Twenty-five

Four people sat in Poirot’s room. Poirot in his square chair was drinking aglass of sirop de cassis. Norma and Mrs. Oliver sat on the sofa. Mrs. Oliverwas looking particularly festive in unbecoming apple green brocade, sur-mounted by one of her more painstaking coiffures. Dr. Stillingfleet wassprawled out in a chair with his long legs stretched out, so that theyseemed to reach half across the room.

“Now then, there are lots of things I want to know,” said Mrs. Oliver.

Her voice was accusatory.

Poirot hastened to pour oil on troubled waters.

“But, chère Madame, consider. What I owe to you I can hardly express.

All, but all my good ideas were suggested to me by you.”

Mrs. Oliver looked at him doubtfully.

“Was it not you who introduced to me the phrase ‘Third Girl?’ It is therethat I started—and there, too, that I ended—at the third girl of three livingin a flat. Norma was always technically, I suppose, the Third Girl—butwhen I looked at things the right way round it all fell into place. The miss-ing answer, the lost piece of the puzzle, every time it was the same—thethird girl.

“It was always, if you comprehend me, the person who was not there. Shewas a name to me, no more.”

“I wonder I never connected her with Mary Restarick,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“I’d seen Mary Restarick at Crosshedges, talked to her. Of course the firsttime I saw Frances Cary, she had black hair hanging all over her face. Thatwould have put anyone off!”

“Again it was you, Madame, who drew my attention to how easily a wo-man’s appearance is altered by the way she arranges her hair. FrancesCary, remember, had had dramatic training. She knew all about the art ofswift makeup. She could alter her voice at need. As Frances, she had longblack hair, framing her face and half hiding it, heavy dead white maquil-lage, dark pencilled eyebrows and mascara, with a drawling husky voice.

Mary Restarick, with her wig of formally arranged golden hair withcrimped waves, her conventional clothes, her slight Colonial accent, herbrisk way of talking, presented a complete contrast. Yet one felt, from thebeginning, that she was not quite real. What kind of a woman was she? Idid not know.

“I was not clever about her—No—I, Hercule Poirot, was not clever atall.”

“Hear, hear,” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “First time I’ve ever heard you saythat, Poirot! Wonders will never cease!”

“I don’t really see why she wanted two personalities,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“It seems unnecessarily confusing.”

“No. It was very valuable to her. It gave her, you see, a perpetual alibiwhenever she wanted it. To think that it was there, all the time, before myeyes, and I did not see it! There was the wig—I kept being subconsciouslyworried by it, but not seeing why I was worried. Two women—never, atany time, seen together. Their lives so arranged that no one noticed thelarge gaps in their time schedules when they were unaccounted for. Marygoes often to London, to shop, to visit house agents, to depart with a sheafof orders to view, supposedly to spend her time that way. Frances goes toBirmingham, to Manchester, even flies abroad, frequents Chelsea with herspecial coterie of arty young men whom she employs in various capacitieswhich would not be looked on with approval by the law. Special pictureframes were designed for the Wedderburn Gallery. Rising young artistshad ‘shows’ there — their pictures sold quite well, and were shippedabroad or sent on exhibition with their frames stuffed with secret packetsof heroin—Art rackets—skilful forgeries of the more obscure Old Masters—She arranged and organised all these things. David Baker was one of theartists she employed. He had the gift of being a marvellous copyist.”

Norma murmured: “Poor David. When I first met him I thought he waswonderful.”

“That picture,” said Poirot dreamily. “Always, always, I came back tothat in my mind. Why had Restarick brought it up to his office? What spe-cial significance did it have for him? Enfin, I do not admire myself for be-ing so dense.”

“I don’t understand about the pictures.”

“It was a very clever idea. It served as a kind of certificate of identity. Apair of portraits, husband and wife, by a celebrated and fashionable por-trait painter of his day. David Baker, when they come out of store, re-places Restarick’s portrait with one of Orwell, making him about twentyyears younger in appearance. Nobody would have dreamed that the por-trait was a fake; the style, the brush strokes, the canvas, it was a splendidlyconvincing bit of work. Restarick hung it over his desk. Anyone who knewRestarick years ago, might say: ‘I’d hardly have known you!’ Or ‘You’vechanged quite a lot,’ would look up at the portrait, but would only think hehimself had really forgotten what the other man had looked like!”

“It was a great risk for Restarick—or rather Orwell—to take,” said Mrs.

Oliver thoughtfully.

