Third Girl. Agatha Christie
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is not at all the same type of name.’
‘Yes it is. It’s a Cornish name, isn’t it?’
‘There lives there then, Mr and Mrs Restarick, the distinguished elderly uncle. Is his name Restarick too?’
‘It’s Sir Roderick something.’
‘And there is the au pair girl, or whatever she is, and a daughter—any more children?’
‘I don’t think so—but I don’t really know. The daughter doesn’t live at home, by the way. She was only down for the weekend. Doesn’t get on with the stepmother, I expect. She’s got a job in London, and she’s picked up with a boy friend they don’t much like, so I understand.’
‘You seem to know quite a lot about the family.’
‘Oh well, one picks things up. The Lorrimers are great talkers. Always chattering about someone or other. One hears a lot of gossip about the people all around. Sometimes, though, one gets them mixed up. I probably have. I wish I could remember that girl’s Christian name. Something connected with a song… Thora? Speak to me, Thora. Thora, Thora. Something like that, or Myra? Myra, oh Myra my love is all for thee. Something like that. I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls. Norma? Or do I mean Maritana? Norma—Norma Restarick. That’s right, I’m sure.’ She added inconsequently, ‘She’s a third girl.’
‘I thought you said you thought she was an only child.’
‘So she is—or I think so.’
‘Then what do you mean by saying she is the third girl?’
‘Good gracious, don’t you know what a third girl is? Don’t you read The Times?’
‘I read the births, deaths, and marriages. And such articles as I find of interest.’
‘No, I mean the front advertisement page. Only it isn’t in the front now. So I’m thinking of taking some other paper. But I’ll show you.’
She went to a side table and snatched up The Times, turned the pages over and brought it to him. ‘Here you are—look. “THIRD GIRL for comfortable second floor flat, own room, central heating, Earl’s Court.” “Third girl wanted to share flat. 5gns. week own room.” “4th girl wanted. Regent’s park. Own room.” It’s the way girls like living now. Better than PGs or a hostel. The main girl takes a furnished flat, and then shares out the rent. Second girl is usually a friend. Then they find a third girl by advertising if they don’t know one. And, as you see, very often they manage to squeeze in a fourth girl. First girl takes the best room, second girl pays rather less, third girl less still and is stuck in a cat-hole. They fix it among themselves which one has the flat to herself which night a week—or something like that. It works reasonably well.’
‘And where does this girl whose name might just possibly be Norma live in London?’
‘As I’ve told you I don’t really know anything about her.’
‘But you could find out?’
‘Oh yes, I expect that would be quite easy.’
‘You are sure there was no talk, no mention of an unexpected death?’
‘Do you mean a death in London—or at the Restaricks’ home?’
‘Either.’
‘I don’t think so. Shall I see what I can rake up?’
Mrs Oliver’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She was by now entering into the spirit of the thing.
‘That would be very kind.’
‘I’ll ring up the Lorrimers. Actually now would be quite a good time.’ She went towards the telephone. ‘I shall have to think of reasons and things—perhaps invent things?’
She looked towards Poirot rather doubtfully.
‘But naturally. That is understood. You are a woman of imagination—you will have no difficulty. But—not too fantastic, you understand. Moderation.’
Mrs Oliver flashed him an understanding glance.
She dialled and asked for the number she wanted. Turning her head, she hissed: ‘Have you got a pencil and paper—or a notebook—something to write down names or addresses or places?’
Poirot had already his notebook arranged by his elbow and nodded his head reassuringly.
Mrs Oliver turned back to the receiver she held and launched herself into speech. Poirot listened attentively to one side of a telephone conversation.
‘Hallo. Can I speak to—Oh, it’s you, Naomi. Ariadne Oliver here. Oh, yes—well, it was rather a crowd… Oh, you mean the old boy?… No, you know I don’t… Practically blind?… I thought he was going up to London with the little foreign girl… Yes, it must be rather worrying for them sometimes—but she seems to manage him quite well… One of the things I rang up for was to ask you what the girl’s address was—No, the Restarick girl, I mean—somewhere in South Ken, isn’t it? Or was it Knightsbridge? Well, I promised her a book and I wrote down the address, but of course I’ve lost it as usual. I can’t even remember her name. Is it Thora or Norma?… Yes, I thought it was Norma:… Wait a minute, I’ll get a pencil… Yes, I’m ready…67 Borodene Mansions… I know—that great block that looks rather like Wormwood Scrubs prison… Yes, I believe the flats are very comfortable with central heating and everything… Who are the other two girls she lives with?… Friends of hers?…or advertisements?… Claudia Reece-Holland…her father’s the MP, is he? Who’s the other one?… No, I suppose you wouldn’t know—she’s quite nice, too, I suppose… What do they all do? They always seem to be secretaries, don’t they?… Oh, the other girl’s an interior decorator—you think—or to do with an art gallery—No, Naomi, of course I don’t really want to know—one just wonders—what do all the girls do nowadays?—well, it’s useful for me to know because of my books—one wants to keep up to date… What was it you told me about some boy friend… Yes, but one’s so helpless, isn’t one? I mean girls do just exactly as they like…does he look very awful? Is he the unshaven dirty kind? Oh, that kind—Brocade waistcoats, and long curling chestnut hair—lying on his shoulders—yes, so hard to tell whether they’re girls or boys, isn’t it?—Yes, they do look like Vandykes sometimes if they’re good looking… What did you say? That Andrew Restarick simply hates him?… Yes, men usually do… Mary Restarick?… Well, I suppose you do usually have rows with a stepmother. I expect she was quite thankful when the girl got a job in London. What do you mean about people saying things… Why, couldn’t they find out what was the matter with her?… Who said?… Yes, but what did they hush up?… Oh—a nurse?—talked to the Jenners’ governess? Do you mean her husband? Oh, I see—The doctors couldn’t find out… No, but people are so ill-natured. I do agree with you. These things are usually quite untrue… Oh, gastric, was it?… But how ridiculous. Do you mean people said what’s his name—Andrew—You mean it would be easy with all those weed killers about—Yes, but why?… I mean, it’s not a case of some wife he’s hated for years—she’s the second wife—and much younger than he is and good looking… Yes, I suppose that could be—but why should the foreign girl want to either?… You mean she might have resented things that Mrs Restarick said to her… She’s quite an attractive little thing—I suppose Andrew might have taken a fancy to her—nothing serious of course—but it might have annoyed Mary, and then she might have pitched into the girl and—’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs Oliver perceived Poirot signalling wildly to her.
‘Just a moment, darling,’ said Mrs Oliver into the telephone. ‘It’s the baker.’ Poirot looked affronted. ‘Hang on.’
She laid down the receiver, hurried across the room, and backed Poirot into a breakfast nook.
‘Yes,’ she demanded breathlessly.