Lord Mountbryan gave her the money to square it — she was so upset about it! All platonic, mind you, too.
Gentlemen seem to lose their sense that way when they get to that age. It’s the clinging ones they go for, not the bold type.3′ “I have no doubt that you are quite right, Georges,” said Poirot. “It is all the same not a complete answer to my question.
I asked what you thought of the young lady.” “Oh, the young lady… Well, sir, I wouldn’t like to say definitely, but she’s quite a definite type. There’s never anything that you could put your finger on.
But they know what they’re doing, I’d say.” Poirot entered his sitting-room and Mr.
Goby followed him, obeying Poirot’s gesture. Mr. Goby sat down on an upright chair in his usual attitude. Knees together, toes turned in. He took a rather dog-eared little notebook from his pocket, opened it carefully and then proceeded to survey the soda water siphon severely.
“Re the backgrounds you asked me to look up.
“Restarick family, perfectly respectable and of good standing. No scandal. The father, James Patrick Restarick, said to be a sharp man over a bargain. Business has been in the family three generations.
Grandfather founded it, father enlarged it, Simon Restarick kept it going. Simon Restarick had coronary trouble two years ago, health declined. Died of coronary thrombosis, about a year ago.
“Younger brother Andrew Restarick came into the business soon after he came down from Oxford, married Miss Grace Baldwin. One daughter, Norma. Left his wife and went out to South Africa. A Miss Birell went with him. No divorce proceedings.
Mrs. Andrew Restarick died two and a half years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. Miss Norma Restarick was a boarder at Meadowfield Girls’ School.
Nothing against her.” Allowing his eyes to sweep across Hercule Poirot’s face, Mr. Goby observed, “In fact everything about the family seems quite O.K. and according to Cocker.” “No black sheep, no mental instability?” “It doesn’t appear so.” “Disappointing,” said Poirot.
Mr. Goby let this pass. He cleared his throat, licked his finger, and turned over a leaf of his little book.
“David Baker. Unsatisfactory record.
Been on probation twice. Police are inclined to be interested in him. He’s been on the fringe of several rather dubious affairs, thought to have been concerned in an important art robbery but no proof.
He’s one of the arty lot. No particular means of subsistence but he does quite well. Prefers girls with money. Not above living on some of the girls who are keen on him. Not above being paid off by their fathers either. Thorough bad lot if you ask me but enough brains to keep himself out of trouble.” Mr. Goby shot a sudden glance at Poirot.
“You met him?” “Yes,” said Poirot.
“What conclusions did you form, if I may ask?” “The same as you,” said Poirot. “A gaudy creature,” he added thoughtfully.
“Appeals to women,” said Mr. Goby.
“Trouble is nowadays they won’t look twice at a nice hard-working lad. They prefer the bad lots — the scroungers. They usually say ‘he hasn’t had a chance; poor boy’.” “Strutting about like peacocks,” said Poirot.
“Well, you might put it like that,” said Mr. Goby, rather doubtfully.
“Do you think he’d use a cosh on anyone?” Mr. Goby thought, then very slowly shook his head at the electric fire.
“Nobody’s accused him of anything like that. I don’t say he’d be past it, but I wouldn’t say it was his line. He is a smooth spoken type, not one for the rough stuff.” “No,” said Poirot, “no, I should not have thought so. He could be bought off? That was your opinion?” “He’d drop any girl like a hot coal if it was made worth his while.” Poirot nodded. He was remembering something. Andrew Restarick turning a cheque towards him so that he could read the signature on it. It was not only the signature that Poirot had read, it was the person to whom the cheque was made out.
It had been made out to David Baker and it was for a large sum. Would David Baker demur at taking such a cheque, Poirot wondered. He thought not on the whole.