Third Girl

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 manage 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 air-marshal 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 boy friend 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. 5gns. week own room.” “4th girl wanted. Regent’s park. Own room.” It’s the way girls like living now. Better than PGs 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 sparkled 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—or a notebook—something to write down names or 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. Poirot listened attentively to one side of a telephone conversation.