II

There were six people now in the room with the Harlequin on the wall.

A long time had passed. The police had come and gone.

Andrew Restarick sat like a man stunned. Once or twice he said thesame words. “I can’t believe it…” Telephoned for, he had come from his of-fice, and Claudia Reece-Holland had come with him. In her quiet way, shehad been ceaselessly efficient. She had put through telephone calls to law-yers, had rung Crosshedges and two firms of estate agents to try and get intouch with Mary Restarick. She had given Frances Cary a sedative andsent her to lie down.

Hercule Poirot and Mrs. Oliver sat side by side on a sofa. They had ar-rived together at the same time as the police.

Last of all to arrive, when nearly everyone else had gone, had been aquiet man with grey hair and a gentle manner, Chief Inspector Neele ofScotland Yard, who had greeted Poirot with a slight nod, and been intro-duced to Andrew Restarick. A tall red-haired young man was standing bythe window staring down into the courtyard.

What were they all waiting for? Mrs. Oliver wondered. The body hadbeen removed, the photographers and other police officers had done theirwork, they themselves, after being herded into Claudia’s bedroom, hadbeen readmitted into the sitting room, where they had been waiting, shesupposed, for the Scotland Yard man to arrive.

“If you want me to go,” Mrs. Oliver said to him uncertainly—“Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, aren’t you? No, if you have no objection, I’d ratheryou remained. I know it hasn’t been pleasant—”

“It didn’t seem real.”

Mrs. Oliver shut her eyes—seeing the whole thing again. The PeacockBoy, so picturesquely dead that he had seemed like a stage figure. And thegirl — the girl had been different — not the uncertain Norma fromCrosshedges — the unattractive Ophelia, as Poirot had called her — butsome quiet figure of tragic dignity—accepting her doom.

Poirot had asked if he might make two telephone calls. One had been toScotland Yard, and that had been agreed to, after the sergeant had made apreliminary suspicious inquiry on the phone. The sergeant had directedPoirot to the extension in Claudia’s bedroom, and he had made his callfrom there, closing the door behind him.

The sergeant had continued to look doubtful, murmuring to his subor-dinate, “They say it’s all right. Wonder who he is? Odd- looking littlebloke.”

“Foreign, isn’t he? Might be Special Branch?”

“Don’t think so. It was Chief Inspector Neele he wanted.”

His assistant raised his eyebrows and suppressed a whistle.

After making his calls, Poirot had reopened the door and beckoned Mrs.

Oliver from where she was standing uncertainly inside the kitchen, to joinhim. They had sat down side by side on Claudia Reece-Holland’s bed.

“I wish we could do something,” said Mrs. Oliver—always one for action.

“Patience, chère Madame.”

“Surely you can do something?”

“I have. I have rung up the people it is necessary to ring up. We can donothing here until the police have finished their preliminary investiga-tions.”

“Who did you ring up after the inspector man? Her father? Couldn’t hecome and bail her out or something?”

“Bail is not likely to be granted where murder is concerned,” said Poirotdryly. “The police have already notified her father. They got his numberfrom Miss Cary.”

“Where is she?”

“Having hysterics in the flat of a Miss Jacobs next door, I understand.

She was the one who discovered the body. It seems to have upset her. Sherushed out of here screaming.”

“She’s the arty one, isn’t she? Claudia would have kept her head.”

“I agree with you. A very—poised young woman.”

“Who did you ring up, then?”

“First, as perhaps you heard, Chief Inspector Neele of Scotland Yard.”

“Will this lot like his coming and meddling?”

“He is not coming to meddle. He has of late been making certain inquir-ies for me, which may throw light on this matter.”

“Oh—I see…Who else did you ring up?”

“Dr. John Stillingfleet.”

“Who’s he? To say that poor Norma is potty and can’t help killingpeople?”

“His qualifications would entitle him to give evidence to that effect incourt if necessary.”

“Does he know anything about her?”

“A good deal, I should say. She has been in his care since the day youfound her in the Shamrock café.”

“Who sent her there?”

Poirot smiled. “I did. I made certain arrangements by telephone before Icame to join you at the café.”

“What? All the time I was so disappointed in you and kept urging you todo something—you had done something? And you never told me! Really,Poirot! Not a word! How could you be so—so mean.”

“Do not enrage yourself, Madame, I beg. What I did, I did for the best.”

“People always say that when they have done something particularlymaddening. What else did you do?”

“I arranged that my services should be retained by her father, so that Icould make the necessary arrangements for her safety.”

“Meaning this Doctor Stillingwater?”

“Stilling fleet. Yes.”

