Third Girl

The difficulty is to tell what the real reactions are as opposed to the reactions produced by drugs. There are two choices, "ou see. Either this is a girl who is playing herself up, depicting herself as neurotic and nervy and claiming suicidal tendencies.

It could be actually so. Or it could be a whole pack of lies. I wouldn't put it past her to be putting up this story for some obscure reason of her own - wanting to give an entirely false impression of herself.

If so, she's doing it very cleverly. Every now and then, there seems something not quite right in the picture she's giving. Is she a very clever little actress acting a part?

Or is she a genuine semi-moronic suicidal victim? She could be either… What did you say?… Oh, the Jaguar!… Yes, it was being driven far too fast. You think it mightn't have been an attempt at suicide?

That the Jaguar was deliberately meaning to run her down P" He thought for a minute or two. "I can't say," he said slowly. "It just could be so.

Yes, it could be so, but I hadn't thought of it that way. The trouble is, everything's possible, isn't it? Anyway, I'm going to get more out of her shortly. I've got her in a position where she's semi-willing to trust me, so long as I don't go too far too quickly, and make her suspicious. She'll become more trusting soon, and tell me more, and if she's a genuine case, she'll pour out her whole story to me - force it on me in the end. At the moment she's frightened of something.

"If, of course, she's leading me up the garden path we'll have to find out the reason why. She's at Kenway Court and I think she'll stay there. I'd suggest that you keep someone with an eye on it for a day or so and if she does attempt to leave, someone she doesn't know by sight had better follow her."

Chapter Eleven

ANDREW RESTARICK was writing a cheque - he made a slight grimace as he did so.

His office was large and handsomely furnished in typical conventional tycoon fashion - the furnishing and fittings had been Simon Restarick's and Andrew Restarick had accepted them without interest and had made few changes except for removing a couple of pictures and replacing them by his own portrait which he had brought up from the country, and a water colour of Table Mountain.

Andrew Restarick was a man of middle age, beginning to put on flesh, yet strangely little changed from the man some fifteen years younger in the picture hanging above him. There was the same jutting out chin, the lips firmly pressed together, and the slightly raised quizzical eyebrows. Not a very noticeable man - an ordinary type and at the moment not a very happy man.

His secretary entered the room - she advanced towards his desk, as he looked up.

"A Monsieur Hercule Poirot is here. He insists that he has an appointment with you - but I can find no trace of one." "A Monsieur Hercule Poirot?" The name seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not remember in what context. He shook his head - "I can't remember anything about him - though I seem to have heard the name. What does he look like?" "A very small man - foreign - French I should say - with an enormous moustache - " "Of course! I remember Mary describing him. He came to see old Roddy. But what's all this about an appointment with me." "He says you wrote him a letter." "Can't remember it - even if I did.

Perhaps Mary - Oh well, never mind - bring him in. I suppose I'd better see what this is all about." A moment or two later Claudia ReeceHolland returned ushering with her a small man with an egg-shaped head, large moustaches, pointed patent leather shoes and a general air of complacency which accorded very well with the description he had had from his wife.

"Monsieur Hercule Poirot," said Claudia ReeceHolland.

She went out again as Hercule Poirot advanced towards the desk. Restarick rose.

"Monsieur Restarick? I am Hercule Poirot, at your service." "Oh yes. My wife mentioned that you'd called upon us or rather called upon my uncle. What can I do for you?" "I have presented myself in answer to your letter." "What letter? I did not write to you, M. Poirot." Poirot stared at him. Then he drew from his pocket a letter, unfolded it, glanced at it and handed it across the desk with a bow.

"See for yourself. Monsieur." Restarick stared at it. It was typewritten on his own office stationery. His signature was written in ink at the bottom.

Dear Monsieur Poirot, I should be very glad if you could call upon me at the above address at your earliest convenience. I understand from what my wife tells me and also from what I have learned by making various enquiries in London, that you are a man to be trusted when you agree to accept a mission that demands discretion.

Yours truly, Andrew Restarick He said sharply: "When did you receive this?" "This morning. I had no matters of moment on my hands so I came along here." "This is an extraordinary thing, M.