Third girl - Agatha Christie [24]
A porter was conversing with a furniture van — A milkman, pushing his milk-float, came to join Mrs Oliver near the service lift.
He rattled bottles, cheerfully whistling, whilst Mrs Oliver continued to stare abstractedly at the furniture van.
‘Number 76 moving out,’ explained the milkman to Mrs Oliver, mistaking her interest. He transferred a clutch of bottles from his float to the lift.
‘Not that she hasn’t moved already in a manner of speaking,’ he added, emerging again. He seemed a cheery kind of milkman.
He pointed a thumb upwards.
‘Pitched herself out of a window — seventh floor — only a week ago, it was. Five o’clock in the morning. Funny time to choose.’
Mrs Oliver didn’t think it so funny.
‘Why?’
‘Why did she do it? Nobody knows. Balance of mind disturbed, they said.’
‘Was she — young?’
‘Nah! Just an old trout. Fifty if she was a day.’
Two men struggled in the van with a chest of drawers. It resisted them and two mahogany drawers crashed to the ground — a loose piece of paper floated toward Mrs Oliver who caught it.
‘Don’t smash everything, Charlie,’ said the cheerful milkman reprovingly, and went up in the lift with his cargo of bottles.
An altercation broke out between the furniture movers. Mrs Oliver offered them the piece of paper, but they waved it away.
Making up her mind, Mrs Oliver entered the building and went up to No. 67. A clank came from inside and presently the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a mop who was clearly engaged in household labours.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Oliver, using her favourite mono-syllable. ‘Good morning. Is — I wonder — is anyone in?’
‘No, I’m afraid not, Madam. They’re all out. They’ve gone to work.’
‘Yes, of course…As a matter of fact when I was here last I left a little diary behind. So annoying. It must be in the sitting-room somewhere.’
‘Well, I haven’t picked up anything of the kind, Madam, as far as I know. Of course I mightn’t have known it was yours. Would you like to come in?’ She opened the door hospitably, set aside the mop with which she had been treating the kitchen floor, and accompanied Mrs Oliver into the sitting-room.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, determined to establish friendly relations, ‘yes, I see here — that’s the book I left for Miss Restarick, Miss Norma. Is she back from the country yet?’
‘I don’t think she’s living here at the moment. Her bed wasn’t slept in. Perhaps she’s still down with her people in the country. I know she was going there last week-end.’
‘Yes, I expect that’s it,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘This was a book I brought her. One of my books.’
One of Mrs Oliver’s books did not seem to strike any chord of interest in the cleaning woman.
‘I was sitting here,’ went on Mrs Oliver, patting an armchair, ‘at least I think so. And then I moved to the window and perhaps to the sofa.’
She dug down vehemently behind the cushions of the chair. The cleaning woman obliged by doing the same thing to the sofa cushions.
‘You’ve no idea how maddening it is when one loses something like that,’ went on Mrs Oliver, chattily. ‘One has all one’s engagements written down there. I’m quite sure I’m lunching with someone very important today, and I can’t remember who it was or where the luncheon was to be. Only, of course, it may be tomorrow. If so, I’m lunching with someone else quite different. Oh dear.’
‘Very trying for you, ma’am, I’m sure,’ said the cleaning woman with sympathy.
‘They’re such nice flats, these,’ said Mrs Oliver, looking round.
‘A long way up.’
‘Well, that gives you a very good view, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, but if they face east you get a lot of cold wind in winter. Comes right through these metal window frames. Some people have had double windows put in. Oh yes, I wouldn’t care for a flat facing this way in winter. No, give me a nice ground floor flat every time. Much more convenient too if you’ve got children. For prams and all that, you know. Oh yes, I’m all for the ground floor, I am. Think if there was to be a fire.’
‘Yes, of course, that would be terrible,