Your Peacock.” “Much too far-fetched. David wasn’t there. He’s never been near the house.” “Oh yes he has. He was wandering about its corridors the day I went there.” “But not putting poisonin Norma’s room.” “How do you know?” “But she and that awful boy are in love with each other.” “They appear to be so, I admit.” “You always want to make everything difficult,” complained Mrs. Oliver.
“Not at all. Things have been made difficult for me. I need information and there is only one person who can give me information. And she has disappeared.” “You mean Norma.” “Yes, I mean Norma.” “But she hasn’t disappeared. We found her, you and I.” “She walked out of that cafe and once more she has disappeared.” “And you let her go?” Mrs. Oliver’s voice quivered with reproach.
“Alas!” ” You let her go? You didn’t even try to find her again?” “I did not say I had not tried to find her.” “But so far you have not succeeded.
M. Poirot, I really am disappointed with you.” “There is a pattern,” said Hercule Poirot almost dreamily. “Yes, there is a pattern. But because there is one factor missing, the pattern does not make sense.
You see that, don’t you?” “No,” said Mrs. Oliver, whose head was aching.
Poirot continued to talk more to himself than his listener. If Mrs. Oliver could be said to be listening. She was highly indignant with Poirot and she thought to herself that the Restarick girl had been quite right and that Poirot was too old!
There, she herself had found the girl for him, had telephoned him so that he might arrive in time, had gone off herself to shadow the other half of the couple. She had left the girl to Poirot, and what had Poirot done — lost her! In fact she could not really see that Poirot had done anything at all of any use at any time whatever.
She was disappointed in him. When he stopped talking she would tell him so again.
Poirot was quietly and methodically outlining what he called “the pattern”.
“It interlocks. Yes it interlocks and that is why it is difficult. One thing relates to another and then you find that it relates to something else that seems outside the pattern. But it is not outside the pattern.
And so it brings more people again into a ring of suspicion. Suspicion of what?
There again one does not know. We have first the girl and through all the maze of conflicting patterns I have to search the answer to the most poignant of questions.
Is the girl a victim, is she in danger? Or is the girl very astute. Is the girl creating the impression she wants to create for her own purposes? It can be taken either way.
I need something still. Some one sure pointer, and it is there somewhere. I am sure it is there somewhere.” Mrs. Oliver was rummaging in her handbag.
“I can’t think why I can never find my aspirin when I want it,” she said m a vexed voice.
“We have one set of relationships that hook up. The father, the daughter, the stepmother. Their lives are interrelated.
We have the elderly uncle, somewhat gaga, with whom they live. We have the girl Sonia. She is linked with the uncle. She works for him. She has pretty manners, pretty ways. He is delighted with her.
He is, shall we say, a little soft about her.
But what is her role in the household?” “Wants to learn English, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“She meets one of the members of the Hertzogovinian Embassy — in Kew Gardens. She meets him there, but she does not speak to him. She leaves behind her a book and he takes it away — ” “What is all this?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Has this anything to do with the other pattern? We do not as yet know. It seems unlikely but it may not be unlikely. Had Mary Restarick unwittingly stumbled upon something which might be dangerous to the girl?” “Don’t tell me all this has something to do with espionage or something.” “I am not telling you. I am wondering.” “You said yourself that old Sir Roderick was gaga.” “It is not a question of whether he is gaga or not. He was a person of some importance during the war. Important papers passed through his hands. Important letters can have been written to him.