Third Girl (6 page)

“No, but Mr. Restarick did mention he felt glad to know that she had got a room here with us.”

“So that entitles
you
to go and tittle-tattle about her every
time she's absent without leave? She's probably got a crush on some new man.”

“She's got a crush on David,” said Claudia. “Are you sure she isn't holed up at his place?”

“Oh, I shouldn't think so. He doesn't really care for her, you know.”

“You'd like to think he doesn't,” said Claudia. “You are rather sweet on David yourself.”

“Certainly not,” said Frances sharply. “Nothing of the kind.”

“David's really keen on her,” said Claudia. “If not, why did he come round looking for her here the other day?”

“
You
soon marched him out again,” said Frances. “I think,” she added, getting up and looking at her face in a rather unflattering small kitchen mirror, “I think it
might
have been me he really came to see.”

“You're too idiotic! He came here looking for Norma.”

“That girl's mental,” said Frances.

“Sometimes I really think she is!”

“Well, I
know
she is. Look here, Claudia, I'm going to tell you that something
now.
You ought to know. I broke the string of my bra the other day and I was in a hurry. I know you don't like anyone fiddling with
your
things—”

“I certainly don't,” said Claudia.

“—but Norma never minds, or doesn't notice. Anyway, I went into her room and I rootled in her drawer and I—well, I found something. A knife.”

“A knife!” said Claudia, surprised. “What sort of a knife?”

“You know we had that sort of shindy thing in the courtyard?
A group of beats, teenagers who'd come in here and were having a fight with flick-knives and all that? And Norma came in just after.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.”

“One of the boys got stabbed, so a reporter told me, and he ran away. Well, the knife in Norma's drawer was a flick-knife. It had got a stain on it—looked like dried blood.”

“Frances! You're being absurdly dramatic.”

“Perhaps. But I'm sure that's what it was. And what on earth was that doing hidden away in Norma's drawer, I should like to know?”

“I suppose—she might have picked it up.”

“What—a souvenir? And hidden it away and never told us?”

“What did you do with it?”

“I put it back,” said Frances slowly. “I—I didn't know what else to do…I couldn't decide whether to tell you or not. Then yesterday I looked again and
it was gone, Claudia.
Not a trace of it.”

“You think she sent David here to get it?”

“Well, she might have done…I tell you, Claudia, in future I'm going to keep my door locked at night.”

M
rs. Oliver woke up dissatisfied. She saw stretching before her a day with nothing to do. Having packed off her completed manuscript with a highly virtuous feeling, work was over. She had now only, as many times before, to relax, to enjoy herself; to lie fallow until the creative urge became active once more. She walked about her flat in a rather aimless fashion, touching things, picking them up, putting them down, looking in the drawers of her desk, realising that there were plenty of letters there to be dealt with but feeling also that in her present state of virtuous accomplishment, she was certainly not going to deal with anything so tiresome as that now. She wanted something
interesting
to do. She wanted—what did she want?

She thought about the conversation she had had with Hercule Poirot, the warning he had given her. Ridiculous! After all, why shouldn't she participate in this problem which she was sharing with Poirot? Poirot might choose to sit in a chair, put the tips of his
fingers together, and set his grey cells whirring to work while his body reclined comfortably within four walls. That was not the procedure that appealed to Ariadne Oliver. She had said, very forcibly, that she at least was going to do something. She was going to find out more about this mysterious girl. Where was Norma Restarick? What was she doing? What more could she, Ariadne Oliver, find out about her?

Mrs. Oliver prowled about, more and more disconsolate. What
could
one do? It wasn't very easy to decide. Go somewhere and ask questions? Should she go down to Long Basing? But Poirot had already been there—and found out presumably what there was to be found out. And what excuse could she offer for barging into Sir Roderick Horsefield's house?

She considered another visit to Borodene Mansions. Something still to be found out there, perhaps? She would have to think of another excuse for going there. She wasn't quite sure
what
excuse she would use but anyway, that seemed the only possible place where more information could be obtained. What was the time? Ten a.m. There were certain possibilities….

On the way there she concocted an excuse. Not a very original excuse. In fact, Mrs. Oliver would have liked to have found something more intriguing, but perhaps, she reflected prudently, it was just as well to keep to something completely everyday and plausible. She arrived at the stately if grim elevation of Borodene Mansions and walked slowly round the courtyard considering it.

A porter was conversing with a furniture van—A milkman, pushing his milk float, came to join Mrs. Oliver near the service lift.

He rattled bottles, cheerfully whistling, whilst Mrs. Oliver continued to stare abstractedly at the furniture van.

“Number 76 moving out,” explained the milkman to Mrs. Oliver, mistaking her interest. He transferred a clutch of bottles from his float to the lift.

“Not that she hasn't moved already in a manner of speaking,” he added, emerging again. He seemed a cheery kind of milkman.

