by Mark Place
"But aren't you going to do something?"
"Not till the right moment," said Poirot.
"Well, I shall," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Pray, pray be very careful' he implored her.
"What nonsense! What could happen to me?"
"Where there is murder, anything can happen. I tell that to you. I, Poirot."
CHAPTER SIX
MR. GOBY sat in a chair. He was a small shrunken little man, so nondescript as to be practically non-existent. He looked attentively at the claw foot of an antique table and addressed his remarks to it. He never addressed anybody direct.
"Glad you got the names for me, Mr. Poirot," he said. "Otherwise, you know, it might have taken a lot of time. As it is, I've got the main facts and a bit of gossip on the side... always useful, that. I'll begin at Borodene Mansions, shall I?" Poirot inclined his head graciously.
"Plenty of porters," Mr. Goby informed the clock on the chimney piece. "I started there, used one or two different young men. Expensive, but worth it. Didn't want it thought that there was anyone making any particular enquiries! Shall I use initials, or names?"
"Within these walls you can use the names," said Poirot.
"Miss Claudia Reece-Holland spoken of as a very nice young lady. Father an M.P. Ambitious man. Gets himself in the news a lot. She's his only daughter. She does secretarial work. Serious girl. No wild parties, no drink, no beatniks. Shares flat with two others. Number two works for the Wedderburn Gallery in Bond Street. Arty type. Whoops it up a bit with the Chelsea set. Goes around to places arranging exhibitions and art shows.”
"The third one is your one. Not been there long. General opinion is that she's a bit 'wanting'. Not all there in the top story. But it's all a bit vague. One of the porters is a gossipy type. Buy him a drink or two and you'll be surprised at the things he'll tell you! Who drinks, and who drugs, and who's having trouble with his income tax, and who keeps his cash behind the cistern. Of course you can't believe it all. Anyway, there was some story about a revolver being fired one night."
"A revolver fired? Was anyone injured?"
"There seems a bit of doubt as to that. His story is he heard a shot fired one night, and he comes out and there was this girl, your girl, standing there with a revolver in her hand. She looked sort of dazed. And then one of the other young ladies -- or both of them, in fact -- they come running along. And Miss Cary (that's the arty one) says 'Norma, what on earth have you done? and Miss Reece-Holland, she says sharp like, 'Shut up, can't you, Frances. Don't be a fool' and she took the revolver away from your girl and says "Give me that.' She slams it into her handbag and then she notices this chap Micky, and goes over to him and says, laughing like, "that must have startled you, didn't it?' and Micky he says it gave him quite a turn, and she says 'You needn't worry. Matter of fact, we'd no idea this thing was loaded.
We were just fooling about.' And then she says: 'Anyway, if anybody asks you questions, tell them it is quite all right.' And then she says: 'Come on, Norma' and took her arm and led her along to the elevator, and they all went up again. "But Micky said he was a bit doubtful still. He went and had a good look round the courtyard."
Mr. Goby lowered his eyes and quoted from his notebook: cc 'I'll tell you, I found something, I did! I found some wet patches. Sure as anything I did. Drops of blood they were. I touched them with my finger. I tell you what I think. Somebody had been shot — some man as he was running away... I went upstairs and I asked if I could speak to Miss Holland. I says to her: "I think there may have been someone shot. Miss" I says. "There are some drops of blood in the courtyard."
"Good gracious," she says, "How ridiculous. I expect, you know," she says, "it must have been one of the pigeons." And then she says: "I'm sorry if it gave you a turn. Forget about it," and she slipped me a five pound note. Five pound note, no less! Well, naturally, I didn't open my mouth after that.' "And then, after another whisky, he comes out with some more. 'If you ask me, she took a pot shot at that low class young chap that comes to see her. I think she and he had a row and she did her best to shoot him. That's what I think. But least said soonest mended, so I'm not repeating it. If anyone asks me anything I'll say I don't know what they're talking about'." Mr. Goby paused. "Interesting," said Poirot.
