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.

The boring round of office routine, continual consultations with lawyers and financiers. The life I liked was always the same. Travelling, moving about from place to place, going to wild and inaccessible places. That's the life for me. I should never have left it. I should have sent for Norma to come out to me and, as I say, when I find her that's what I'm going to do. Already I'm being approached with various take-over bids. Well, they can have the whole caboodle on very advantageous terms. I'll take the cash and go back to a country that means something, that's real." "Aha! And what will your wife say to that?" "Mary? She's used to that life. That's where she comes from." "To les femmes with plenty of money," said Poirot, "London can be very attractive." "She'll see it my way." The telephone rang on his desk. He picked it up.

"Yes? Oh. From Manchester? Yes.

If it's Claudia Reece-Holland, put her through." He waited a minute.

"Hallo, Claudia. Yes. Speak up - it's a very bad line, I can't hear you. They agreed?… Ah, pity… No, I think you did very well… Right… All right then.

Take the evening train back. We'll discuss it further tomorrow morning." He replaced the telephone on its rest.

"That's a competent girl," he said.

"Miss Reece-Holland?" "Yes. Unusually competent. Takes a lot of bother off my shoulders. I gave her pretty well carte blanche to put through this deal in Manchester on her own terms. I really felt I couldn't concentrate. And she's done exceedingly well. She's as good as a man in some ways." He looked at Poirot, suddenly bringing himself back to the present.

"Ah, yes, M. Poirot. Well, I'm afraid I've rather lost my grip. Do you need more money for expenses?" "No, Monsieur. I assure you that I will do my utmost to restore your daughter sound and well. I have taken all possible precautions for her safety." He went out through the outer office.

When he reached the street he looked up at the sky.

"A definite answer to one question, he said, "that is what I need."

Chapter Twenty

HERCULE POIROT looked up at the facade of the dignified Georgian house in what had been until recently a quiet street in an old-fashioned market town. Progress was rapidly overtaking it, but the new supermarket, the Gifte Shoppe, Margery's Boutique, Peg's Cafe, and a palatial new bank, had all chosen sites in Croft Road and not encroached on the narrow High Street.

The brass knocker on the door was brightly polished, Poirot noted with approval. He pressed the bell at the side.

It was opened almost at once by a tall distinguished-looking woman with upswept grey hair and an energetic manner.

"M. Poirot? You are very punctual.

Come in." "Miss Battersby?" "Certainly." She held back the door.

Poirot entered. She deposited his hat on the hall stand and led the way to a pleasant room overlooking a narrow walled garden.

She waved towards a chair and sat down herself in an attitude of expectation. It was clear that Miss Battersby was not one to lose time in conventional utterances.

"You are, I think, the former Principal ofMeadowfield School?" "Yes. I retired a year ago. I understand you wished to see me on the subject of Norma Restarick, a former pupil." "That is right." "In your letter," said Miss Battersby, "you gave me no further details." She added, "I may say that I know who you are, M. Poirot. I should therefore like a little more information before I proceed further. Are you, for instance, thinking of employing Norma Restarick?" "That is not my intention, no." "Knowing what your profession is you understand why I should want further details. Have you, for instance, an introduction to me from any of Norma's relations?" "Again, no," said Hercule Poirot. "I will explain myself further." "Thank you." "In actual fact, I am employed by Miss Restarick's father, Andrew Restarick." "Ah. He has recently returned to England, I believe, after many years' absence." "That is so." "But you do not bring me a letter of introduction from him?" "I did not ask him for one." Miss Battersby looked at him enquiringly.