He pointed a thumb upwards.

“Pitched herself out of a window—seventh floor—only a week ago, it was. Five o'clock in the morning. Funny time to choose.”

Mrs. Oliver didn't think it so funny.

“Why?”

“Why did she do it? Nobody knows. Balance of mind disturbed, they said.”

“Was she—young?”

“Nah! Just an old trout. Fifty if she was a day.”

Two men struggled in the van with a chest of drawers. It resisted them and two mahogany drawers crashed to the ground—a loose piece of paper floated toward Mrs. Oliver who caught it.

“Don't smash everything, Charlie,” said the cheerful milkman reprovingly, and went up in the lift with his cargo of bottles.

An altercation broke out between the furniture movers. Mrs. Oliver offered them the piece of paper, but they waved it away.

Making up her mind, Mrs. Oliver entered the building and went up to No. 67. A clank came from inside and presently the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a mop who was clearly engaged in household labours.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Oliver, using her favourite monosyllable. “Good morning. Is—I wonder—is anyone in?”

“No, I'm afraid not, Madam. They're all out. They've gone to work.”

“Yes, of course…As a matter of fact when I was here last I left a little diary behind.
So
annoying. It must be in the sitting room somewhere.”

“Well, I haven't picked up anything of the kind, Madam, as far as I know. Of course I mightn't have known it was yours. Would you like to come in?” She opened the door hospitably, set aside the mop with which she had been treating the kitchen floor, and accompanied Mrs. Oliver into the sitting room.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, determined to establish friendly relations, “yes, I see here—that's the book I left for Miss Restarick, Miss Norma. Is she back from the country yet?”

“I don't think she's living here at the moment. Her bed wasn't slept in. Perhaps she's still down with her people in the country. I know she was going there last weekend.”

“Yes, I expect that's it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “This was a book I brought her. One of
my
books.”

One of Mrs. Oliver's books did not seem to strike any chord of interest in the cleaning woman.

“I was sitting here,” went on Mrs. Oliver, patting an armchair, “at least I
think
so. And then I moved to the window and perhaps to the sofa.”

She dug down vehemently behind the cushions of the chair. The cleaning woman obliged by doing the same thing to the sofa cushions.

“You've no idea how maddening it is when one loses something like that,” went on Mrs. Oliver, chattily. “One has all one's
engagements written down there. I'm quite sure I'm lunching with someone very important today, and I can't remember who it was or where the luncheon was to be. Only, of course, it may be
tomorrow.
If so, I'm lunching with someone else
quite
different. Oh dear.”

“Very trying for you, ma'am, I'm sure,” said the cleaning woman with sympathy.

“They're such nice flats, these,” said Mrs. Oliver, looking round.

“A long way up.”

“Well, that gives you a very good view, doesn't it?”

“Yes, but if they face east you get a lot of cold wind in winter. Comes right through these metal window frames. Some people have had double windows put in. Oh yes, I wouldn't care for a flat facing this way in winter. No, give me a nice ground floor flat every time. Much more convenient too if you've got children. For prams and all that, you know. Oh yes, I'm all for the ground floor, I am. Think if there was to be a fire.”

“Yes, of course, that would be terrible,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I suppose there are fire escapes?”

“You can't always get to a fire door. Terrified of fire, I am. Always have been. And they're ever so expensive, these flats. You wouldn't believe the rents they ask! That's why Miss Holland, she gets two other girls to go in with her.”

“Oh yes, I think I met them both. Miss Cary's an artist, isn't she?”

“Works for an art gallery, she does. Don't work at it very hard, though. She paints a bit—cows and trees that you'd never recognise as being what they're meant to be. An untidy young lady. The state her room is in—you wouldn't believe it! Now Miss Holland,
everything is always as neat as a new pin. She was a secretary in the Coal Board at one time but she's a private secretary in the City now. She likes it better, she says. She's secretary to a very rich gentleman just come back from South America or somewhere like that. He's Miss Norma's father, and it was he who asked Miss Holland to take her as a boarder when the last young lady went off to get married—and she mentioned as she was looking for another girl. Well, she couldn't very well refuse, could she? Not since he was her employer.”

“Did she want to refuse?”

The woman sniffed.

“I think she would have—if she'd known.”

“Known what?” The question was too direct.

“It's not for me to say anything, I'm sure. It's not my business—”

Mrs. Oliver continued to look mildly inquiring. Mrs. Mop fell.

“It's not that she isn't a nice young lady. Scatty but then they're nearly all scatty. But I think as a doctor ought to see her. There are times when she doesn't seem to know rightly what she's doing, or where she is. It gives you quite a turn, sometimes—Looks just how my husband's nephew does after he's had a fit. (Terrible fits he has—you wouldn't believe!) Only I've never known her have fits. Maybe she takes things—a lot do.”

