Third girl - Agatha Christie [44]
‘Monsieur Hercule Poirot,’ said Claudia Reece-Holland.
She went out again as Hercule Poirot advanced towards the desk. Restarick rose.
‘Monsieur Restarick? I am Hercule Poirot, at your service.’
‘Oh yes. My wife mentioned that you’d called upon us or rather called upon my uncle. What can I do for you?’
‘I have presented myself in answer to your letter.’
‘What letter? I did not write to you, M. Poirot.’
Poirot stared at him. Then he drew from his pocket a letter, unfolded it, glanced at it and handed it across the desk with a bow.
‘See for yourself, Monsieur.’
Restarick stared at it. It was typewritten on his own office stationery. His signature was written in ink at the bottom.
Dear Monsieur Poirot,
I should be very glad if you could call upon me at the above address at your earliest convenience. I understand from what my wife tells me and also from what I have learned by making various inquiries in London, that you are a man to be trusted when you agree to accept a mission that demands discretion.
Yours truly,
Andrew Restarick
He said sharply:
‘When did you receive this?’
‘This morning. I had no matters of moment on my hands so I came along here.’
‘This is an extraordinary thing, M. Poirot. That letter was not written by me.’
‘Not written by you?’
‘No. My signature is quite different — look for yourself.’ He cast out a hand as though looking for some example of his handwriting and without conscious thought turned the cheque book on which he had just written his signature, so that Poirot could see it. ‘You see? The signature on the letter is not in the least like mine.’
‘But that is extraordinary,’ said Poirot. ‘Absolutely extraordinary. Who could have written this letter?’
‘That’s just what I’m asking myself.’
‘It could not — excuse me — have been your wife?’
‘No, no. Mary would never do a thing like that. And anyway why should she sign it with my name? Oh no, she would have told me if she’d done such a thing, prepared me for your visit.’
‘Then you have no idea why anyone might have sent this letter?’
‘No, indeed.’
‘Have you no knowledge, Mr Restarick, as to what the matter might be on which in this letter you apparently want to engage me?’
‘How could I have an idea?’
‘Excuse me,’ said Poirot, ‘you have not yet completely read this letter. You will notice at the bottom of the first page after the signature, there is a small p.t.o.’
Restarick turned the letter over. At the top of the next page the typewriting continued.
The matter on which I wish to consult you concerns my daughter, Norma.
Restarick’s manner changed. His face darkened.
‘So, that’s it! But who could know — who could possibly meddle in this matter? Who knows about it?’
‘Could it be a way of urging you to consult me? Some well-meaning friend? You have really no idea who the writer may have been?’
‘I’ve no idea whatever.’
‘And you are not in trouble over a daughter of yours — a daughter named Norma?’
Restarick said slowly:
‘I have a daughter named Norma. My only daughter.’ His voice changed slightly as he said the last words.
‘And she is in trouble, difficulty of some kind?’
‘Not that I know of.’ But he hesitated slightly as he spoke the words.
Poirot leaned forward.
‘I don’t think that is exactly right, Mr Restarick. I think there is some trouble or difficulty concerning your daughter.’
‘Why should you think that? Has someone spoken to you on the subject?’
‘I was going entirely by your intonation, Monsieur. Many people,’ added Hercule Poirot, ‘are in trouble over daughters at the present date. They have a genius, young ladies, for getting into various kinds of trouble and difficulty. It is possible that the same obtains here.’
Restarick was silent for some few moments, drumming with his fingers on the desk.
‘Yes, I am worried about Norma,’ he said at last. ‘She is a difficult girl. Neurotic, inclined to be hysterical. I — unfortunately I don’t know her very well.’
‘Trouble, no doubt, over a young man?’
‘In a way, yes, but that is