Third Girl

There is something that I cannot say to him. I will say it to you. He loses things.

Things are not put away where he thinks they are. He puts them in - how do you say it - in funny places. Oh I know.

You suspect me. Everyone suspects me because I am foreign. Because I come from a foreign country and so they think - they think I steal secret papers like in one of your silly English spy stories. I am not like that. I am an intellectual." "Aha," said Poirot. "It is always nice to know." He added: "Is there anything else you wish to tell me?" "Why should I?" "One never knows." "What are these other cases you speak of?" "Ah, I do not want to detain you. It is your day out, perhaps." "Yes. I have one day a week when I can do what I like. I can come to London.

I can go to the British Museum." "Ah yes and to the Victoria and Albert also, no doubt." "That is so." "And to the National Gallery and see the pictures. And on a fine day you can go to Kensington Gardens, or perhaps as far as Kew Gardens." She stiffened… She shot him an angry questioning glance.

"Why do you say Kew Gardens?" "Because there are some very fine plants and shrubs and trees there. Ah! you should not miss Kew Gardens. The admission fee is very small. A penny I think, or twopence. And for that you can go and see tropical trees, or you can sit on a seat and read a book." He smiled at her disarmingly and was interested to notice that her uneasiness was increased. "But I must not detain you. Mademoiselle. You have perhaps friends to visit at one of the Embassies, maybe." "Why do you say that?" "No particular reason. You are, as you say, a foreigner and it is quite possible you may have friends connected with your own Embassy here." "Someone has told you things. Someone has made accusations against me! I tell you he is a silly old man who mislays things.

That is all! And he knows nothing of importance. He has no secret papers or documents. He never has had." "Ah, but you are not quite thinking of what you are saying. Time passes, you know. He was once an important man who did know important secrets." "You are trying to frighten me." "No, no. I am not being so melodramatic as that." "Mrs. Restarick. It is Mrs. Restarick who has been telling you things. She does not like me." "She has not said so to me." "Well, I do not like her. She is the kind of woman I mistrust. I think she has secrets." "Indeed?" "Yes, I think she has secrets from her husband. I think she goes up to London or to other places to meet other men. To meet at any rate one other man." "Indeed," said Poirot, "that is very interesting. You think she goes to meet another man?" "Yes, I do. She goes up to London very often and I do not think she always tells her husband, or she says it is shopping or things she has to buy. All those sort of things. He is busy in the office and he does not think of why his wife comes up. She is more in London than she is in the country.

And yet she pretends to like gardening so much." 'You have no idea who this man is whom she meets?" "How should I know? I do not follow her. Mr. Restarick is not a suspicious man.

He believes what his wife tells him. He thinks perhaps about business all the time.

And, too, I think he is worried about his daughter." "Yes," said Poirot, "he is certainly worried about his daughter. How much do you know about the daughter? How well do you know her?" "I do not know her very well. If you ask what I think-well, I tell you! I think she is mad." "You think she is mad? Why?» "She says odd things sometimes. She sees things that are not there." "Sees things that are not there?" "People that are not there. Sometimes she is very excited and other times she seems as though she is in a dream. You speak to her and she does not hear what you say to her. She does not answer.

I think there are people who she would like to have dead." "You mean Mrs. Restarick?" "And her father. She looks at him as though she hates him." "Because they are both trying to prevent her marrying a young man of her choice?" "Yes. They do not want that to happen.

They are quite right, of course, but it makes her angry. Some day," added Sonia, nodding her head cheerfully, "I think she will kill herself. I hope she will do nothing so foolish, but that is the thing one does when one is much in love." She shrugged her shoulders. "Well - I go now." "Just tell me one thing. Does Mrs.

Restarick wear a wig?" "A wig? How should I know?" she considered for a moment. "She might, yes," she admitted. "It is useful for travelling. Also it is fashionable. I wear a wig myself sometimes. A green one! Or did." She added again, "I go now," and went.

Chapter Sixteen

"TODAY I have much to do," Hercule Poirot announced as he rose from the breakfast table next morning and joined Miss Lemon. "Enquiries to make. You have made the necessary researches for me, the appointments, the necessary contacts?" "Certainly," said Miss Lemon. "It is all here," She handed him a small briefcase.