“Less than you might think. He was never a claimant, you see, in theTichborne sense. He was only a member of a well-known City firm, return-ing home after his brother’s death to settle up his brother’s affairs afterhaving spent some years abroad. He brought with him a young wife re-cently acquired abroad, and took up residence with an elderly, half blindbut extremely distinguished uncle by marriage who had never known himwell after his schoolboy days, and who accepted him without question. Hehad no other near relations, except for the daughter whom he had lastseen when she was a child of five. When he originally left for South Africa,the office staff had had two very elderly clerks, since deceased. Junior staffnever remains anywhere long nowadays. The family lawyer is also dead.

You may be sure that the whole position was studied very carefully on thespot by Frances after they had decided on their coup.

“She had met him, it seems, in Kenya about two years ago. They wereboth crooks, though with entirely different interests. He went in for vari-ous shoddy deals as a prospector—Restarick and Orwell went together toprospect for mineral deposits in somewhat wild country. There was a ru-mour of Restarick’s death (probably true) which was later contradicted.”

“A lot of money in the gamble, I suspect?” said Stillingfleet.

“An enormous amount of money was involved. A terrific gamble—for aterrific stake. It came off. Andrew Restarick was a very rich man himselfand he was his brother’s heir. Nobody questioned his identity. And then—things went wrong. Out of the blue, he got a letter from a woman who, ifshe ever came face to face with him, would know at once that he wasn’tAndrew Restarick. And a second piece of bad fortune occurred—DavidBaker started to blackmail him.”

“That might have been expected, I suppose,” said Stillingfleet thought-fully.

“They didn’t expect it,” said Poirot. “David had never blackmailed be-fore. It was the enormous wealth of this man that went to his head, I ex-pect. The sum he had been paid for faking the portrait seemed to himgrossly inadequate. He wanted more. So Restarick wrote him largecheques, and pretended that it was on account of his daughter—to preventher from making an undesirable marriage. Whether he really wanted tomarry her, I do not know—he may have done. But to blackmail two peoplelike Orwell and Frances Cary was a dangerous thing to do.”

“You mean those two just cold-bloodedly planned to kill two people—quite calmly—just like that?” demanded Mrs. Oliver.

She looked rather sick.

“They might have added you to their list, Madame,” said Poirot.

“Me? Do you mean that it was one of them who hit me on the head?

Frances, I suppose? Not the poor Peacock?”

“I do not think it was the Peacock. But you had been already toBorodene Mansions. Now you perhaps follow Frances to Chelsea, or so shethinks, with a rather dubious story to account for yourself. So she slips outand gives you a nice little tap on the head to put paid to your curiosity fora while. You would not listen when I warned you there was dangerabout.”

“I can hardly believe it of her! Lying about in attitudes of a Burne-Jonesheroine in that dirty studio that day. But why—” She looked at Norma—then back at Poirot. “They used her — deliberately — worked upon her,drugged her, made her believe that she had murdered two people. Why?”

“They wanted a victim…” said Poirot.

He rose from his chair and went to Norma.

“Mon enfant, you have been through a terrible ordeal. It is a thing thatneed never happen to you again. Remember that now, you can have con-fidence in yourself always. To have known, at close quarters, what abso-lute evil means, is to be armoured against what life can do to you.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Norma. “To think you are mad—really tobelieve it, is a frightening thing…” She shivered. “I don’t see, even now, whyI escaped—why anyone managed to believe that I hadn’t killed David—notwhen even I believed I had killed him?”

“Blood was wrong,” said Dr. Stillingfleet in a matter-of-fact tone. “Start-ing to coagulate. Shirt was ‘stiff with it,’ as Miss Jacobs said, not wet. Youwere supposed to have killed him not more than about five minutes be-fore Frances’s screaming act.”

“How did she—” Mrs. Oliver began to work things out. “She had been toManchester—”

“She came home by an earlier train, changed into her Mary wig andmakeup on the train. Walked into Borodene Mansions and went up in thelift as an unknown blonde. Went into the flat where David was waiting forher, as she had told him to do. He was quite unsuspecting, and she stabbedhim. Then she went out again, and kept watch until she saw Norma com-ing. She slipped into a public cloakroom, changed her appearance, andjoined a friend at the end of the road and walked with her, said good-byeto her at Borodene Mansions and went up herself and did her stuff—quiteenjoying doing it, I expect. By the time the police had been called and gotthere, she didn’t think anyone would suspect the time lag. I must say,Norma, you gave us all a hell of a time that day. Insisting on having killedeveryone the way you did!”

“I wanted to confess and get it all over…Did you—did you think I mightreally have done it, then?”

