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 Court71 Third girl wanted to share flat. ^gns. week own room.9 ^th 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.
Poirot listened attentively to one side of a telephone conversation.
"Hallo. Can I speak to - Oh, it's you, Naomi. Ariadne Oliver here. Oh, yes- well, it was rather a crowd… Oh, you mean the old boy?… No, you know I don't… Practically blind?… I thought he was going up to London with the little foreign girl… Yes, it must be rather worrying for them sometimes - but she seems to manage him quite well… One of the things I rang up for was to ask you what the girl's address was- No, the Restarick girl, I mean - somewhere in South Ken, isn't it? Or was it Knightsbridge?
Well, I promised her a book and I wrote down the address, but of course I've lost it as usual. I can't even remember her name. Is it Thora or Norma?… Yes, I thought it was Norma:… Wait a minute, I'll get a pencil… Yes, I'm ready.
67 Borodene Mansions… I know - that great block that looks rather like Wormwood Scrubs prison… Yes, I believe the flats are very comfortable with central heating and everything… Who are the other two girls she lives with.
Friends others?… or advertisements.
Claudia Reece-Holland… her father's the M.P., is he? Who's the other one.
No, I suppse you wouldn't know - she's quite nice, too, I suppose… What do they all do? They always seem to be secretaries, don't they?… Oh, the other girl's an interior decorator - you think - or to do with an art gallery- No, Naomi, of course I don't really want to know - one just wonders - what do all the girls do nowadays? - well, it's useful for me to know because of my books - one wants to keep up to date… What was it you told me about some boy friend… Yes, but one's so helpless, isn't one? I mean girls do just exactly as they like… does he look very awful? Is he the unshaven dirty kind?- Oh, that kind- Brocade waistcoats, and long curling chestnut hair - lying on his shoulders - yes, so hard to tell whether they're girls or boys, isn't it?- Yes, they do look like Vandykes sometimes if they're good-looking.
What did you say? That Andrew Restarick simply hates him?… Yes, men usually do… Mary Restarick?… Well, I suppose you do usually have rows with a stepmother. I expect she was quite thankful when the girl got a job in London. What do you mean about people saying things.
Why, couldn't they find out what was the matter with her?… Who said?… Yes, but what did they hush up?… Oh - a nurse? - talked to the Jenners' governess?
Do you mean her husband? Oh, I see- The doctors couldn't find out… No, but people are so ill natured. I do agree with you. These things are usually quite untrue… Oh, gastric, was it?… But how ridiculous. Do you mean people said what's his name - Andrew- You mean it would be easy with all those weed killers about- Yes, but why?… I mean, it's not a case of some wife he's hated for years - she's the second wife - and much younger than he is and good-looking.
Yes, I suppose that could be - but why should the foreign girl want to either.
You mean she might have resented things that Mrs. Restarick said to her… She's quite an attractive little thing - I suppose Andrew might have taken a fancy to her - nothing serious of course - but it might have annoyed Mary, and then she might have pitched into the girl and - " Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Oliver perceived Poirot signalling wildly to her.
"Just a moment, darling," said Mrs.
Oliver into the telephone. "It's the baker." Poirot looked affronted. "Hang on." She laid down the receiver, hurried across the room, and backed Poirot into a breakfast nook.
"Yes," she demanded breathlessly.
"A baker," said Poirot with scorn.
"Me!" "Well, it was necessary to think of something quickly. What were you signalling about? Did you understand what she - " Poirot cut her short.
"You shall tell me presently. I know enough. What I want you to do is, with your rapid powers of improvisation, to arrange some plausible pretext for me to visit the Restaricks - an old friend of yours, shortly to be in the neighbourhood.
Perhaps you could say - " "Leave it to me. I'll think of something.
Shall you give a false name?" "Certainly not. Let us at least try to keep it simple." Mrs. Oliver nodded, and hurried back to the abandoned telephone.
"Naomi? I can't remember what we were saying. Why does something always come to interrupt just when one has settled down to a nice gossip. I can't even remember now what I rang you up for to begin with- Oh yes - that child Thora's address - Norma, I mean - and you gave it to me. But there was something else I wanted to - oh, I remember. An old friend of mine. A most fascinating little man. Actually I was talking about him the other day down there. Hercule Poirot his name is. He's going to be staying quite close to the Restaricks and he is most tremendously anxious to meet old Sir Roderick. He knows a lot about him and has a terrific admiration for him, and for some wonderful discovery of his in the war - or some scientific thing he did - anyway, he is very anxious to 'call upon him and present his respects' that's how he put it. Will that be all right, do you think?
Will you warn them? Yes, he'll probably just turn up out of the blue. Tell them to make him tell them some wonderful espionage stories… He-what? Oh! your mowers? Yes, of course you must go. Goodbye." She put back the receiver and sank down in an armchair. "Goodness, how exhausting. Was that all right?" "Not bad," said Poirot.
"I thought I'd better pin it all to the old boy. Then you'll get to see the lot which I suppose is what you want. And one can always be vague about scientific subjects if one is a woman, and you can think up something more definite that sounds probable by the time you arrive. Now, do you want to hear what she was telling me?" "There has been gossip, I gather. About the health of Mrs. Restarick?" "That's it. It seems she had some kind of mysterious illness - gastric in nature - and the doctors were puzzled. They sent her into hospital and she got quite all right, but there didn't seem any real cause to account for it. And she went home, and it all began to start again - and again the doctors were puzzled. And then people began to talk. A rather irresponsible nurse started it and her sister told a neighbour, and the neighbour went out on daily work and told someone else, and how queer it all was. And then people began saying that her husband must be trying to poison her. The sort of thing people always say-but in this case it really didn't seem to make sense. And then Naomi and I wondered about the au pair girl-at least she isn't exactly an au pair girl, she's a kind of secretary companion to the old boy - so really there isn't any kind of reason why she should administer weed killer to Mrs.