Third Girl

"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 composmentis. 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 tittletattle 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 shindy 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 flickknife.

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, putting 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.