Third Girl

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 that, after all this long time. But I could tell you a better one than that now." He launched forth into another tale.

Poirot listened, applauded. Finally he glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.

"But I must detain you no longer," he said. "You are engaged, I can see, in important work. It was just that being in this neighbourhood I could not help paying my respects. Years pass, but you, I see, have lost none of your vigour, of your enjoyment of life." "Well, well, perhaps you may say so.

Anyway, you mustn't pay me too many compliments - but surely you'll stay and have tea. I'm sure Mary will give you some tea." He looked round. "Oh, she's gone away. Nice girl." "Yes, indeed, and very handsome. I expect she has been a great comfort to you for many years." "Oh! they've only married recently.

She's my nephew's second wife. I'll be frank with you. I've never cared very much for this nephew of mine, Andrew - not a steady chap. Always restless. His elder brother Simon was my favourite.

Not that I knew him well, either. As for Andrew, he behaved very badly to his first wife. Went off, you know. Left her high and dry. Went off with a thoroughly bad lot. Everybody knew about her. But he was infatuated with her. The whole thing broke up in a year or two: silly fellow. This girl he's married seems all right. Nothing wrong with her as far as I know. Now Simon was a steady chap - damned dull, though. I can't say I liked it when my sister married into that family.

Marrying into trade, you know. Rich, of course, but money isn't everything - we've usually married into the Services.

I never saw much of the Restarick lot." "They have, I believe, a daughter. A friend of mine met her last week." "Oh, Norma. Silly girl. Goes about in dreadful clothes and has picked up with a dreadful young man. Ah well, they're all alike nowadays. Long-haired young fellows, beatniks, Beatles, all sorts of names they've got. I can't keep up with them.

Practically talk a foreign language. Still, nobody cares to hear an old man's criticisms, so there we are. Even Mary - I always thought she was a good, sensible sort, but as far as I can see she can be thoroughly hysterical in some ways - mainly about her health. Some fuss about going to hospital for observation or something.

What about a drink? Whisky? No?

Sure you won't stop and have a drop of tea?" "Thank you, but I am staying with friends." "Well, I must say I have enjoyed this chat with you very much. Nice to remember some of the things that happened in the old days. Sonia, dear, perhaps you'll take Monsieur - sorry, what's your name, it's gone again - ah, yes, Poirot. Take him down to Mary, will you?" "No, no," Hercule Poirot hastily waved aside the offer. "I could not dream of troubling Madame any more. I am quite all right. Quite all right. I can find my way perfectly. It has been a great pleasure to meet you again." He left the room.

"Haven't the faintest idea who that chap was," said Sir Roderick, after Poirot had gone.

"You do not know who he was?" Sonia asked, looking at him in a startled manner.