Andrew Restarick was a man of middle age, beginning to put on flesh, yet strangely little changed from the man some fifteen years younger in the picture hanging above him. There was the same jutting out chin, the lips firmly pressed together, and the slightly raised quizzical eyebrows. Not a very noticeable man — an ordinary type and at the moment not a very happy man.
His secretary entered the room — she advanced towards his desk, as he looked up.
“A Monsieur Hercule Poirot is here. He insists that he has an appointment with you — but I can find no trace of one.” “A Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” The name seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not remember in what context. He shook his head — “I can’t remember anything about him — though I seem to have heard the name. What does he look like?” “A very small man — foreign — French I should say — with an enormous moustache — ” “Of course! I remember Mary describing him. He came to see old Roddy. But what’s all this about an appointment with me.” “He says you wrote him a letter.” “Can’t remember it — even if I did.
Perhaps Mary — Oh well, never mind — bring him in. I suppose I’d better see what this is all about.” A moment or two later Claudia ReeceHolland returned ushering with her a small man with an egg-shaped head, large moustaches, pointed patent leather shoes and a general air of complacency which accorded very well with the description he had had from his wife.
“Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” said Claudia ReeceHolland.
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 enquiries 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 so, 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.