“Me? What do you take me for? I know what my patients will do orwon’t do. But I thought you were going to make things damned difficult. Ididn’t know how far Neele was sticking his neck out. Didn’t seem properpolice procedure to me. Look at the way he gave Poirot here his head.”

Poirot smiled.

“Chief Inspector Neele and I have known each other for many years. Be-sides, he had been making inquiries about certain matters already. Youwere never really outside Louise’s door. Frances changed the numbers.

She reversed the 6 and the 7 on your own door. Those numbers wereloose, stuck on with spikes. Claudia was away that night. Frances druggedyou so that the whole thing was a nightmare dream to you.

“I saw the truth suddenly. The only other person who could have killedLouise was the real ‘third girl,’ Frances Cary.”

“You kept half recognising her, you know,” said Stillingfleet, “when youdescribed to me how one person seemed to turn into another.”

Norma looked at him thoughtfully.

“You were very rude to people,” she said to Stillingfleet. He lookedslightly taken aback.

“Rude?”

“The things you said to everyone. The way you shouted at them.”

“Oh well, yes, perhaps I was…I’ve got in the way of it. People are sodamned irritating.”

He grinned suddenly at Poirot.

“She’s quite a girl, isn’t she?”

Mrs. Oliver rose to her feet with a sigh.

“I must go home.” She looked at the two men and then at Norma. “Whatare we going to do with her?” she asked.

They both looked startled.

“I know she’s staying with me at the moment,” she went on. “And shesays she’s quite happy. But I mean there it is, quite a problem. Lots andlots of money because your father—the real one, I mean—left it all to you.

And that will cause complications, and begging letters and all that. Shecould go and live with old Sir Roderick, but that wouldn’t be fun for a girl—he’s pretty deaf already as well as blind—and completely selfish. By theway, what about his missing papers, and the girl, and Kew Gardens?”

“They turned up where he thought he’d already looked—Sonia foundthem,” said Norma, and added, “Uncle Roddy and Sonia are getting mar-ried—next week—”

“No fool like an old fool,” said Stillingfleet.

“Aha!” said Poirot. “So the young lady prefers life in England to beingembroiled in la politique. She is perhaps wise, that little one.”

“So that’s that,” said Mrs. Oliver with finality. “But to go on aboutNorma, one has to be practical. One’s got to make plans. The girl can’tknow what she wants to do all by herself. She’s waiting for someone to tellher.”

She looked at them severely.

Poirot said nothing. He smiled.

“Oh, her?” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “Well, I’ll tell you, Norma. I’m flying toAustralia Tuesday week. I want to look around first—see if what’s beenfixed up for me is going to work, and all that. Then I’ll cable you and youcan join me. Then we get married. You’ll have to take my word for it thatit’s not your money I want. I’m not one of those doctors who want to en-dow whacking great research establishments and all that. I’m just interes-ted in people. I think, too, that you’d be able to manage me all right. All thatabout my being rude to people—I hadn’t noticed it myself. It’s odd, really,when you think of all the mess you’ve been in—helpless as a fly in treacle—yet it’s not going to be me running you, it’s going to be you running me.”

Norma stood quite still. She looked at John Stillingfleet very carefully, asthough she was considering something that she knew from an entirely dif-ferent point of view.

And then she smiled. It was a very nice smile—like a happy young nan-nie.

“All right,” she said.

She crossed the room to Hercule Poirot.

“I was rude, too,” she said. “The day I came here when you were havingbreakfast. I said to you that you were too old to help me. That was a rudething to say. And it wasn’t true.…”

She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

“You’d better get us a taxi,” she said to Stillingfleet.

Dr. Stillingfleet nodded and left the room. Mrs. Oliver collected a hand-bag and a fur stole and Norma slipped on a coat and followed her to thedoor.

“Madame, un petit moment—”

Mrs. Oliver turned. Poirot had collected from the recesses of the sofa ahandsome coil of grey hair.

Mrs. Oliver exclaimed vexedly: “It’s just like everything that they makenowadays, no good at all! Hairpins, I mean. They just slip out, andeverything falls off!”

She went out frowning.

A moment or two later she poked her head round the door again. Shespoke in a conspiratorial whisper:

“Just tell me—it’s all right, I’ve sent her on down—did you send that girlto this particular doctor on purpose?”

“Of course I did. His qualifications are—”

“Never mind his qualifications. You know what I mean. He and she—Did you?”

“If you must know, yes.”

“I thought so,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You do think of things, don’t you.”