"Yes, but ifs as likely as not that it's a pack of lies. Nobody else seems to know anything about it. There's a story about a gang of young thugs who came barging into the courtyard one night, and had a bit of a fight — flick-knives out and all that."
"I see," said Poirot. "Another possible source of blood in the courtyard."
"Maybe the girl did have a row with her young man, threatened to shoot him, perhaps. And Micky overheard it and mixed the whole thing up — especially if there was a car backfiring just then."
"Yes," said Hercule Poirot, and sighed, "that would account for things quite well." Mr. Goby turned over another leaf of his notebook and selected his confidant. He chose an electric radiator.
"Joshua Restarick Ltd. Family firm. Been going over a hundred years. Well thought of in the City. Always very sound. Nothing spectacular. Founded by Joshua Restarick in 1850. Launched out after the first war, with greatly increased investments abroad, mostly South Africa, West Africa and Australia. Simon and Andrew Restarick — the last of the Restaricks. Simon, the elder brother, died about a year ago, no children. His wife had died some years previously. Andrew Restarick seems to have been a restless chap. His heart was never really in the business though everyone says he had plenty of ability. Finally ran off with some woman, leaving his wife and a daughter of five years old. Went to South Africa, Kenya, and various other places. No divorce. His wife died two years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. He travelled about a lot, and wherever he went he seems to have made money. Concessions for minerals mostly. Everything he touched prospered.”
"After his brother's death, he seems to have decided it was time to settle down. He'd married again and he thought the right thing to do was to come back and make a home for his daughter. They're living at the moment with his uncle Sir Roderick Horsefield--uncle by marriage that is. That's only temporary. His wife's looking at houses all over London. Expense no object. They're rolling in money."
Poirot sighed. "I know," he said. "What you outline to me is a success story! Everyone makes money! Everybody is of good family and highly respected. Their relations are distinguished. They are well thought of in business circles.
"There is only one cloud in the sky. A girl who is said to be 'a bit wanting', a girl who is mixed up with a dubious boyfriend who has been on probation more than once. A girl who may quite possibly have tried to poison her stepmother, and who either suffers from hallucinations, or else has committed a crime! I tell you, none of that accords well with the success story you have brought me."
Mr. Goby shook his head sadly and said rather obscurely: "There's one in every family."
"This Mrs. Restarick is quite a young woman. I presume she is not the woman he originally ran away with?"
"Oh no, that bust up quite soon. She was a pretty bad lot by all accounts, and a tartar as well. He was a fool ever to be taken in by her." Mr. Goby shut his notebook and looked enquiringly at Poirot. "Anything more you want me to do?"
"Yes. I want to know a little more about the late Mrs. Andrew Restarick. She was an invalid, frequently in nursing homes.”
“What kind of nursing homes?
“Mental homes?"
"I take your point, Mr. Poirot."
"And any history of insanity in the family -- on either side?" "I'll see to it, Mr. Poirot." Mr. Goby rose to his feet.
"Then I'll take leave of you, sir. Goodnight." Poirot remained thoughtful after Mr. Goby had left. He raised and lowered his eyebrows. He wondered, he wondered very much. Then he rang Mrs. Oliver: "I told you before," he said, "to be careful. I repeat that- Be very careful."
"Careful of what?" said Mrs. Oliver.
"Of yourself. I think there might be danger. Danger to anyone
who goes poking about where they are not wanted. There is murder in the air - I do not want it to be yours."
"Have you had the information you said you might have?" "Yes," said Poirot, "I have had a little information. Mostly rumour and gossip, but it seems something happened at Borodene Mansions."
"What sort of thing?"
"Blood in the courtyard," said Poirot.
"Really!" said Mrs. Oliver. "That's just like the title of an old-fashioned detective story. The Stain on the Staircase. I mean nowadays you say something more like She asked for Death."
"Perhaps there may not have been blood in the courtyard. Perhaps it is only what an imaginative, Irish porter imagined."
