"Are there too many of them, do you think?" said Mrs Oliver. "So hard to tell beforehand with wallpaper. Do you think my old was better?"
Poirot cast his mind back dimly to what he seemed to remember as large quantities of bright coloured tropical birds in a forest. He felt inclined to remark 'Plus зa change, plus c'est la mкme chose,' but restrained himself.
"And now," said Mrs Oliver, as her guest finally replaced his cup on its saucer and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of foaming cream from his moustache, "what is all this about?"
"That I can tell you very simply. This morning a girl came to see me. I suggested she might make an appointment. One has one's routine, you comprehend. She sent back word that she wanted to see me at once because she thought she might have committed a murder."
"What an odd thing to say. Didn't she know?"
"Precisely! C'est inoui! so I instructed George to show her in. She stood there! She refused to sit down. She just stood there staring at me. She seemed quite half witted. I tried to encourage her. Then suddenly she said that she'd changed her mind. She said she didn't want to be rude but that - (what do you think?) - but that I was too old..."
Mrs Oliver hastened to utter soothing words. "Oh well, girls are like that. Anyone over thirty-five they think is half dead. They've no sense, girls, you must realise that."
"It wounded me," said Hercule Poirot.
"Well, I shouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Of course it was a very rude thing to say."
"That does not matter. And it is not only my feelings. I am worried. Yes, I am worried."
"Well, I should forget all about it if I were you," advised Mrs Oliver comfortably.
"You do not understand. I am worried about this girl. She came to me for help. Then she decided that I was too old. Too old to be of any use to her. She was wrong of course, that goes without saying and then she just ran away. But I tell you that girl needs help."
"I don't suppose she does really," said Mrs Oliver soothingly. "Girls make a fuss about things."
"No. You are wrong. She needs help."
"You don't think she really has committed a murder?"
"Why not? She said she had."
"Yes, but -" Mrs Oliver stopped.
"She said she might have," she said slowly. "But what can she possibly mean by that?"
"Exactly. It does not make sense."
"Who did she murder or did she think she murdered?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"And why did she murder someone?"
Again Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course it could be all sorts of things." Mrs Oliver began to brighten as she set her ever prolific imagination to work. "She could have run over someone in her car and not stopped. She could have been assaulted by a man on a cliff and struggled with him and managed to push him over. She could have given someone the wrong medicine by mistake. She could have gone to one of those purple pill parties and had a fight with someone. She could have come to and found she had stabbed someone. She -"
"Assez, madame, assez!"
But Mrs Oliver was well away. "She might have been a nurse in the operating theatre and administered the wrong anaesthetic or -" she broke off, suddenly anxious for clearer details. "What did she look like?"
Poirot considered for a moment.
"An Ophelia devoid of physical attraction."
"Oh dear," said Mrs Oliver. "I can almost see her when you say that. How queer."
"She is not competent," said Poirot. "That is how I see her. She is not one who can cope with difficulties. She is not one of those who can see beforehand the danger that must come. She is one of whom others will look round and say 'We want a victim. That one will do.'"
But Mrs Oliver was no longer listening. She was clutching her rich coils of hair with both hands in a gesture with which Poirot was familiar.
"Wait," she cried in a kind of agony. "Wait!"
Poirot waited, his eyebrows raised.
"You didn't tell me her name," said Mrs Oliver.
"She did not give it. Unfortunate, I agree with you."
"Wait!" implored Mrs Oliver, again with the same agony. She relaxed her grip on her head and uttered a deep sigh. Hair detached itself from its bonds and tumbled over her shoulders, a super imperial coil of hair detached itself completely and fell on the floor. Poirot picked it up and put it discreetly on the table.
"Now then," said Mrs Oliver, suddenly restored to calm. She pushed in a hairpin or two, and nodded her head while she thought.
"Who told this girl about you, M. Poirot?"
"No one so far as I know. Naturally, she had heard about me no doubt."
Mrs Oliver thought that "naturally" was not the word at all. What was natural was that Poirot himself was sure that everyone had always heard of him. Actually large numbers of people would only look at you blankly if the name of Hercule Poirot was mentioned, especially the younger generation. "But how am I going to put that to him?" thought Mrs Oliver, "in such a way that it won't hurt his feelings?"
"I think you're wrong," she said. "Girls - well, girls and young men - they don't know very much about detectives and things like that. They don't hear about them."
"Everyone must have heard about Hercule Poirot," said Poirot, superbly. It was an article of belief for Hercule Poirot.
"But they are all so badly educated nowadays," said Mrs Oliver. "Really, the only people whose names they know are pop singers, or groups, or disc jockeys - that sort of thing. If you need someone special, I mean a doctor or a detective or a dentist - well, then, I mean you would ask someone - ask who's the right person to go to? And then the other person says - 'My dear, you must go to that absolutely wonderful man in Queen Anne's Street, twists your legs three times round your head and you're cured', or 'All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have been furious, so I couldn't go to the police, but there's a simply uncanny detective, most discreet, and he got them back for me and Henry never knew a thing.' - That's the way it happens all the time. Someone sent that girl to you."
"I doubt it very much."
"You wouldn't know until you were told. And you're going to be told now. It's only just come to me. I sent that girl to you."
Poirot stared. "You? But why did you not say so at once?"
"Because it's only just come to me - when you spoke about Ophelia - long wet-looking hair, and rather plain. It seemed a description of someone I'd actually seen. Quite lately. And then it came to me who it was."
