Third Girl

"Tout de meme," said Poirot, "since I cannot find anything, et bien then the logic falls out of the window." He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He must keep his appointment with Andrew Restarick.

Chapter Nineteen

CLAUDIA REECE-HOLLAND was not in the office today. Instead, a middle-aged woman received Poirot.

She said that Mr. Restarick was waiting for him and ushered him into Restarick's room.

"Well?" Restarick hardly waited until he had come through the door. "Well, what about my daughter?" Poirot spread out his hands.

"As yet-nothing." "But look here, man, there must be something - some clue. A girl can't just disappear into thin air." "Girls have done it before now and will do it again." "Did you understand that no expense was to be spared, none whatever? I - I can't go on like this." He seemed completely on edge by this time. He looked thinner and his rednmmed eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

"I know what your anxiety must be, but I assure you that I have done everything possible to trace her. These things alas, cannot be hurried." "She may have lost her memory or - or she may - I mean, she might be sick." Poirot thought he knew what the broken form of the sentence meant. Restarick had been about to say, "she may perhaps be dead." He sat down the other side of the desk and said: "Believe me, I appreciate your anxiety and I have to say to you once again that the results would be a lot quicker if you consulted the police." "No /" The word broke out explosively.

"They have greater facilities, more lines of enquiry. I assure you it is not only a question of money. Money cannot give you the same result as a highly efficient organisation can do." "Man, it's no use talking in that soothing way. Norma is my daughter. My only daughter, the only flesh and blood I've got." "Are you sure that you have told me everything - everything possible - about your daughter?" "What more can I tell you." "That is for you to say, not me. Have there been, for instance, any incidents in the past?" "Such as? What do you mean, man?" "Any definite history of mental instability."

"You think that - that - " "How do I know? How can I know?" "And how do I know?" said Restarick, suddenly bitter. "What do I know of her?

All these years. Grace was a bitter woman.

A woman who did not easily forgive or forget. Sometimes I feel - I feel that she was the wrong person to have brought Normaup." He got up, walked up and down the room and then sat down again.

"Of course I shouldn't have left my wife. I know that. I left her to bring up the child. But then at the time I suppose I made excuses for myself. Grace was a woman of excellent character devoted to Norma. A thoroughly good guardian for her. But was she? Was she really? Some of the letters Grace wrote to me were as though they breathed anger and revenge.

Well, I suppose that's natural enough. But I was away all those years. I should have come back, come back more often and found out how the child was getting on. I suppose I had a bad conscience. Oh, it's no good making excuses now." He turned his head sharply.

"Yes. I did think when I saw her again that Norma's whole attitude was neurotic, indisciplined. I hoped she and Mary would - would get on better after a little while but I have to admit that I don't feel the girl was entirely normal. I felt it would be better for her to have a job in London and come home for weekends, but not to be forced into Mary's company the whole time. Oh, I suppose I've made a mess of everything. But where is she, M. Poirot?

Where is she? Do you think she may have lost her memory? One hears of such things." "Yes," said Poirot, "that is a possibility.

In her state she may be wandering about quite unaware of who she is. Or she may have had an accident. That is less likely.

I can assure you that I have made all enquiries in hospitals and other places." "You don't think she is - you don't think she's dead?" "She would be easier to find dead than alive, I can assure you. Please calm yourself, Mr. Restarick. Remember she may have friends of whom you know nothing. Friends in any part of England, friends whom she has known while living with her mother, or with her aunt, or friends who were friends of school friends of hers. All these things take time to sort out. It may be - you must prepare yourself - that she is with a boy-friend of some kind." "David Baker? If I thought that - " "She is not with David Baker. That," said Poirot dryly, "I ascertained first of all." "How do I know what friends she has?" He sighed. "If I find her, when I find her - I'd rather put it that way - I'm going to take her out of all this." "Out of all what?" "Out of this country. I have been miserable, M. Poirot, miserable ever since I returned here. I always hated City life.