice hardworking lad. They prefer the bad lots — thescroungers. They usually say ‘he hasn’t had a chance, poor boy.’”

“Strutting about like peacocks,” said Poirot.

“Well, you might put it like that,” said Mr. Goby, rather doubtfully.

“Do you think he’d use a cosh on anyone?”

Mr. Goby thought, then very slowly shook his head at the electric fire.

“Nobody’s accused him of anything like that. I don’t say he’d be past it,but I wouldn’t say it was his line. He is a smooth-spoken type, not one forthe rough stuff.”

“No,” said Poirot, “no, I should not have thought so. He could be boughtoff? That was your opinion?”

“He’d drop any girl like a hot coal if it was made worth his while.”

Poirot nodded. He was remembering something. Andrew Restarick turn-ing a cheque towards him so that he could read the signature on it. It wasnot only the signature that Poirot had read, it was the person to whom thecheque was made out. It had been made out to David Baker and it was fora large sum. Would David Baker demur at taking such a cheque, Poirotwondered. He thought not on the whole. Mr. Goby clearly was of thatopinion. Undesirable young men had been bought off in any time or age,so had undesirable young women. Sons had sworn and daughters hadwept but money was money. To Norma, David had been urging marriage.

Was he sincere? Could it be that he really cared for Norma? If so, he wouldnot be so easily paid off. He had sounded genuine enough. Norma nodoubt believed him genuine. Andrew Restarick and Mr. Goby and HerculePoirot thought differently. They were very much more likely to be right.

Mr. Goby cleared his throat and went on.

“Miss Claudia Reece-Holland? She’s all right. Nothing against her. Noth-ing dubious, that is. Father a Member of Parliament, well off. No scandals.

Not like some MPs we’ve heard about. Educated Roedean, Lady MargaretHall, came down and did a secretarial course. First secretary to a doctor inHarley Street, then went to the Coal Board. First-class secretary. Has beensecretary to Mr. Restarick for the last two months. No special attachments,just what you’d call minor boyfriends. Eligible and useful if she wants adate. Nothing to show there’s anything between her and Restarick. Ishouldn’t say there is, myself. Has had a flat in Borodene Mansions for thelast three years. Quite a high rent there. She usually has two other girlssharing it, no special friends. They come and go. Young lady, Frances Cary,the second girl, has been there some time. Was at RADA for a time, thenwent to the Slade. Works for the Wedderburn Gallery—well-known placein Bond Street. Specialises in arranging art shows in Manchester, Birming-ham, sometimes abroad. Goes to Switzerland and Portugal. Arty type andhas a lot of friends amongst artists and actors.”

He paused, cleared his throat and gave a brief look at the little notebook.

“Haven’t been able to get much from South Africa yet. Don’t suppose Ishall. Restarick moved about a lot. Kenya, Uganda, Gold Coast, SouthAmerica for a while. He just moved about. Restless chap. Nobody seems tohave known him particularly well. He’d got plenty of money of his own togo where he liked. He made money, too, quite a lot of it. Liked going to outof the way places. Everyone who came across him seems to have likedhim. Just seems as though he was a born wanderer. He never kept intouch with anyone. Three times I believe he was reported dead—gone offinto the bush and not turned up again—but he always did in the end. Fiveor six months and he’d pop up in some entirely different place or country.

“Then last year his brother in London died suddenly. They had a bit oftrouble in tracing him. His brother’s death seemed to give him a shock.

Perhaps he’d had enough, and perhaps he’d met the right woman at last.

Good bit younger than him, she was, and a teacher, they say. The steadykind. Anyway he seems to have made up his mind then and there to chuckwandering about, and come home to England. Besides being a very richman himself, he’s his brother’s heir.”

“A success story and an unhappy girl,” said Poirot. “I wish I knew moreabout her. You have ascertained for me all that you could, the facts Ineeded. The people who surrounded that girl, who might have influencedher, who perhaps did influence her. I wanted to know something abouther father, her stepmother, the boy she is in love with, the people she livedwith, and worked for in London. You are sure that in connection with thisgirl there have been no deaths? That is important—”

“Not a smell of one,” said Mr. Goby. “She worked for a firm calledHomebirds—on the verge of bankruptcy, and they didn’t pay her much.

Stepmother was in hospital for observation recently—in the country, thatwas. A lot of rumours flying about, but they didn’t seem to come to any-thing.”

“She did not die,” said Poirot. “What I need,” he added in a bloodthirstymanner, “is a death.”

Mr. Goby said he was sorry about that and rose to his feet. “Will therebe anything more you are wanting at present?”

“Not in the nature of information.”

“Very good, sir.” As he replaced his notebook in his pocket, Mr. Gobysaid: “You’ll excuse me, sir, if I’m speaking out of turn, but that young ladyyou had here just now—”

“Yes, what about her?”

“Well, of course it’s—I don’t suppose it’s anything to do with this, but Ithought I might just mention it to you, sir—”

“Please do. You have seen her before, I gather?”

“Yes. Couple of months ago.”

“Where did you see her?”

“Kew Gardens.”

“Kew Gardens?” Poirot looked slightly surprised.

“I wasn’t following her. I was following someone else, the person whomet her.”

“And who was that?”

“I don’t suppose as it matters mentioning it to you, sir. It was one of thejunior attachés of the Hertzogovinian Embassy.”

Poirot raised his eyebrows. “That is interesting. Yes, very interesting.

Kew Gardens,” he mused. “A pleasant place for a rendezvous. Very pleas-ant.”

“I thought so at the time.”

“They talked together?”

“No, sir, you wouldn’t have said they knew each other. The young ladyhad a book with her. She sat down on a seat. She read the book for a littlethen she laid it down beside her. Then my bloke came and sat there on theseat also. They didn’t speak—only the young lady got up and wanderedaway. He just sat there and presently he gets up and walks off. He takeswith him the book that the young lady has left behind. That’s all, sir.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very interesting.”

Mr. Goby looked at the bookcase and said good night to it. He went.

Poirot gave an exasperated sigh.

“Enfin,” he said, “it is too much! There is far too much. Now we have es-pionage and counterespionage. All I am seeking is one perfectly simplemurder. I begin to suspect that that murder only occurred in a drug ad-dict’s brain!”