by Mark Place
"Oh, well, it's rather difficult. I mean—" Poirot felt that she might need perhaps a little assistance. He said helpfully, "My manservant told me that you wanted to consult me because you thought you 'might have committed a murder'. Is that correct?"
The girl nodded. "That's right."
"Surely that is not a matter that admits of any doubt. You must know yourself whether you have committed a murder or not."
"Well, I don't know quite how to put it. I mean — "
"Come now," said Poirot kindly. "Sit down. Relax the muscles. Tell me all about it."
I don't think — oh dear, I don't know how to — You see, it's all so difficult. I've — I've changed my mind. I don't want to be rude but — well, I think I'd better go."
"Come now. Courage."
"No, I can't. I thought I could come and — and ask you, ask you what I ought to do but I can't, you see. It's all so different from"
"From what?"
"I'm awfully sorry and I really don't want to be rude, but" She breathed an enormous sigh, looked at Poirot, looked away, and suddenly blurted out, "You're too old. Nobody told me you were so old. I really don't want to be rude but — there it is. You're too old. I'm really very sorry." She turned abruptly and blundered out of the room, rather like a desperate moth in lamplight. Poirot, his mouth open, heard the bang of the front door. He ejaculated: "Non (fun nom fun nom..."
CHAPTER TWO
THE telephone rang. Hercule Poirot did not even seem aware of the fact. It rang with shrill and insistent persistence. George entered the room and stepped towards it, turning a questioning glance towards Poirot. Poirot gestured with his hand. "Leave it," he said.
George obeyed, leaving the room again. The telephone continued to ring. The shrill irritating noise continued. Suddenly it stopped. After a minute or two, however, it commenced to ring again.
"Ah Sapristi! That must be a woman - undoubtedly a woman." He sighed, rose to his feet and came to the instrument.
He picked up the receiver. "'Allo" he said.
"Are you - is that M. Poirot?"
"I, myself"
"It's Mrs. Oliver - your voice sounds different. I didn't recognise it at first."
"Bonjour, Madame — you are well, I hope?"
"Oh, I'm all right." Ariadne Oliver's voice came through in its usual cheerful accents. The well-known detective story writer and Hercule Poirot were on friendly terms.
"It's rather early to ring you up, but I want to ask you a favour." "Yes?"
"It is the annual dinner of our Detective Authors' Club; I wondered if you would come and be our Guest Speaker this year. It would be very, very sweet of you if you would."
"When is this?"
"Next month — the twenty-third." A deep sigh came over the telephone.
"Alas! I am too old."
"Too old? What on earth do you mean? You're not old at all.
"You think not?"
"Of course not. You'll be wonderful. You can tell us lots of lovely stories about real crimes."
"And who will want to listen?"
"Everyone. They—M. Poirot, is there anything the matter? Has something happened? You sound upset."
"Yes, I am upset. My feelings -- ah well, no matter."
"But tell me about it."
"Why should I make a fuss?"
"Why shouldn't you? You'd better come and tell me all about it. When will you come? This afternoon. Come and have tea with me."
"Afternoon tea, I do not drink it."
"Then you can have coffee."
"It is not the time of day I usually drink coffee."
"Chocolate? With whipped cream on top? Or a tisane. You love sipping tisanes, Or lemonade, Or orangeade, Or would you like decaffeinated coffee if I can get it"
"Ah pa, par exemple? It is an abomination."
"One of those sirups you like so much. I know, I've got half a bottle of Ribena in the cupboard."
"What is Ribena."
"Black-currant flavour."
"Indeed, one has to hand it to you! You really do try, Madame. I am touched by your solicitude. I will accept with pleasure to drink a cup of chocolate this afternoon."
"Good. And then you'll tell me all about what's upset you." She then rang off.
Poirot considered for a moment. Then he dialled a number. Presently he said: "Mr. Goby? Hercule Poirot here, are you very fully occupied at this moment?"
"Middling" said the voice of Mr. Goby. "Middling to fair, but to oblige you. Monsieur Poirot, if you're in a hurry, as you usually are - well, I wouldn't say that my young men couldn't manage mostly what's on hand at present. Of course good boys aren't as easy to get as they used to be. Think too much of themselves nowadays. Think they know it all before they've started to learn. But there! Can't expect old heads on young shoulders. I'll be pleased to put myself at your disposal, M. Poirot. Maybe I can put one or two of the better lads on the job. I suppose it's the usual - collecting information?"
