Money… It seemed to him that all the points that had been passing through his mind came to this in the end. Money.
The importance of money. There was a great deal of money in this case. Somehow, in some way that was not obvious, money counted. Money played its part. So far there had been nothing to justify his belief that the tragic death of Mrs.
Charpentier had been the work of Norma.
No sign of evidence, no motive; yet it seemed to him that there was an undeniable link. The girl had said that she “might have committed a murder”. A death had taken place only a day or two previously.
A death that had occurred in the building where she lived. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence that that death should not be connected in any way?
He thought again of the mysterious illness which had affected Mary Restarick. An occurrence so simple as to be classic in its outline. A poison case where the poisoner was — must be — one of the household.
Had Mary Restarick poisoned herself, had her husband tried to poison her, had the girl Sonia administered poison? Or had Norma been the culprit. Everything pointed, Hercule Poirot had to confess, to Norma as being the logical person.
“Tout de meme,” said Poirot, “since I cannot find anything, et bien then the logic falls out of the window.” He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He must keep his appointment with Andrew Restarick.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CLAUDIA REECE-HOLLAND was not in the office today. Instead, a middle-aged woman received Poirot.
She said that Mr. Restarick was waiting for him and ushered him into Restarick’s room.
“Well?” Restarick hardly waited until he had come through the door. “Well, what about my daughter?” Poirot spread out his hands.
“As yet–nothing.” “But look here, man, there must be something — some clue. A girl can’t just disappear into thin air.” “Girls have done it before now and will do it again.” “Did you understand that no expense was to be spared, none whatever? I — I can’t go on like this.” He seemed completely on edge by this time. He looked thinner and his rednmmed eyes spoke of sleepless nights.
“I know what your anxiety must be, but I assure you that I have done everything possible to trace her. These things alas, cannot be hurried.” “She may have lost her memory or — or she may — I mean, she might be sick.” Poirot thought he knew what the broken form of the sentence meant. Restarick had been about to say, “she may perhaps be dead.” He sat down the other side of the desk and said: “Believe me, I appreciate your anxiety and I have to say to you once again that the results would be a lot quicker if you consulted the police.” “No /” The word broke out explosively.
“They have greater facilities, more lines of enquiry. I assure you it is not only a question of money. Money cannot give you the same result as a highly efficient organisation can do.” “Man, it’s no use talking in that soothing way. Norma is my daughter. My only daughter, the only flesh and blood I’ve got.” “Are you sure that you have told me everything — everything possible — about your daughter?” “What more can I tell you.” “That is for you to say, not me. Have there been, for instance, any incidents in the past?” “Such as? What do you mean, man?” “Any definite history of mental instability.”
“You think that — that — ” “How do I know? How can I know?” “And how do I know?” said Restarick, suddenly bitter. “What do I know of her?
All these years. Grace was a bitter woman.
A woman who did not easily forgive or forget. Sometimes I feel — I feel that she was the wrong person to have brought Normaup.” He got up, walked up and down the room and then sat down again.
“Of course I shouldn’t have left my wife. I know that. I left her to bring up the child. But then at the time I suppose I made excuses for myself. Grace was a woman of excellent character devoted to Norma. A thoroughly good guardian for her. But was she? Was she really? Some of the letters Grace wrote to me were as though they breathed anger and revenge.