Nineteen

Claudia Reece-Holland was not in the office today. Instead, a middle-agedwoman received Poirot. She said that Mr. Restarick was waiting for himand ushered him into Restarick’s room.

“Well?” Restarick hardly waited until he had come through the door.

“Well, what about my daughter?”

Poirot spread out his hands.

“As yet—nothing.”

“But look here, man, there must be something—some clue. A girl can’tjust disappear into thin air.”

“Girls have done it before now and will do it again.”

“Did you understand that no expense was to be spared, none whatever?

I—I can’t go on like this.”

He seemed completely on edge by this time. He looked thinner and hisred-rimmed eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

“I know what your anxiety must be, but I assure you that I have doneeverything possible to trace her. These things, alas, cannot be hurried.”

“She may have lost her memory or—or she may—I mean, she might besick. Ill.”

Poirot thought he knew what the broken form of the sentence meant.

Restarick had been about to say “she may perhaps be dead.”

He sat down on the other side of the desk and said:

“Believe me, I appreciate your anxiety and I have to say to you onceagain that the results would be a lot quicker if you consulted the police.”

“No!” The word broke out explosively.

“They have greater facilities, more lines of inquiry. I assure you it is notonly a question of money. Money cannot give you the same result as ahighly efficient organisation can do.”

“Man, it’s no use your talking in that soothing way. Norma is my daugh-ter. My only daughter, the only flesh and blood I’ve got.”

“Are you sure that you have told me everything—everything possible—about your daughter?”

“What more can I tell you?”

“That is for you to say, not me. Have there been, for instance, any incid-ents in the past?”

“Such as? What do you mean, man?”

“Any definite history of mental instability.”

“You think that—that—”

“How do I know? How can I know?”

“And how do I know?” said Restarick, suddenly bitter. “What do I knowof her? All these years. Grace was a bitter woman. A woman who did noteasily forgive or forget. Sometimes I feel—I feel that she was the wrongperson to have brought Norma up.”

He got up, walked up and down the room and then sat down again.

“Of course I shouldn’t have left my wife. I know that. I left her to bringup the child. But then at the time I suppose I made excuses for myself.

Grace was a woman of excellent character devoted to Norma. A thor-oughly good guardian for her. But was she? Was she really? Some of theletters Grace wrote to me were as though they breathed anger and re-venge. Well, I suppose that’s natural enough. But I was away all thoseyears. I should have come back, come back more often and found out howthe child was getting on. I suppose I had a bad conscience. Oh, it’s no goodmaking excuses now.”

He turned his head sharply.

“Yes. I did think when I saw her again that Norma’s whole attitude wasneurotic, indisciplined. I hoped she and Mary would—would get on betterafter a little while but I have to admit that I don’t feel the girl was entirelynormal. I felt it would be better for her to have a job in London and comehome for weekends, but not to be forced into Mary’s company the wholetime. Oh, I suppose I’ve made a mess of everything. But where is she, M.

Poirot? Where is she? Do you think she may have lost her memory? Onehears of such things.”

“Yes,” said Poirot, “that is a possibility. In her state, she may be wander-ing about quite unaware of who she is. Or she may have had an accident.

That is less likely. I can assure you that I have made all inquiries in hospit-als and other places.”

“You don’t think she is—you don’t think she’s dead?”

“She would be easier to find dead than alive, I can assure you. Pleasecalm yourself, Mr. Restarick. Remember she may have friends of whomyou know nothing. Friends in any part of England, friends whom she hasknown while living with her mother, or with her aunt, or friends whowere friends of school friends of hers. All these things take time to sortout. It may be—you must prepare yourself—that she is with a boyfriend ofsome kind.”

“David Baker? If I thought that—”

“She is not with David Baker. That,” said Poirot dryly, “I ascertained firstof all.”

“How do I know what friends she has?” He sighed. “If I find her, when Ifind her—I’d rather put it that way—I’m going to take her out of all this.”

“Out of all what?”

“Out of this country. I have been miserable, M. Poirot, miserable eversince I returned here. I always hated City life. The boring round of officeroutine, continual consultations with lawyers and financiers. The life Iliked was always the same. Travelling, moving about from place to place,going to wild and inaccessible places. That’s the life for me. I should neverhave left it. I should have sent for Norma to come out to me and, as I say,when I find her that’s what I’m going to do. Already I’m being approachedwith various takeover bids. Well, they can have the whole caboodle onvery advantageous terms. I’ll take the cash and go back to a country thatmeans something, that’s real.”

“Aha! And what will your wife say to that?”

“Mary? She’s used to that life. That’s where she comes from.”

“To les femmes with plenty of money,” said Poirot, “London can be veryattractive.”

“She’ll see it my way.”

The telephone rang on his desk. He picked it up.

“Yes? Oh. From Manchester? Yes. If it’s Claudia Reece-Holland, put herthrough.”

He waited a minute.

“Hallo, Claudia. Yes. Speak up—it’s a very bad line, I can’t hear you.

They agreed?…Ah, pity…No, I think you did very well…Right…All rightthen. Take the evening train back. We’ll discuss it further tomorrowmorning.”

He replaced the telephone on its rest.

“That’s a competent girl,” he said.

“Miss Reece-Holland?”

“Yes. Unusually competent. Takes a lot of bother off my shoulders. Igave her pretty well carte blanche to put through this deal in Manchesteron her own terms. I really felt I couldn’t concentrate. And she’s done ex-ceedingly well. She’s as good as a man in some ways.”

He looked at Poirot, suddenly bringing himself back to the present.

“Ah yes, M. Poirot. Well, I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my grip. Do you needmore money for expenses?”

“No, Monsieur. I assure you that I will do my utmost to restore yourdaughter sound and well. I have taken all possible precautions for hersafety.”

He went out through the outer office. When he reached the street helooked up at the sky.

“A definite answer to one question,” he said, “that is what I need.”