It was someone who tried to be kind — to help me. She said she was going to pretend to have known nothing about it.” She went on, the words coming fast and excitedly: “I was outside Louise’s door, the door of 763 just coming out of it. I thought I’d been walking in my sleep. They — she — said there had been an accident. Down in the courtyard. She kept telling me it had been nothing to do with me. Nobody would ever know– And I couldn’t remember what I had done — but there was stuff in my hand — ” “Stuff? What stuff? Do you mean bloody “No, not blood–torn curtain stuff.
When I’d pushed her out.” “You remember pushing her out, do you?” “No, no. That’s what was so awful. I didn’t remember anything. That’s why I hoped. That’s why I went — ” She turned her head towards Poirot — “to him — ” She turned back again to Stillingfleet.
“I never remembered the things I’d done, none of them. But I got more and more frightened. Because there used to be quite long times that were blank—quite blank — hours I couldn’t account for, or remember where I’d been and what I’d been doing. But I found things — things I must have hidden away myself. Mary was being poisoned by me, they found out she was being poisoned at the hospital.
And I found the weed killer Pd hidden away in the drawer. In the flat here there was a flick-knife. And I had a revolver that I didn’t even know I’d bought! I did kill people, but I didn’t remember killing them, so I’m not really a murderer — I’m just — mad\ I realised that at last. I’m mad, and I can’t help it. People can’t blame you if you do things when you are mad. If I could come here and even kill David, it shows I am mad, doesn’t it?” “You’d like to be mad, very much?” “yes, I suppose so.” “If so, why did you confess to someone that you had killed a woman by pushing her out of the window? Who was it you told?” Norma turned her head, hesitated. Then raised her hand and pointed.
“I told Claudia.” “That is absolutely untrue.” Claudia looked at her scornfully. “You never said anything of the kind to me!” “I did. I did.” “When? Where?” “I — don’t know.” “She told me that she had confessed it all to you,” said Frances indistinctly.
“Frankly, I thought she was hysterical and making the whole thing up.” Stillingfleet looked across at Poirot.
“She could be making it all up,” he said judicially. “There is quite a case for that solution.
But if so, we would have to find the motive, a strong motive, for her desiring the death of those two people. Louise Carpenter and David Baker. A childish hate? Forgotten and done with years ago? Nonsense.
David — just to be ‘free of him?’ It is not for that that girls kill! We want better motives than that. A whacking great lot of money — say! — Greed!” He looked round him and his voice changed to a conventional tone.
“We want a little more help. There’s still one person missing. Your wife is a long time joining us here, Mr. Restarick ?” “I can’t think where Mary can be. I’ve rung up. Claudia has left messages in every place we can think of. By now she ought to have rung up at least from somewhere.” “Perhaps we have the wrong idea,” said Hercule Poirot. “Perhaps Madame is at least partly here already — in a manner of speaking.” “What on earth do you mean?” shouted Restarick angrily.
“Might I trouble you, chere Madame?” Poirot leaned towards Mrs. Oliver. Mrs.
Oliver stared.
“The parcel I entrusted to you — ” “Oh.” Mrs. Oliver dived into her shopping bag. She handed the black folder to him.
He heard a sharp indrawn breath near him, but did not turn his head.
He shook off the wrappings delicately and held up — a wig of boffant golden hair.
“Mrs. Restarick is not here,” he said, “but her wig is. Interesting.” “Where the devil did you get that, Poirot?” asked Neele.