Third Girl. Agatha Christie
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Mary Restarick spoke sharply. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
The young man was by no means taken aback. ‘Startled you?’ he asked. ‘So sorry.’
‘What are you doing here—in this house? You—have you come down here with Norma?’
‘Norma? No, I hoped to find her here.’
‘Find her here—what do you mean? She’s in London.’
‘Oh, but my dear, she isn’t. At any rate, she’s not at 67 Borodene Mansions.’
‘What do you mean, she isn’t there?’
‘Well, since she didn’t come back this weekend, I thought she was probably here with you. I came down to see what she was up to.’
‘She left here Sunday night as usual.’ She added in an angry voice, ‘Why didn’t you ring the bell and let us know you were here? What are you doing roaming about the house?’
‘Really, darling, you seem to be thinking I’m going to pinch the spoons or something. Surely it’s natural to walk into a house in broad daylight. Why ever not?’
‘Well, we’re old-fashioned and we don’t like it.’
‘Oh dear, dear.’ David sighed. ‘The fuss everyone makes. Well, my dear, if I’m not going to have a welcome and you don’t seem to know where your stepdaughter is, I suppose I’d better be moving along. Shall I turn out my pockets before I go?’
‘Don’t be absurd, David.’
‘Ta-ta, then.’ The young man passed them, waved an airy hand and went on down and out through the open front door.
‘Horrible creature,’ said Mary Restarick, with a sharpness of rancour that startled Poirot. ‘I can’t bear him. I simply can’t stand him. Why is England absolutely full of these people nowadays?’
‘Ah, Madame, do not disquiet yourself. It is all a question of fashion. There have always been fashions. You see less in the country, but in London you meet plenty of them.’
‘Dreadful,’ said Mary. ‘Absolutely dreadful. Effeminate, exotic.’
‘And yet not unlike a Vandyke portrait, do you not think so, Madame? In a gold frame, wearing a lace collar, you would not then say he was effeminate or exotic.’
‘Daring to come down here like that. Andrew would have been furious. It worries him dreadfully. Daughters can be very worrying. It’s not even as though Andrew knew Norma well. He’s been abroad since she was a child. He left her entirely to her mother to bring up, and now he finds her a complete puzzle. So do I for that matter. I can’t help feeling that she is a very odd type of girl. One has no kind of authority over them these days. They seem to like the worst type of young men. She’s absolutely infatuated with this David Baker. One can’t do anything. Andrew forbade him the house, and look, he turns up here, walks in as cool as a cucumber. I think—I almost think I’d better not tell Andrew. I don’t want him to be unduly worried. I believe she goes about with this creature in London, and not only with him. There are some much worse ones even. The kind that don’t wash, completely unshaven faces and funny sprouting beards and greasy clothes.’
Poirot said cheerfully, ‘Alas, Madame, you must not distress yourself. The indiscretions of youth pass.’
‘I hope so, I’m sure. Norma is a very difficult girl. Sometimes I think she’s not right in the head. She’s so peculiar. She really looks sometimes as though she isn’t all there. These extraordinary dislikes she takes—’
‘Dislikes?’
‘She hates me. Really hates me. I don’t see why it’s necessary. I suppose she was very devoted to her mother, but after all it’s only reasonable that her father should marry again, isn’t it?’
‘Do you think she really hates you?’
‘Oh, I know she does. I’ve had ample proof of it. I can’t say how relieved I was when she went off to London. I didn’t want to make trouble—’ She stopped suddenly. It was as though for the first time she realised that she was talking to a stranger.
Poirot had the capacity to attract confidences. It was as though when people were talking to him they hardly realised who it was they were talking to. She gave a short laugh now.
‘Dear me,’ she said, ‘I don’t really know why I’m saying all this to you. I expect every family has these problems. Poor stepmothers, we have a hard time of it. Ah, here we are.’
She tapped on a door.
‘Come in, come in.’
It was a stentorian roar.
‘Here is a visitor to see you, Uncle,’ said Mary Restarick, as she walked into the room, Poirot behind her.
A broad-shouldered, square-faced, red-cheeked, irascible looking elderly man had been pacing the floor. He stumped forward towards them. At the table behind him a girl was sitting sorting letters and papers. Her head was bent over them, a sleek, dark head.
‘This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot, Uncle Roddy,’ said Mary Restarick.
Poirot stepped forward gracefully into action and speech. ‘Ah, Sir Roderick, it is many years—many years since I have had the pleasure of meeting you. We have to go back, so far as the last war. It was, I think, in Normandy the last time. How well I remember, there was there also Colonel Race and there was General Abercromby and there was Air-Marshal Sir Edmund Collingsby. What decisions we had to take! And what difficulties we had with security. Ah, nowadays, there is no longer the need for secrecy. I recall the unmasking of that secret agent who succeeded for so long—you remember Captain Henderson.’
‘Ah. Captain Henderson indeed. Lord, that damned swine! Unmasked!’
‘You may not remember me, Hercule Poirot.’
‘Yes, yes, of course I remember you. Ah, it was a close shave that, a close shave. You were the French representative, weren’t you? There were one or two of them, one I couldn’t get on with—can’t remember his name. Ah well, sit down, sit down. Nothing like having a chat over old days.’
‘I feared so much that you might not remember me or my colleague, Monsieur Giraud.’
‘Yes, yes, of course I remember both of you. Ah, those were the days, those were the days indeed.’
The girl at the table got up. She moved a chair politely towards Poirot.
‘That’s right, Sonia, that’s right,’ said Sir Roderick. ‘Let me introduce you,’ he said, ‘to my charming little secretary here. Makes a great difference to me. Helps me, you know, files all my work. Don’t know how I ever got on without her.’
Poirot bowed politely. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he murmured.
The girl murmured something in rejoinder. She was a small creature with black bobbed hair. She looked shy. Her dark blue eyes were usually modestly cast down, but she smiled up sweetly and shyly at her employer. He patted her on the shoulder.
‘Don’t know what I should do without her,’ he said. ‘I don’t really.’
‘Oh, no,’ the girl protested. ‘I am not much good really. I cannot type very fast.’
‘You type quite fast enough, my dear. You’re my memory, too. My eyes and my ears and a great many other things.’
She smiled again at him.
‘One remembers,’ murmured Poirot, ‘some of the excellent stories that used to go the round. I don’t know if they were exaggerated or not. Now, for instance, the day that someone stole your car and—’ he proceeded to follow up the tale.
Sir Roderick was delighted. ‘Ha, ha, of course now. Yes, indeed, well, bit of exaggeration, I expect. But on the whole, that’s how it was. Yes, yes, well, fancy your remembering