"Who is she?"
"I don't actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talking - about private detectives and private eyes - and I spoke about you and some of the amazing things you had done."
"And you gave her my address?"
"No, of course I didn't. I'd no idea she wanted a detective or anything like that. I thought we were just talking. But I'd mentioned the name several times, and of course it would be easy to look you up in the telephone book and just come along."
"Were you talking about murder?"
"Not that I can remember. I don't even know how we came to be talking about detectives - unless, yes, perhaps it was she who started the subject..."
"Tell me then, tell me all you can - even if you do not know her name, tell me all you know about her."
"Well, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don't come into it except that they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there - and I didn't enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don't really like drink, and so people have to find a soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me - you know - how much they like my books, and how they've been longing to meet me - and it all makes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I managed to cope more or less. And they say how much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But my publisher always says I'm not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real life grew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing around listening. When you said an unattractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought, 'now who does that remind me of?' And then it came to me: 'Of course. The girl at the party that day.' I rather think she belonged there unless I'm confusing her with some other girl."
Poirot sighed. With Mrs Oliver one always needed a lot of patience.
"Who were these people with whom you went to have drinks?"
"Trefusis, I think, unless it was Treherne. That sort of name - he's a tycoon. Rich. Something in the City, but he's spent most of his life in South Africa -"
"He has a wife?"
"Yes. Very good-looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots of golden hair. Second wife. The daughter was the first wife's daughter. Then there was an uncle of incredible antiquity. Rather deaf. He's frightfully distinguished - strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an airmarshal or something. He's an astronomer too, I think. Anyway, he's got a kind of big telescope sticking out of the roof. Though I suppose that might be just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too, who sort of trots about after the old boy. Goes up to London with him, I believe, and sees he doesn't get run over. Rather pretty, she was."
Poirot sorted out the information Mrs Oliver had supplied him with, feeling rather like a human computer.
"There lives then in the house Mr and Mrs Trefusis -"
"It's not Trefusis - I remember now - It's - Restarick."
"That is not at all the same type of name."
"Yes it is. It's a Cornish name, isn't it?"
"There lives there then, Mr and Mrs Restarick, the distinguished elderly uncle. Is his name Restarick too?"
"It's Sir Roderick something."
"And there is the au pair girl, or whatever she is, and a daughter - any more children?"
"I don't think so - but I don't really know. The daughter doesn't live at home, by the way. She was only down for the weekend. Doesn't get on with the stepmother, I expect. She's got a job in London, and she's picked up with a boyfriend they don't much like, so I understand."
"You seem to know quite a lot about the family."
"Oh well, one picks things up. The Lorrimers are great talkers. Always chattering about someone or other. One hears a lot of gossip about the people all around. Sometimes, though, one gets them mixed up. I probably have. I wish I could remember that girl's Christian name. Something connected with a song... Thora? Speak to me, Thora. Thora, Thora. Something like that, or Myra? Myra, oh Myra my love is all for thee. Something like that. I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls. Norma? Or do I mean Maritana? Norma - Norma Restarick. That's right, I'm sure." She added inconsequently, "She's a third girl."
"I thought you said you thought she was an only child."
"So she is - or I think so."
"Then what do you mean by saying she is the third girl?"
"Good gracious, don't you know what a third girl is? Don't you read The Times."
"I read the births, deaths, and marriages. And such articles as I find of interest."
"No, I mean the front advertisement page. Only it isn't in the front now. So I'm thinking of taking some other paper. But I'll show you."
She went to a side table and snatched up The Times, turned the pages over and brought it to him. "Here you are - look. 'Third girl for comfortable second floor flat, own room, central heating, Earl's Court.' 'Third girl wanted to share flat. 5 guineas a week own room.' 'Third girl wanted. Regents Park. Own room.' It's the way girls like living now. Better than P.G.s or a hostel. The main girl takes a furnished flat, and then shares out the rent. Second girl is usually a friend. Then they find a third girl by advertising if they don't know one. And, as you see, very often they manage to squeeze in a fourth girl. First girl takes the best room, second girl pays rather less, third girl less still and is stuck in a cat-hole. They fix it among themselves which one has the flat to herself which night a week - or something like that. It works reasonably well."
"And where does this girl whose name might just possibly be Norma live in London?"
"As I've told you I don't really know anything about her."
"But you could find out?"
"Oh yes, I expect that would be quite easy."
"You are sure there was no talk, no mention of an unexpected death?"
"Do you mean a death in London - or at the Restaricks' home?"
"Either."
"I don't think so. Shall I see what I can rake up?"
Mrs Oliver's eyes sparked with excitement.
She was by now entering into the spirit of the thing.
"That would be very kind."
"I'll ring up the Lorrimers. Actually now would be quite a good time." She went towards the telephone. "I shall have to think of reasons and things - perhaps invent things?"
She looked towards Poirot rather doubtfully.
"But naturally. That is understood. You are a woman of imagination - you will have no difficulty. But - not too fantastic, you understand. Moderation."
Mrs Oliver flashed him an understanding glance.
She dialled and asked for the number she wanted. Turning her head, she hissed:
"Have you got a pencil and paper - something to write down names and addresses or places?"
Poirot had already his notebook arranged by his elbow and nodded his head reassuringly.
Mrs Oliver turned back to the receiver she held and launched herself into speech.