He nodded his head and listened whilst Poirot went into details of exactly what he wanted done. When he had finished with Mr. Goby, Poirot rang up Scotland Yard where in due course he got through to a friend of his. When he in turn had listened to Poirot's requirements, he replied, "Don't want much, do you? Any murder, anywhere. Time, place and victim unknown. Sounds a bit of a wild goose chase, if you ask me old boy." He added disapprovingly, "You don't seem to know anything.”
At 4.15 that afternoon Poirot sat in Mrs. Oliver's drawing-room sipping appreciatively at a large cup of chocolate topped with foaming whipped cream which his hostess had just placed on a small table beside him. She added a small plate full of langue de chats biscuits.
"Chere Madame, what kindness." He looked over his cup with faint surprise at Mrs. Oliver's coiffure and also at her new wallpaper. Both were new to him. The last time he had seen Mrs. Oliver, her hair style had been plain and severe. It now displayed a richness of coils and twists arranged in intricate patterns all over her head. Its prolific luxury was, he suspected, largely artificial. He debated in his mind how many switches of hair might unexpectedly fall off if Mrs. Oliver was to get suddenly excited, as was her wont. As for the wallpaper. "These cherries — they are new?" he waved a teaspoon. It was, he felt, rather like being in a cherry orchard.
"Are there too many of them, do you think?" said Mrs. Oliver. "So hard to fell beforehand with wallpaper. Do you think my old was better?"
Poirot cast his mind back dimly to what he seemed to remember as large quantities of bright coloured tropical birds in a forest. He felt inclined to remark "Plus pa change plus c’est la meme chose” but restrained himself.
"And now," said Mrs. Oliver, as her guest finally replaced his cup on its saucer and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of foaming cream from his moustache, "what is all this about?"
"That I can tell you very simply. This morning a girl came to see me. I suggested she might make an appointment. One has one's routine, you comprehend. She sent back word that she wanted to see me at once because she thought she might have committed a murder."
"What an odd thing to say. Didn't she know?"
"Precisely! C'est mom! so I instructed George to show her in. She stood there! She refused to sit down. She just stood there staring at me. She seemed quite half witted. I tried to encourage her. Then suddenly she said that she'd changed her mind. She said she didn't want to be rude but that (what do you think?) but that I was too old..."
Mrs. Oliver hastened to utter soothing words. "Oh well, girls are like that. Anyone over thirty-five they think is half dead. They've no sense, girls, you must realise that."
"It wounded me," said Hercule Poirot.
"Well, I shouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Of course it was a very rude thing to say."
"That does not matter. And it is not only my feelings. I am worried. Yes, I am worried."
"Well, I should forget all about it if I were you," advised Mrs. Oliver comfortably.
"You do not understa
nd. I am worried about this girl. She came to me for help. Then she decided that I was too old. Too old to be of any use to her. She was wrong of course, that goes without saying and then she just ran away. But I tell you that girl needs help."
"I don't suppose she does really," said Mrs. Oliver soothingly. "Girls make a fuss about things."
"No. You are wrong. She needs help."
"You don't think she really has committed a murder?"
"Why not? She said she had."
"Yes, but" Mrs. Oliver stopped. "She said she might have," she said slowly. “But what can she possibly mean by that?"
"Exactly. It does not make sense."
"Who did she murder or did she think she murdered?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "And why did she murder someone?" Again Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course it could be all sorts of things." Mrs. Oliver began to brighten as she set her ever prolific imagination to work. "She could have run over someone in her car and not stopped. She could have been assaulted by a man on a cliff and struggled with him and managed to push him over. She could have given someone the wrong medicine by mistake. She could have gone to one of those purple pill parties and had a fight with someone. She could have come to and found she had stabbed someone. She"
"Assez, madame, assez" But Mrs. Oliver was well away. "She might have been a nurse in the operating theatre and administered the wrong anaesthetic of" she broke off, suddenly anxious for clearer details. "What did she look like?" Poirot considered for a moment. "An Ophelia devoid of physical attraction."
"Oh dear," said Mrs. Oliver. "I can almost see her when you say that. How queer."
"She is not competent," said Poirot.
"That is how I see her. She is not one who can cope with difficulties. She is not one of those who can see beforehand the danger that must come. She is one of whom others will look round and say “We want a victim. That one will do" But Mrs. Oliver was no longer listening. She was clutching her rich coils of hair with both hands in a gesture with which Poirot was familiar.
