Third girl - Agatha Christie [45]
‘I should be very little good in my profession if I were not.’
‘It is a case, you see, of wanting my daughter found.’
‘Ah?’
‘She came home last weekend as she usually does to our house in the country. She went back on Sunday night ostensibly to the flat which she occupies in common with two other girls, but I now find that she did not go there. She must have gone — somewhere else.’
‘In fact, she has disappeared?’
‘It sounds too much of a melodramatic statement, but it does amount to that. I expect there’s a perfectly natural explanation, but — well, I suppose any father would be worried. She hasn’t rung up, you see, or given any explanation to the girls with whom she shares her flat.’
‘They too are worried?’
‘No, I should not say so. I think — well, I think they take such things easily enough. Girls are very independent. More so than when I left England fifteen years ago.’
‘What about the young man of whom you say you do not approve? Can she have gone away with him?’
‘I devoutly hope not. It’s possible, but I don’t — my wife doesn’t think so. You saw him, I believe, the day you came to our house to call on my uncle —’
‘Ah yes, I think I know the young man of whom you speak. A very handsome young man but not, if I may say so, a man of whom a father would approve. I noticed that your wife was not pleased, either.’
‘My wife is quite certain that he came to the house that day hoping to escape observation.’
‘He knows, perhaps, that he is not welcome there?’
‘He knows all right,’ said Restarick grimly.
‘Do you not then think that it is only too likely your daughter may have joined him?’
‘I don’t know what to think. I didn’t — at first.’
‘You have been to the police.’
‘No.’
‘In the case of anyone who is missing, it is usually much better to go to the police. They too are discreet and they have many means at their disposal which persons like myself have not.’
‘I don’t want to go to the police. It’s my daughter, man, you understand? My daughter. If she’s chosen to — to go away for a short time and not let us know, well, that’s up to her. There’s no reason to believe that she’s in any danger or anything like that. I — I just want to know for my own satisfaction where she is.’
‘Is it possible, Mr Restarick — I hope I am not unduly presuming, that that is not the only thing that is worrying you about your daughter?’
‘Why should you think there was anything else?’
‘Because the mere fact that a girl is absent for a few days without telling her parents, or the friends with whom she is living, where she is going, is not particularly unusual nowadays. It is that, taken in conjunction with something else, I think, which has caused you this alarm.’
‘Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s —’ he looked doubtfully at Poirot. ‘It is very hard to speak of these things to strangers.’
‘Not really,’ said Poirot. ‘It is infinitely easier to speak to strangers of such things than it would be to speak of them to friends or acquaintances. Surely you must agree to that?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps. I can see what you mean. Well, I will admit I am upset about my girl. You see she — she’s not quite like other girls and there’s been something already that has definitely worried me — worried us both.’
Poirot said: ‘Your daughter, perhaps, is at that difficult age of young girlhood, an emotional adolescence when, quite frankly, they are capable of performing actions for which they are hardly to be held responsible. Do not take it amiss if I venture to make a surmise. Your daughter perhaps resents having a stepmother?’
‘That is unfortunately true. And yet she has no reason to do so, M. Poirot. It is not as though my first wife and I had recently parted. The parting took place many years ago.’ He paused and then said, ‘I might as well speak frankly to you. After all, there has been no concealment about the matter. My first wife and I drifted apart. I need not mince matters. I had met someone else, someone with whom I