And yet she pretends to like gardening so much.” ‘You have no idea who this man is whom she meets?” “How should I know? I do not follow her. Mr. Restarick is not a suspicious man.
He believes what his wife tells him. He thinks perhaps about business all the time.
And, too, I think he is worried about his daughter.” “Yes,” said Poirot, “he is certainly worried about his daughter. How much do you know about the daughter? How well do you know her?” “I do not know her very well. If you ask what I think—well, I tell you! I think she is mad.” “You think she is mad? Why?» “She says odd things sometimes. She sees things that are not there.” “Sees things that are not there?” “People that are not there. Sometimes she is very excited and other times she seems as though she is in a dream. You speak to her and she does not hear what you say to her. She does not answer.
I think there are people who she would like to have dead.” “You mean Mrs. Restarick?” “And her father. She looks at him as though she hates him.” “Because they are both trying to prevent her marrying a young man of her choice?” “Yes. They do not want that to happen.
They are quite right, of course, but it makes her angry. Some day,” added Sonia, nodding her head cheerfully, “I think she will kill herself. I hope she will do nothing so foolish, but that is the thing one does when one is much in love.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well — I go now.” “Just tell me one thing. Does Mrs.
Restarick wear a wig?” “A wig? How should I know?” she considered for a moment. “She might, yes,” she admitted. “It is useful for travelling. Also it is fashionable. I wear a wig myself sometimes. A green one! Or did.” She added again, “I go now,” and went.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“TODAY I have much to do,” Hercule Poirot announced as he rose from the breakfast table next morning and joined Miss Lemon. “Enquiries to make. You have made the necessary researches for me, the appointments, the necessary contacts?” “Certainly,” said Miss Lemon. “It is all here,” She handed him a small briefcase.
Poirot took a quick glance at its contents and nodded his head.
“I can always rely on you. Miss Lemon,” he said. “C’est fantastique.^ “Really, Monsieur Poirot, I cannot see anything fantastic about it. You gave me instructions and I carried them out.
Naturally.” “Pah, it is not so natural as that,” said Poirot. “Do I not give instructions often to the gas men, the electricians, the man who comes to repair things, and do they always carry out my instructions? Very, very seldom.
He went into the hall.
“My slightly heavier overcoat, Georges.
I think the autumn chill is setting in.” He popped his head back in his secretary’s room. “By the way, what did you think of that young woman who came yesterday?” Miss Lemon, arrested as she was about to plunge her fingers on the typewriter, said briefly, “Foreign.” “Yes, yes.” “Obviously foreign.” “You do not think anything more about her than that?” Miss Lemon considered. “I had no means of judging her capability in any way.” She added rather doubtfully, “She seemed upset about something.” “Yes. She is suspected, you see, of stealing! Not money, but papers, from her employer.” “Dear, dear,” said Miss Lemon.
“Important papers?” “It seems highly probable. It is equally probable though, that he has not lost anything at all.” “Oh well,” said Miss Lemon, giving her employer a special look that she always gave and which announced that she wished to get rid of him so that she could get on with proper fervour with her work. “Well, I always say that it’s better to know where you are when you are employing someone, and buy British.” Hercule Poirot went out. His first visit was to Borodene Mansions. He took a taxi.
Alighting at the courtyard he cast his eyes around. A uniformed porter was standing in one of the doorways, whistling a somewhat doleful melody. As Poirot advanced upon him, he said: “Yes, sir?” “I wondered,” said Poirot, “if you can tell me anything about a very sad occurrence that took place here recently.” “Sad occurrence?” said the porter.