第三个女郎22
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Fifteen
At Hercule Poirot’s elbow was a tisane prepared for him by George. Hesipped at it and thought. He thought in a certain way peculiar to himself.
It was the technique of a man who selected thoughts as one might selectpieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In due course they would be reassembled to-gether so as to make a clear and coherent picture. At the moment the im-portant thing was the selection, the separation. He sipped his tisane, putdown the cup, rested his hands on the arms of his chair and let variouspieces of his puzzle come one by one into his mind. Once he recognisedthem all, he would select. Pieces of sky, pieces of green bank, perhapsstriped pieces like those of a tiger….
The painfulness of his own feet in patent leather shoes. He started there.
Walking along a road set on this path by his good friend, Mrs. Oliver. Astepmother. He saw himself with his hand on a gate. A woman whoturned, a woman bending her head cutting out the weak growth of a rose,turning and looking at him? What was there for him there? Nothing. Agolden head, a golden head bright as a cornfield, with twists and loops ofhair slightly reminiscent of Mrs. Oliver’s own in shape. He smiled a little.
But Mary Restarick’s hair was more tidily arranged than Mrs. Oliver’s everwas. A golden frame for her face that seemed just a little too large for her.
He remembered that old Sir Roderick had said that she had to wear a wig,because of an illness. Sad for so young a woman. There was, when hecame to think of it, something unusually heavy about her head. Far toostatic, too perfectly arranged. He considered Mary Restarick’s wig—if itwas a wig—for he was by no means sure that he could depend on Sir Rod-erick. He examined the possibilities of the wig in case they should be ofsignificance. He reviewed the conversation they had had. Had they saidanything important? He thought not. He remembered the room into whichthey had gone. A characterless room recently inhabited in someone else’shouse. Two pictures on the wall, the picture of a woman in a dove-greydress. Thin mouth, lips set closely together. Hair that was greyish brown.
The first Mrs. Restarick. She looked as though she might have been olderthan her husband. His picture was on the opposite wall, facing her. Goodportraits, both of them. Lansberger had been a good portrait painter. Hismind dwelt on the portrait of the husband. He had not seen it so well thatfirst day, as he had later in Restarick’s office….
Andrew Restarick and Claudia Reece- Holland. Was there any thingthere? Was their association more than a merely secretarial one? It neednot be. Here was a man who had come back to this country after years ofabsence, who had no near friends or relatives, who was perplexed andtroubled over his daughter’s character and conduct. It was probably nat-ural enough that he should turn to his recently acquired eminently com-petent secretary and ask her to suggest somewhere for his daughter to livein London. It would be a favour on her part to provide that accommoda-tion since she was looking for a Third Girl. Third girl…The phrase that hehad acquired from Mrs. Oliver always seemed to be coming to his mind.
As though it had a second significance which for some reason he could notsee.
His manservant, George, entered the room, closing the door discreetlybehind him.
“A young lady is here, sir. The young lady who came the other day.”
The words came too aptly with what Poirot was thinking. He sat up in astartled fashion.
“The young lady who came at breakfast time?”
“Oh no, sir. I mean the young lady who came with Sir Roderick Horse-field.”
“Ah, indeed.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows. “Bring her in. Where is she?”
“I showed her into Miss Lemon’s room, sir.”
“Ah. Yes, bring her in.”
Sonia did not wait for George to announce her. She came into the roomahead of him with a quick and rather aggressive step.
“It has been difficult for me to get away, but I have come to tell you thatI did not take those papers. I did not steal anything. You understand?”
“Has anybody said that you had?” Poirot asked. “Sit down, Mademois-elle.”
“I do not want to sit down. I have very little time. I just came to tell youthat it is absolutely untrue. I am very honest and I do what I am told.”
“I take your point. I have already taken it. Your statement is that youhave not removed any papers, information, letters, documents of any kindfrom Sir Roderick Horsefield’s house? That is so, is it not?”
“Yes, and I’ve come to tell you it is so. He believes me. He knows that Iwould not do such a thing.”
“Very well then. That is a statement and I note it.”
“Do you think you are going to find those papers?”
“I have other inquiries in hand,” said Poirot. “Sir Roderick’s papers willhave to take their turn.”