“I believe there is a young man her family doesn't approve of.”

“Yes, so I've heard. He's come here to call for her once or twice—though I've never seen him. One of these Mods by all accounts. Miss Holland doesn't like it—but what can you do nowadays? Girls go their own way.”

“Sometimes one feels very upset about girls nowadays,” said Mrs. Oliver, and tried to look serious and responsible.

“Not brought up right, that's what
I
says.”

“I'm afraid not. No, I'm afraid not. One feels really a girl like Norma Restarick would be better at home than coming all alone to London and earning her living as an interior decorator.”

“She don't like it at home.”

“Really?”

“Got a stepmother. Girls don't like stepmothers. From what I've heard the stepmother's done her best, tried to pull her up, tried to keep flashy young men out of the house, that sort of thing. She knows girls pick up with the wrong young man and a lot of harm may come of it. Sometimes—” the cleaning woman spoke impressively, “—I'm thankful I've never had any daughters.”

“Have you got sons?”

“Two boys, we've got. One's doing very well at school, and the other one, he's in a printer's, doing well there too. Yes, very nice boys they are. Mind you, boys can cause you trouble, too. But girls is more worrying, I think. You feel you ought to be able to do something about them.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, thoughtfully, “one does feel that.”

She saw signs of the cleaning woman wishing to return to her cleaning.

“It's too bad about my diary,” she said. “Well, thank you very much and I hope I haven't wasted your time.”

“Well, I hope you'll find it, I'm sure,” said the other woman obligingly.

Mrs. Oliver went out of the flat and considered what she should do next. She couldn't think of anything she could do further that day, but a plan for tomorrow began to form in her mind.

When she got home, Mrs. Oliver, in an important way, got out
a notebook and jotted down in it various things under the heading “Facts I have learned.” On the whole the facts did not amount to very much but Mrs. Oliver, true to her calling, managed to make the most of them that could be made. Possibly the fact that Claudia Reece-Holland was employed by Norma's father was the most salient fact of any. She had not known that before, she rather doubted if Hercule Poirot had known it either. She thought of ringing him up on the telephone and acquainting him with it but decided to keep it to herself for the moment because of her plan for the morrow. In fact, Mrs. Oliver felt at this moment less like a detective novelist than like an ardent bloodhound. She was on the trail, nose down on the scent, and tomorrow morning—well, tomorrow morning we would see.

True to her plan, Mrs. Oliver rose early, partook of two cups of tea and a boiled egg and started out on her quest. Once more she arrived in the vicinity of Borodene Mansions. She wondered whether she might be getting a bit well known there, so this time she did not enter the courtyard, but skulked around either one entrance to it or the other, scanning the various people who were turning out into the morning drizzle to trot off on their way to work. They were mostly girls, and looked deceptively alike. How extraordinary human beings were when you considered them like this, emerging purposefully from these large tall buildings—just like anthills, thought Mrs. Oliver. One had never considered an anthill properly, she decided. It always looked so aimless, as one disturbed it with the toe of a shoe. All those little things rushing about with bits of grass in their mouths, streaming along industriously, worried, anxious, looking as though they were running to and fro and going nowhere, but presumably they were just as well organised as these
human beings here. That man, for instance, who had just passed her. Scurrying along, muttering to himself. “I wonder what's upsetting
you,
” thought Mrs. Oliver. She walked up and down a little more, then she drew back suddenly.

Claudia Reece-Holland came out of the entranceway walking at a brisk businesslike pace. As before, she looked very well turned out. Mrs. Oliver turned away so that she should not be recognised. Once she had allowed Claudia to get a sufficient distance ahead of her, she wheeled round again and followed in her tracks. Claudia Reece-Holland came to the end of the street and turned right into a main thoroughfare. She came to a bus stop and joined the queue. Mrs. Oliver, still following her, felt a momentary uneasiness. Supposing Claudia should turn round, look at her, recognise her? All Mrs. Oliver could think of was to do several protracted but noiseless blows of the nose. But Claudia Reece-Holland seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts. She looked at none of her fellow waiters for buses. Mrs. Oliver was about third in the queue behind her. Finally the right bus came and there was a surge forward. Claudia got on the bus and went straight up to the top. Mrs. Oliver got inside and was able to get a seat close to the door as the uncomfortable third person. When the conductor came round for fares Mrs. Oliver pressed a reckless one and sixpence into his hand. After all, she had no idea by what route the bus went or indeed how far the distance was to what the cleaning woman had described vaguely as “one of those new buildings by St. Paul's.” She was on the alert and ready when the venerable dome was at last sighted. Anytime now, she thought to herself, and fixed a steady eye on those who descended from the platform above. Ah yes, there came Claudia,
neat and chic in her smart suit. She got off the bus. Mrs. Oliver followed her in due course and kept at a nicely calculated distance.