"Probably an upset milk bottle," said Mrs. Oliver. "He couldn't see it at night. What happened?"
Poirot did not answer directly. "The girl thought she 'might have committed a murder'. Was that the murder she meant?"
"You mean she did shoot someone?"
"One might presume that she did shoot at someone, but for all intents and purposes missed them. A few drops of blood. That was all. No body."
"Oh dear," said Mrs. Oliver, "it's all very confused. Surely if anyone could still run out of a courtyard, you wouldn't think you'd killed him, would you?"
"C'est difficile," said Poirot, and rang off.
II
"I'm worried," said Claudia Reece Holland. She refilled her cup from the coffee percolator. Frances Cary gave an enormous yawn. Both girls were breakfasting in the small kitchen of the flat. Claudia was dressed and ready to start for her day's work. Frances was still in dressing-gown and pyjamas. Her black hair fell over one eye.
"I'm worried about Norma," continued Claudia.
Frances yawned. "I shouldn't worry if I were you. She'll ring up or turn up sooner or later, I suppose."
"Will she? You know, Fran, I can't help wondering — "
"I don't see why," said Frances, pouring herself out more coffee. She sipped it doubtfully. "I mean — Norma's not really our business, is she? I mean, we're not looking after her or spoon-feeding her or anything. She just shares the flat. Why all this motherly solicitude? I certainly wouldn't worry."
"I daresay you wouldn't. You never worry over anything. But it's not the same for you as it is for me."
"Why isn't it the same? You mean because you're the tenant of the flat or something?"
"Well, I'm in rather a special position, as you might say." Frances gave another enormous yawn. "I was up too late last night," she said. "At Basil's party. I feel dreadful. Oh well, I suppose black coffee will be helpful. Have some more before I've drunk it all? Basil would make us try some new pills — Emerald Dreams. I don't think it's really worth trying all these silly things."
"You'll be late at your gallery," said Claudia.
"Oh well, I don't suppose it matters much. Nobody notices or cares. "I saw David last night," she added. "He was all dressed up and really looked rather wonderful." "Now don't say you're falling for him, too, Fran. He really is too awful."
"Oh, I know you think so. You're such a conventional type, Claudia."
"Not at all. But I cannot say I care for all your arty set. Trying out all these drugs and passing out or getting fighting mad." Frances looked amused. "I'm not a drug fiend, dear — I just like to see what these things are like. And some of the gang are all right. David can paint, you know, if he wants to."
"David doesn't very often want to, though, does he?"
"You've always got your knife into him, Claudia... You hate him coming here to see Norma. And talking of knives..."
"Well? Talking of knives?" "I've been worrying," said Frances slowly, "whether to tell you something or not." Claudia glanced at her wristwatch. "I haven't got time now," she said. "You can tell me this evening if you want to tell me something. Anyway, I'm not in the mood. Oh dear," she sighed, "I wish I knew what to do."
"About Norma?"
"Yes. I'm wondering if her parents ought to know that we don't know where she is..."
"That would be very unsporting. Poor Norma, why shouldn't she slope off on her own if she wants to?"
"Well, Norma isn't exactly" Claudia stopped. "No, she isn't, is she? Non compos mentis. That's what you meant. Have you rung up that terrible place where she works. 'Homebirds', or whatever it's called? Oh yes, of course you did. I remember."
"So where is she?" demanded Claudia.
"Did David say anything last night?"
"David didn't seem to know. Really, Claudia, I can't see that it matters." "It matters for me," said Claudia, because my boss happens to be her father. Sooner or later, if anything peculiar has happened to her, they'll ask me why I didn't mention the fact that she hadn't come home."
"Yes, I suppose they might pitch on you. But there's no real reason, is there, why Norma should have to report to us every time she's going to be away from here for a day or two. Or even a few nights. I mean, she's not a paying guest or anything. You're not in charge of the girl."
"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 rooted 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 shinny 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 Normals 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."
CHAPTER SEVEN
MRS. 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, put
ting 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. 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 every day 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, joined 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.
