“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. Come and go as we like — and don’t usually leave messages.
But I won’t forget to give her your book when she does arrive.” 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 FOUR
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 cafes, both rather nasty, there was a basket shop, quite delightful, with a large variety of home-made wares, there was a post office-cum-greengrocer, there was a draper’s which dealt largely in millinery and also a shoe department for children and a large miscellaneous selection of haberdashery of all kinds. There was a stationery and newspaper shop which also dealt in tobacco and sweets. There was a wool shop which was clearly the aristocrat of the place. Two white-haired severe women were in charge of shelves and shelves of knitting materials of every description. Also large quantities of dressmaking patterns and knitting patterns and which branched off into a counter for art needle-work. What had lately been the local grocers’ had now blossomed into calling itself “a supermarket” complete with stacks of wire baskets and packaged materials of every cereal and cleaning material, all in dazzling paper boxes. And there was a small establishment with one small window with Lillah written across it in fancy letters, a fashion display of one French blouse, labelled “Latest chic”, and a navy skirt and a purple striped jumper labelled “separates”. These were displayed by being flung down as by a careless hand in the window.