Third Girl

Some of it wasn't important. Actually, the stuff I was looking for wasn't particularly important - I mean, nobody had thought it was, otherwise I suppose I shouldn't have been allowed to keep it. But anyway, these particular letters weren't there." "I wish of course to be discreet," said Poirot, "but can you tell me at all the nature of these letters you refer to?" "Don't know that I can, old boy. The nearest I can go is of somebody who's shooting off his mouth nowadays about what he did and what he said in the past.

But he's not speaking the truth, and these letters just show exactly how much of a liar he is! Mind you, I don't suppose they'd be published now. We'll just send him nice copies of them, and tell him this is exactly what he did say at the time, and that we've got it in writing. I shouldn't be surprised if-well, things went a bit differently after that. See? I hardly need ask that, need I? You're familiar with all that kind oftalky-talky." "You're quite right. Sir Roderick. I know exactly the kind of thing you mean, but you see also that it is not easy to help you recover something if one does not know what that something is, and where it is likely to be now." "First things first: I want to know who pinched 'em because you see that's the important point. There may be more top secret stuff in my little collection, and I want to know who's tampering with it." "Have you any ideas yourself?" "You think I ought to have, hell?"

"Well, it would seem that the principal possibility - " "I know. You want me to say it's the little girl. Well, I don't think it is the little girl. She says she didn't, and I believe her.

Understand?" "Yes," said Poirot with a slight sigh, "I understand." "For one thing she's too young. She wouldn't know these things were important.

It's before her time." "Someone else might have instructed her as to that." Poirot pointed out.

"Yes, yes, that's true enough. But it's too obvious as well." Poirot sighed. He doubted if it was any use insisting in view of Sir Roderick's obvious partiality. "Who else had access?" "Andrew and Mary, of course, but I doubt if Andrew would even be interested in such things. Anyway, he's always been a very decent boy. Always was. Not that I've ever known him very well. Used to come for the holidays once or twice with his brother and that's about all. Of course, he ditched his wife, and went off with an attractive bit of goods to South Africa, but that might happen to any man, especially with a wife like Grace. Not that I ever saw much of her, either. Kind of woman who looked down her nose and was full of good works. Anyway you can't imagine a chap like Andrew being a spy.

As for Mary, she seems all right. Never looks at anything but a rose bush as far as I can make out. There's a gardener but he's eighty-three and has lived in the village all his life, and there are a couple of women always dodging about the house making a noise with Hoovers, but I can't see them in the role of spies either. So you see it's got to be an outsider. Of course Mary wears a wig," went on Sir Roderick rather inconsequently.

"I mean it might make you think she was a spy because she wore a wig, but that's not the case. She lost her hair in a fever when she was eighteen. Pretty bad luck for a young woman. I'd no idea she wore a wig to begin with but a rose bush caught in her hair one day and whisked it sideways. Yes, very bad luck." "I thought there was something a little odd about the way she had arranged her hair," said Poirot.

"Anyway, the best secret agents never wear wigs," Sir Roderick informed him.

"Poor devils have to go to plastic surgeons and get their faces altered. But someone's been mucking about with my private papers." "You don't think that you may perhaps have placed them in some different container - in a drawer or a different file.

When did you see them last?" "I handled these things about a year ago. I remember I thought then, they'd make rather good copy, and I noted those particular letters. Now they're gone. Somebody's taken them." "You do not suspect your nephew Andrew, his wife or the domestic staff.

What about the daughter?" "Norma? Well Norma's a bit off her onion, I'd say. I mean she might be one of those kleptomaniacs who take people's things without knowing they're taking them but I don't see her fumbling about among my papers." "Then what do you think?" "Well, you've been in the house. You saw what the house is like. Anyone can walk in and out any time they like.

We don't lock our doors. We never have." "Do you lock the door of your own room-if you go up to London, for instance?" "I never thought of it as necessary. I do now of course, but what's the use of that?

Too late. Anyway, I've only an ordinary key, fits any of the doors. Someone must have come in from outside. Why nowadays that's how all the burglaries take place.