“How on earth did you manage that? I shouldn’t have thought for a mo-ment that you would be the kind of person that her father would choose tomake all these arrangements. He looks the kind of man who would bevery suspicious of foreigners.”

“I forced myself upon him—as a conjurer forces a card. I called uponhim, purporting to have received a letter from him asking me to do so.”

“And did he believe you?”

“Naturally. I showed the letter to him. It was typed on his office station-ery and signed with his name—though as he pointed out to me, the hand-writing was not his.”

“Do you mean you had actually written that letter yourself?”

“Yes. I judged correctly that it would awaken his curiosity, and that hewould want to see me. Having got so far, I trusted to my own talents.”

“You told him what you were going to do about this Dr. Stillingfleet?”

“No. I told no one. There was danger, you see.”

“Danger to Norma?”

“To Norma, or Norma was dangerous to someone else. From the verybeginning there have always been the two possibilities. The facts could beinterpreted in either way. The attempted poisoning of Mrs. Restarick wasnot convincing—it was delayed too long, it was not a serious attempt tokill. Then there was an indeterminate story of a revolver shot fired here inBorodene Mansions — and another tale of flick- knives and bloodstains.

Every time these things happen, Norma knows nothing about them, can-not remember, etcetera. She finds arsenic in a drawer—but does not re-member putting it there. Claims to have had lapses of memory, to havelost long periods of time when she does not remember what she had beendoing. So one has to ask oneself—is what she says true, or did she, forsome reason of her own, invent it? Is she a potential victim of some mon-strous and perhaps crazy plot — or is it she herself who is the movingspirit? Is she painting a picture of herself as a girl suffering from mentalinstability, or has she murder in mind, with a defence of diminished re-sponsibility?”

“She was different today,” said Mrs. Oliver slowly. “Did you notice?

Quite different. Not—not scatty any longer.”

Poirot nodded.

“Not Ophelia—Iphigeneia.”

A sound of added commotion outside in the flat diverted the attention ofboth of them.

“Do you think—” Mrs. Oliver stopped. Poirot had gone to the windowand was looking down to the courtyard far below. An ambulance wasdrawn up there.

“Are they going to take It away?” asked Mrs. Oliver in a shaky voice.

And then added in a sudden rush of pity: “Poor Peacock.”

“He was hardly a likeable character,” said Poirot coldly.

“He was very decorative…And so young,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“That is sufficient for les femmes.” Poirot was opening the bedroom doora careful crack, as he peered out.

“Excuse me,” he said, “if I leave you for a moment.”

“Where are you going?” demanded Mrs. Oliver suspiciously.

“I understood that that was not a question considered delicate in thiscountry,” said Poirot reproachfully.

“Oh, I beg your pardon.

“And that’s not the way to the loo,” she breathed sotto voce after him, asshe too applied an eye to the crack of the door.

She went back to the window to observe what was going on below.

“Mr. Restarick has just driven up in a taxi,” she observed when Poirotslipped back quietly into the room a few minutes later, “and Claudia hascome with him. Did you manage to get into Norma’s room, or whereveryou really wanted to go?”

“Norma’s room is in the occupation of the police.”

“How annoying for you. What are you carrying in that kind of blackfolder thing you’ve got in your hand?”

Poirot in his turn asked a question.

“What have you got in that canvas bag with Persian horses on it?”

“My shopping bag? Only a couple of Avocado pears, as it happens.”

“Then if I may, I will entrust this folder to you. Do not be rough with it,or squeeze it, I beg.”

“What is it?”

“Something that I hoped to find—and that I have found—Ah, things be-gin to pass themselves—” He referred to increased sounds of activities.

Poirot’s words struck Mrs. Oliver as being much more exactly descript-ive than English words would have been. Restarick, his voice loud andangry. Claudia coming in to telephone. A glimpse of a police stenographeron an excursion to the flat next door to take statements from Frances Caryand a mythical person called Miss Jacobs. A coming and going of orderedbusiness, and a final departure of two men with cameras.

Then unexpectedly the sudden incursion into Claudia’s bedroom of atall loosely-jointed young man with red hair.

Without taking any notice of Mrs. Oliver, he spoke to Poirot.

“What’s she done? Murder? Who is it? The boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“She admits it?”

“It would seem so.”

“Not good enough. Did she say so in definite words?”

“I have not heard her do so. I have had no chance of asking her any-thing myself.”

A policeman looked in.

“Dr. Stillingfleet?” he asked. “The police surgeon would like a word withyou.”

Dr. Stillingfleet nodded and followed him out of the room.

“So that’s Dr. Stillingfleet,” said Mrs. Oliver. She considered for a mo-ment or two. “Quite something, isn’t he?”