“He is worried. He is very worried. There is something that I cannot sayto him. I will say it to you. He loses things. Things are not put away wherehe thinks they are. He puts them in—how do you say it—in funny places.
Oh I know. You suspect me. Everyone suspects me because I am foreign.
Because I come from a foreign country and so they think—they think Isteal secret papers like in one of your silly English spy stories. I am notlike that. I am an intellectual.”
“Aha,” said Poirot. “It is always nice to know.” He added: “Is there any-thing else you wish to tell me?”
“Why should I?”
“One never knows.”
“What are these other cases you speak of?”
“Ah, I do not want to detain you. It is your day out, perhaps.”
“Yes. I have one day a week when I can do what I like. I can come toLondon. I can go to the British Museum.”
“Ah yes and to the Victoria and Albert also, no doubt.”
“That is so.”
“And to the National Gallery and see the pictures. And on a fine day youcan go to Kensington Gardens, or perhaps as far as Kew Gardens.”
She stiffened…She shot him an angry questioning glance.
“Why do you say Kew Gardens?”
“Because there are some very fine plants and shrubs and trees there.
Ah! you should not miss Kew Gardens. The admission fee is very small. Apenny I think, or twopence. And for that you can go and see tropical trees,or you can sit on a seat and read a book.” He smiled at her disarminglyand was interested to notice that her uneasiness was increased. “But Imust not detain you, Mademoiselle. You have perhaps friends to visit atone of the Embassies, maybe.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No particular reason. You are, as you say, a foreigner and it is quitepossible you may have friends connected with your own Embassy here.”
“Someone has told you things. Someone has made accusations againstme! I tell you he is a silly old man who mislays things. That is all! And heknows nothing of importance. He has no secret papers or documents. Henever has had.”
“Ah, but you are not quite thinking of what you are saying. Time passes,you know. He was once an important man who did know importantsecrets.”
“You are trying to frighten me.”
“No, no. I am not being so melodramatic as that.”
“Mrs. Restarick. It is Mrs. Restarick who has been telling you things. Shedoes not like me.”
“She has not said so to me.”
“Well, I do not like her. She is the kind of woman I mistrust. I think shehas secrets.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, I think she has secrets from her husband. I think she goes up toLondon or to other places to meet other men. To meet at any rate oneother man.”
“Indeed,” said Poirot, “that is very interesting. You think she goes tomeet another man?”
“Yes, I do. She goes up to London very often and I do not think she al-ways tells her husband, or she says it is shopping or things she has to buy.
All those sort of things. He is busy in the office and he does not think ofwhy his wife comes up. She is more in London than she is in the country.
And yet she pretends to like gardening so much.”
“You have no idea who this man is whom she meets?”
“How should I know? I do not follow her. Mr. Restarick is not a suspi-cious man. He believes what his wife tells him. He thinks perhaps aboutbusiness all the time. And, too, I think he is worried about his daughter.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “he is certainly worried about his daughter. Howmuch do you know about the daughter? How well do you know her?”
“I do not know her very well. If you ask what I think—well, I tell you! Ithink she is mad.”
“You think she is mad? Why?”
“She says odd things sometimes. She sees things that are not there.”
“Sees things that are not there?”
“People that are not there. Sometimes she is very excited and othertimes she seems as though she is in a dream. You speak to her and shedoes not hear what you say to her. She does not answer. I think there arepeople who she would like to have dead.”
“You mean Mrs. Restarick?”
“And her father. She looks at him as though she hates him.”
“Because they are both trying to prevent her marrying a young man ofher choice?”
“Yes. They do not want that to happen. They are quite right, of course,but it makes her angry. Someday,” added Sonia, nodding her head cheer-fully, “I think she will kill herself. I hope she will do nothing so foolish, butthat is the thing one does when one is much in love.” She shrugged hershoulders. “Well—I go now.”
“Just tell me one thing. Does Mrs. Restarick wear a wig?”
“A wig? How should I know?” She considered for a moment. “She might,yes,” she admitted. “It is useful for travelling. Also it is fashionable. I weara wig myself sometimes. A green one! Or I did.” She added again, “I gonow,” and went.
 

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