Third Girl

"Nonsense," she said to the empty room. "Absolute nonsense. I wonder if four would be too many aspirins to take?"

Chapter Fifteen

Hercule Poirot's elbow was a tisane prepared for him by George. He sipped at it and thought. He thought in a certain way peculiar to himself. It was the technique of a man who selected thoughts as one might select pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In due course they would be reassembled together so as to make a clear and coherent picture. At the moment the important thing was the selection, the separation. He sipped his tisane, put down the cup, rested his hands on the arms of his chair and let various pieces of his puzzle come one by one into his mind. Once he recognised them all, he would select.

Pieces of shy, pieces of green bank, perhaps striped pieces like those of a tiger.

The painfulness of his own feet in patent-leather shoes. He started there.

Walking along a road set on this path by his good friend, Mrs. Oliver. A stepmother.

He saw himself with his hand on a gate.

A woman who turned, a woman bending her head cutting out the weak growth of a rose, turning and looking at him? What was there for him there? Nothing. A golden head, a golden head bright as a cornfield, with twists and loops of hair slightly reminiscent of Mrs. Oliver's own in shape. He smiled a little. But Mary Restarick's hair was more tidily arranged than Mrs. Oliver's ever was. A golden frame for her face that seemed just a little too large for her. He remembered that old Sir Roderick had said that she had to wear a wig, because of an illness. Sad for so young a woman. There was, when he came to think of it, something unusually heavy about her head. Far too static, too perfectly arranged. He considered Mary Restarick's wig - if it was a wig - for he was by no means sure that he could depend on Sir Roderick. He examined the possibilities of the wig in case they should be of significance. He reviewed the conversation they had had. Had they said anything important? He thought not. He remembered the room into which they had gone. A characterless room recently inhabited in someone else's house. Two pictures on the wall, the picture of a woman in a dove-grey dress. Thin mouth, lips set closely together. Hair that was greyish brown. The first Mrs. Restarick.

She looked as though she might have been older than her husband. His picture was on the opposite wall, facing her. Good portraits, both of them. Lansberger had been a good portrait painter. His mind dwelt on the portrait of the husband. He had not seen it so well that first day, as he had later in Restarick's office.

Andrew Restarick and Claudia ReeceHolland.

Was there anything there? Was their association more than a merely secretarial one? It need not be. Here was a man who had come back to this country after year of absence, who had no near friends or relatives, who was perplexed and troubled over his daughter's character and conduct. It was probably natural enough that he should turn to his recently acquired eminently competent secretary and ask her to suggest somewhere for his daughter to live in London. It would be a favour on her part to provide that accommodation since she was looking for a Third Girl. Third girl… The phrase that he had acquired from Mrs. Oliver always seemed to be coming to his mind. As though it had a second significance which for some reason he could not see.

His manservant, George, entered the room, closing the door discreetly behind him.

"A young lady is here, sir. The young lady who came the other day." The words came too aptly with what Poirot was thinking. He sat up in a startled fashion.

"The young lady who came at breakfast time?" "Oh no, sir. I mean the young lady who came with Sir Roderick Horsefield." "Ah, indeed." Poirot raised his eyebrows. "Bring her in. Where is she?" "I showed her into Miss Lemon's room, sir." "Ah. Yes, bring her in." Sonia did not wait for George to announce her. She came into the room ahead of him with a quick and rather aggressive step.

"It has been difficult for me to get away, but I have come to tell you that I did not take those papers. I did not steal anything.

You understand?" "Has anybody said that you had?" Poirot asked. "Sit down. Mademoiselle." "I do not want to sit down. I have very little time. I just came to tell you that it is absolutely untrue. I am very honest and I do what I am told." "I take your point. I have already taken it. Your statement is that you have not removed any papers, information, letters, documents of any kind from Sir Roderick Horsefield's house? That is so, is it not?" "Yes, and I've come to tell you it is so.

He believes me. He knows that I would not do such a thing." "Very well then. That is a statement and I note it." "Do you think you are going to find those papers?" "I have other enquiries in hand," said Poirot. "Sir Roderick's papers will have to take their turn." "He is worried. He is very worried.