Third Girl

"Paying attentions to the daughter. I suppose it might be called that. But there's plenty of fifty-fifty about it, you know.

She's paying attention to me, too." "Where is Mademoiselle now?" Davis turned his head rather sharply.

"And why do you ask that?" "I should like to meet her." He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't believe she'd be your type, you know, any more than I am. Normals in London." "But you said to her stepmother - " "Oh! we don't tell stepmothers everything."

"And where is she in London?" "She works in an interior decorator's down the King's Road somewhere in Chelsea. Can't remember the name of it for the moment. Susan Phelps, I think." "But that is not where she lives, I presume. You have her address?" "Oh yes, a great block of flats. I don't really understand your interest." "One is interested in so many things." "What do you mean?" "What brought you to that house - (what is its name? - Crosshedges) today.

Brought you secretly into the house and up the stairs." "I came in the back door, I admit." "What were you looking for upstairs?" "That's my business. I don't want to be rude - but aren't you being rather nosy?" "Yes, I am displaying curiosity. I would like to know exactly where this young lady is." "I see. Dear Andrew and dear Mary lord rot 'em - are employing you, is that it? They are trying to find her?" "As yet," said Poirot, "I do not think they know that she is missing." "Someone must be employing you." "You are exceedingly perceptive," said Poirot. He leant back.

"I wondered what you were up to," said David. "That's why I hailed you. I hoped you'd stop and give me a bit of dope. She's my girl. You know that, I suppose?" "I understand that that is supposed to be the idea," said Poirot cautiously. "If so, you should know where she is. Is that not so, Mr. - I am sorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, that is, that your Christian name is David." "Baker." "Perhaps, Mr. Baker, you have had a quarrel." "No, we haven't had a quarrel. Why should you think we had?" "Miss Norma Restarick left Crosshedges on Sunday evening or was it Monday morning?" "It depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London a little after ten. It would make her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usually she goes back on Sunday night." "She left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Mansions." "Apparently not. So Claudia says." "This Miss Reece-Holland - that is her name, is it not? - was she surprised or worried?" "Good lord no, why should she be. They don't keep tabs on each other all the time, these girls." "But you thought she was going back there?" "She didn't go back to work either.

They're fed up at the shop, I can tell you." "Are you worried, Mr. Baker?" "No. Naturally - I mean, well, I'm damned if I know. I don't see any reason I should be worried, only time's getting on.

What is it today - Thursday?" "She has not quarrelled with you?" "No. We don't quarrel." "But you are worried about her, Mr.

Baker?" "What business is it of yours?" "It is no business of mine but there has, I understand, been trouble at home. She does not like her stepmother." "Quite right too. She's a bitch, that woman. Hard as nails. She doesn't like Norma either." "She has been ill, has she not? She had to go to hospital." "Who are you talking about - Norma?" "No, I am not talking about Miss Restarick. I am talking about Mrs. Restarick." "I believe she did go into a nursing home. No reason she should. Strong as a horse, I'd say." "And Miss Restarick hates her stepmother."

"She's a bit unbalanced sometimes, Norma. You know, goes off the deep end.

I tell you, girls always hate their stepmothers."

"Does that always make stepmothers ill.

Ill enough to go to hospital?" "What the hell are you getting at?" "Gardening perhaps - or the use of weedkiller." "What do you mean by talking about weed killer? Are you suggesting that Norma - that she'd dream of - that - " "People talk," said Poirot. "Talk goes round the neighbourhood." "Do you mean that somebody has said that Norma has tried to poison her stepmother?

That's ridiculous. It's absolutely absurd." "It is very unlikely, I agree," said Poirot. "Actually, people have not been saying that." "Oh. Sorry. I misunderstood. But- what did you mean?" "My dear young man," said Poirot, "you must realise that there are rumours going about, and rumours are almost always about the same person - a husband." "What, poor old Andrew? Most unlikely I should say." "Yes. Yes, it does not seem to me very likely." "Well, what were you there for then?