She was smoking a cigarette and staring in front of her. She seemed to be lost in thought. No, Poirot thought, hardly that.
There did not seem to be any thought there. She was lost in a kind of oblivion.
She was somewhere else.
He crossed the room quietly and sat down in the chair opposite her. She looked up then, and he was at least gratified to see that he was recognised.
“So we meet again. Mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly. “I see you recognise me.” “Yes. Yes, I do.” “It is always gratifying to be recognised by a young lady one has only met once and for a very short time.” She continued to look at him without speaking.
“And how did you know me, may I ask?
What made you recognise me?” “Your moustache,” said Norma immediately.
“It couldn’t be anyone else.” He was gratified by that observation and stroked it with the pride and vanity that he was apt to display on these occasions.
“Ah yes, very true. Yes, there are not many moustaches such as mine. It is a fine one, hein?” “Yes — well, yes — I suppose it is.” “Ah, you are perhaps not a connoisseur of moustaches, but I can tell you. Miss Restarick–Miss Norma Restarick, is it not? — that it is a very fine moustache.” He had dwelt deliberately upon her name. She had at first looked so oblivious to everything around her, so far away, that he wondered if she would notice. She did.
It startled her.
“How did you know my name?” she said.
“True, you did not give your name to my servant when you came to see me that morning.” “How did you know it? How did you get to know it? Who told you?” He saw the alarm, the fear.
“A friend told me,” he said. “One’s friends can be very useful.” “Who was it?” “Mademoiselle, you like keeping your little secrets from me. I, too, have a preference for keeping my little secrets from you.” “I don’t see how you could know who I was.” “I am Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot, with his usual magnificence. Then he left the initiative to her, merely sitting there smiling gently at her.
“I —” she began, then stopped.
“— Would — ” Again she stopped.
“We did not get very far that morning, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “Only so far as your telling me that you had committed a murder.” “Oh!” “Yes, Mademoiselle, that.” “But — I didn’t mean it of course.
I didn’t mean anything like that. I mean, it was just a joke.” ^Vraiment? You came to see me rather early in the morning, at breakfast time.
You said it was urgent. The urgency was because you might have committed a murder. That is your idea of a joke, eh?” A waitress who had been hovering, looking at Poirot with a fixed attention, suddenly came up to him and proffered him what appeared to be a paper boat such as it made for children to sail in a bath.
“This for you?” she said. “Mr. Porritt?
A lady left it.” “Ah yes,” said Poirot. “And how did you know who I was?” “The lady said I’d know by your moustache. Said I wouldn’t have seen a moustache like that before. And it’s true enough,” she added, gazing at it.
“Well, thank you very much.” Poirot took the boat from her, untwisted it and smoothed it out; he read some hastily pencilled words: “He’s just going. She’s staying behind, so I’m going to leave her for you, and follow him.” It was signed Ariadne.
“Ah yes,” said Hercule Poirot, folding it and slipping it into his pocket. “What were we talking about? Your sense of humour, I think. Miss Restarick.” “Do you know just my name or — or do you know everything about me?” “I know a few things about you. You are Miss Norma Restarick, your address in London is 67 Borodene Mansions. Your home address is Crosshedges, Long Basing.
You live there with a father, a stepmother, a great-uncle and — ah yes, an au pair girl.
You see, I am quite well informed.” “You’ve been having me followed.” “No, no,” said Poirot. “Not at all. As to that, I give you my word of honour.” “But you are not police, are you? You didn’t say you were.” “I am not police, no.” Her suspicion and defiance broke down.