Third girl - Agatha Christie [9]
‘I’m sure Norma will be thrilled to get your book, Mrs Oliver. Won’t you have a drink? Sherry? Gin?’
This girl had the brisk manner of a really good secretary. Mrs Oliver refused.
‘You’ve got a splendid view up here,’ she said, looking out of the window and blinking a little as she got the setting sun straight in her eyes.
‘Yes. Not so funny when the lift goes out of order.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought that lift would dare to go out of order. It’s so — so — robot-like.’
‘Recently installed, but none the better for that,’ said Claudia. ‘It needs frequent adjusting and all that.’
Another girl came in, talking as she entered.
‘Claudia, have you any idea where I put —’
She stopped, looking at Mrs Oliver.
Claudia made a quick introduction.
‘Frances Cary — Mrs Oliver. Mrs Ariadne Oliver.’
‘Oh, how exciting,’ said Frances.
She was a tall willowy girl, with long black hair, a heavily made up dead white face, and eyebrows and eyelashes slightly slanted upwards — the effect heightened by mascara. She wore tight velvet pants and a heavy sweater. She was a complete contrast to the brisk and efficient Claudia.
‘I brought a book I’d promised Norma Restarick,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Oh! — what a pity she’s still in the country.’
‘Hasn’t she come back?’
There was quite definitely a pause. Mrs Oliver thought the two girls exchanged a glance.
‘I thought she had a job in London,’ said Mrs Oliver, endeavouring to convey innocent surprise.
‘Oh yes,’ said Claudia. ‘She’s in an interior decorating place. She’s sent down with patterns occasionally to places in the country.’ She smiled. ‘We live rather separate lives here,’ she explained. ‘Come and go as we like — and don’t usually bother to leave messages. But I won’t forget to give her your book when she does get back.’
Nothing could have been easier than the casual explanation.
Mrs Oliver rose. ‘Well, thank you very much.’
Claudia accompanied her to the door. ‘I shall tell my father I’ve met you,’ she said. ‘He’s a great reader of detective stories.’
Closing the door she went back into the sitting-room.
The girl Frances was leaning against the window.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Did I boob?’
‘I’d just said that Norma was out.’
Frances shrugged her shoulders.
‘I couldn’t tell. Claudia, where is that girl? Why didn’t she come back on Monday? Where has she gone?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘She didn’t stay on down with her people? That’s where she went for the weekend.’
‘No. I rang up, actually, to find out.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t really matter…All the same, she is — well, there’s something queer about her.’
‘She’s not really queerer than anyone else.’ But the opinion sounded uncertain.
‘Oh yes, she is,’ said Frances. ‘Sometimes she gives me the shivers. She’s not normal, you know.’
She laughed suddenly.
‘Norma isn’t normal! You know she isn’t, Claudia, although you won’t admit it. Loyalty to your employer, I suppose.’
Chapter 4
Hercule Poirot walked along the main street of Long Basing. That is, if you can describe as a main street a street that is to all intents and purposes the only street, which was the case in Long Basing. It was one of those villages that exhibit a tendency to length without breadth. It had an impressive church with a tall tower and a yew tree of elderly dignity in its churchyard. It had its full quota of village shops disclosing much variety. It had two antique shops, one mostly consisting of stripped pine chimney pieces, the other disclosing a full house of piled up ancient maps, a good deal of porcelain, most of it chipped, some worm-eaten old oak chests, shelves of glass, some Victorian silver, all somewhat hampered in display by lack of space. There were two cafés, both rather nasty, there was a basket shop, quite delightful, with