Third Girl

"The police have already notified her father. They got his number from Miss Cary." "Where is she?" "Having hysterics in the flat of a Miss Jacobs next door, I understand. She was the one who discovered the body. It seems to have upset her. She rushed out of here screaming." "She's the arty one, isn't she? Claudia would have kept her head." "I agree with you. A very-poised young woman." "Who did you ring up, then?" "First, as perhaps you heard. Chief Inspector Neele of Scotland Yard." "Will this lot like his coming and meddling?" "He is not coming to meddle. He has of late been making certain enquiries for me, which may throw light on this matter." "Oh - I see… Who else did you ring up?" "Dr. John Stillingfleet." "Who's he? To say that poor Norma is potty and can't help killing people?" "His qualifications would entitle him to give evidence to that effect in court if necessary." "Does he know anything about her?" "A good deal, I should say. She has been in his care since the day you found her in the Shamrock cafe." "Who sent her there?" Poirot smiled. "I did. I made certain arrangements by telephone before I came to join you at the cafe." "What? All the time I was so disappointed in you and kept urging you to do something - you had done something?

And you never told me! Really, M. Poirot!

Nor a word! How could you be so-so mean." "Do not enrage yourself, Madame, I beg.

What I did, I did for the best." "People always say that when they have done something particularly maddening.

What else did you do?" "I arranged that my services should be retained by her father, so that I could make the necessary arrangements for her safety." "Meaning this Doctor Stillingwater?" "Stilling^?. Yes." "How on earth did you manage that?

I shouldn't have thought for a moment that you would be the kind of person that her father would choose to make all these arrangements. He looks the kind of man who would be very suspicious of foreigners." "I forced myself upon him - as a conjurer forces a card. I called upon him, purporting to have received a letter from him asking me to do so." "And did he believe you?" "Naturally. I showed the letter to him.

It was typed on his office stationery and signed with his name-though as he pointed out to me, the handwriting was not his." "Do you mean you had actually written that letter yourself." "Yes. I judged correctly that it would awaken his curiosity, and that he would want to see me. Having got so far, I trusted to my own talents." "You told him what you were going to do about this Dr. Stillingfleet?" "No. I told no one. There was danger, you see." "Danger to Norma?" "To Norma, or Norma was dangerous to someone else. From the very beginning there have always been the two possibilities.

The facts could be interpreted in either way. The attempted poisoning of Mrs. Restarick was not convincing-it was delayed too long, it was not a serious attempt to kill. Then there was an indeterminate story of a revolver shot fired here in Borodene Mansions - and another tale of flick-knives and bloodstains. Every time these things happen, Norma knows nothing about them, cannot remember, etcetera. She finds arsenic in a drawer - but does not remember putting it there.

Claims to have had lapses of memory, to have lost long periods of time when she does not remember what she has been doing. So one has to ask oneself- is what she says true, or did she, for some reason of her own, invent it? Is she a potential victim of some monstrous and perhaps crazy plot - or is it she herself who is the moving spirit? Is she painting a picture of herself as a girl suffering from mental instability, or has she murder in mind, with a defence of diminished responsibility." "She was different today," said Mrs.

Oliver slowly. "Did you notice? Quite different. Not - not scatty any longer." Poirot nodded.

"Not Ophelia - Iphigeneia." A sound of added commotion outside in the flat diverted the attention of both of them.

"Do you think - " Mrs. Oliver stopped.

Poirot had gone to the window and was looking down to the courtyard far below.

An ambulance was drawn up there.

"Are they going to take It away?" asked Mrs. Oliver in a shaky voice. And then added in a sudden rush of pity: "Poor Peacock." "He was hardly a likeable character," said Poirot coldly.

"He was very decorative… And so young," said Mrs. Oliver.

"That is sufficient for les femmes." Poirot was opening the bedroom door a careful crack, as he peered out.

"Excuse me," he said, "if I leave you for a moment." "Where are you going?" demanded Mrs. Oliver suspiciously.

"I understood that that was not a question considered delicate in this country," said Poirot reproachfully.

"Oh, I beg your pardon." "And that's not the way to the loo," she breathed sotto voce after him, as she too applied an eye to the crack of the door.

She went back to the window to observe what was going on below.