Presently he came to where a large car with a chauffeur was waiting discreetly under a beech tree. The chauffeur opened the door of the car, Poirot got inside, sat down and removed his patent leather shoes, uttering a gasp of relief.
“Now we return to London,” he said.
The chauffeur closed the door, returned to his seat and the car purred quietly away.
The sight of a young man standing by the roadside furiously thumbing a ride was not an unusual one. Poirot’s eyes rested almost indifferently on this member of the fraternity, a brightly dressed young man with long and exotic hair. There were many such but in the moment of passing him Poirot suddenly sat upright and addressed the driver.
“If you please, stop. Yes, and if you can reverse a little… There is someone requesting a lift.” The chauffeur turned an incredulous eye over his shoulder. It was the last remark he would have expected. However, Poirot was gently nodding his head, so he obeyed.
The young man called David advanced to the door. “Thought you weren’t going to stop for me,” he said cheerfully. “Much obliged, I’m sure.” He got in, removed a small pack from his shoulders and let it slide to the floor, smoothed down his copper brown locks.
“So you recognised me,” he said.
“You are perhaps somewhat conspicuously dressed.” “Oh, do you think so? Not really. I’m just one of a band of brothers.” “The school of Vandyke. Very dressy.” “Oh. I’ve never thought of it like that.
Yes, there may be something in what you say.” “You should wear a cavalier’s hat,” said Poirot, “and a lace collar, if I might advise.” “Oh, I don’t think we go quite as far as that.” The young man laughed. “How Mrs. Restarick dislikes the mere sight of me. Actually I reciprocate her dislike.
I don’t care much for Restarick, either.
There is something singularly unattractive about successful tycoons, don’t you think?” “It depends on the point of view. You have been paying attentions to the daughter, I understand.” “That is such a nice phrase,” said David.
“Paying attentions to the daughter. I suppose it might be called that. But there’s plenty of fifty-fifty about it, you know.
She’s paying attention to me, too.” “Where is Mademoiselle now?” Davis turned his head rather sharply.
“And why do you ask that?” “I should like to meet her.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t believe she’d be your type, you know, any more than I am. Normals in London.” “But you said to her stepmother — ” “Oh! we don’t tell stepmothers everything.”
“And where is she in London?” “She works in an interior decorator’s down the King’s Road somewhere in Chelsea. Can’t remember the name of it for the moment. Susan Phelps, I think.” “But that is not where she lives, I presume. You have her address?” “Oh yes, a great block of flats. I don’t really understand your interest.” “One is interested in so many things.” “What do you mean?” “What brought you to that house — (what is its name? — Crosshedges) today.
Brought you secretly into the house and up the stairs.” “I came in the back door, I admit.” “What were you looking for upstairs?” “That’s my business. I don’t want to be rude — but aren’t you being rather nosy?” “Yes, I am displaying curiosity. I would like to know exactly where this young lady is.” “I see. Dear Andrew and dear Mary lord rot ’em — are employing you, is that it? They are trying to find her?” “As yet,” said Poirot, “I do not think they know that she is missing.” “Someone must be employing you.” “You are exceedingly perceptive,” said Poirot. He leant back.
“I wondered what you were up to,” said David. “That’s why I hailed you. I hoped you’d stop and give me a bit of dope. She’s my girl. You know that, I suppose?” “I understand that that is supposed to be the idea,” said Poirot cautiously. “If so, you should know where she is. Is that not so, Mr. — I am sorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, that is, that your Christian name is David.” “Baker.” “Perhaps, Mr. Baker, you have had a quarrel.” “No, we haven’t had a quarrel. Why should you think we had?” “Miss Norma Restarick left Crosshedges on Sunday evening or was it Monday morning?” “It depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London a little after ten. It would make her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usually she goes back on Sunday night.” “She left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Mansions.” “Apparently not. So Claudia says.” “This Miss Reece-Holland — that is her name, is it not? — was she surprised or worried?” “Good lord no, why should she be. They don’t keep tabs on each other all the time, these girls.” “But you thought she was going back there?” “She didn’t go back to work either.