"Wait," she cried in a kind of agony.
"Wait!" Poirot waited, his eyebrows raised.
"You didn't tell me her name," said Mrs. Oliver.
"She did not give it. Unfortunate, I agree with you."
"Wait!" implored Mrs. Oliver, again with the same agony. She relaxed her grip on her head and uttered a deep sigh. Hair detached itself from its bonds and tumbled over her shoulders’, a super imperial coil of hair detached itself completely and fell on the floor. Poirot picked it up and put it discreetly on the table.
“Now then," said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly restored to calm. She pushed in a hairpin or two, and nodded her head while she thought. "Who told this girl about you, M. Poirot?"
"No one so far as I know. Naturally, she had heard about me no doubt."
Mrs. Oliver thought that "naturally" was not the word at all. What was natural was that Poirot himself was sure that everyone had always heard of him. Actually large numbers of people would only look at you blankly if the name of Hercule Poirot was mentioned, especially the younger generation. "But how am I going to put that to him?" thought Mrs. Oliver, "in such a way that it won't hurt his feelings?"
"I think you're wrong," she said. "Girls —well, girls and young men they don't know very much about detectives and things like that. They don't hear about them."
"Everyone must have heard about Hercule Poirot," said Poirot, superbly. It was an article of belief for Hercule Poirot.
"But they are all so badly educated nowadays," said Mrs. Oliver. "Really, the only people whose names they know are pop singers, or Groups, or disc jockeys that sort of thing. If you need someone special, I mean a doctor or a detective or a dentist—well, then, I mean you would ask someone — ask who's the right person to go to? And then the other person says — 'My dear, you must go to that absolutely wonderful man in Queen Anne's Street, twists your legs three times round your head and you're cured', or 'All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have been furious, so I couldn't go to the police, but there's a simply uncanny detective, most discreet, and he got them back for me and Henry never knew a thing.' That's the way it happens all the time. Someone sent that girl to you."
"I doubt it very much."
"You wouldn't know until you were told. And you're going to be told now. It's only just come to me. I sent that girl to you."
Poirot stared. "You? But why did you not say so at once?"
"Because it's only just come to me when you spoke about Ophelia — long wet-looking hair, and rather plain. It seemed a description of someone I'd actually seen. Quite lately. And then it came to me who it was."
"Who is she?"
"I don't actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talking about private detectives and private eyes — and I spoke about you and some of the amazing things you had done."
"And you gave her my address?"
"No, of course I didn't. I'd no idea she wanted a detective or anything like that. I thought we were just talking. But I'd mentioned the name several times, and of course it would be easy to look you up in the telephone book and just come along." "Were you talking about murder?"
"Not that I can remember. I don't even know how we came to be talking about detectives unless, yes, perhaps it was she who started the subject..."
"Tell me then, tell me all you can— even if you do not know her name, tell me all you know about her."
"Well, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don't come into it except that they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there—and I didn't enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don't really like drink, and so people have to find a soft drink for, me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me - you know - how much they like my books, and how they've been longing to meet me - and it all makes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I managed to cope more or less. And they say how much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But my publisher always says I'm not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real life grew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing around listening. When you said an unattractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought, "now who does that remind me of?' And then it came to me: "Of course. The girl at the party that day.' I rather think she belonged there unless I'm confusing her with some other girl." Poirot sighed. With Mrs. Oliver one always needed a lot of patience. "Who were these people with whom you went to have drinks?" "Trefusis, I think, unless it was Treherne. That sort of name -- he's a tycoon. Rich. Something in the City, but he's spent most of his life in South Africa"
"He has a wife?"
"Yes. Very good-looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots of golden hair. Second wife. The daughter was the first wife's daughter. Then there was an uncle of incredible antiquity. Rather deaf. He's frightfully distinguished -- strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an air marshal or something. He's an astronomer too, I think. Anyway, he's got a kind of big telescope sticking out of the roof. Though I suppose that might be just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too, who sort of trots about after the old boy. Goes up to London with him, I believe, and see he doesn't get run over. Rather pretty, she was."
Poirot sorted out the information Mrs. Oliver had supplied him with, feeling rather like a human computer. "there lives then in the house Mr. and Mrs. Trefusis"
"It's not Trefusis - I remember now -It's Restarick."
"That 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 boyfriend 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. 8gns. week own room. 9th girl wanted. Regents Park. Own room.' It's the way girls like living now. Better than P.G.s 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?"
