Third Girl by Agatha Christie Page B

said Mrs. Oliver, “what am I going to do with myself?”
    She began strolling about again. “Yes,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “I wish I had those tropical birds and things back on the wall instead of these idiotic cherries. I used to feel like something in a tropical wood. A lion or a tiger or a leopard or a cheetah! What could I possibly feel like in a cherry orchard except a bird scarer?”
    She looked round again. “Cheeping like a bird, that’s what I ought to be doing,” she said gloomily. “Eating cherries…I wish it was the right time of year for cherries. I’d like some cherries. I wonder now—” She went to the telephone. “I will ascertain, Madam,” said the voice of George in answer to her inquiry. Presently another voice spoke.
    â€œHercule Poirot, at your service, Madame,” he said.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve been away all day. I suppose you went down to look up the Restaricks. Is that it? Did you see Sir Roderick? What did you find out?”
    â€œNothing,” said Hercule Poirot.
    â€œHow dreadfully dull,” said Mrs. Oliver.
    â€œNo, I do not think it is really so dull. It is rather astonishing that I have not found out anything.”
    â€œWhy is it so astonishing? I don’t understand.”
    â€œBecause,” said Poirot, “it means either there was nothing to find out, and that, let me tell you, does not accord with the facts; or else something was being very cleverly concealed. That, you see, would be interesting. Mrs. Restarick, by the way, did not know the girl was missing.”
    â€œYou mean—she has nothing to do with the girl having disappeared?”
    â€œSo it seems. I met there the young man.”
    â€œYou mean the unsatisfactory young man that nobody likes?”
    â€œThat is right. The unsatisfactory young man.”
    â€œDid you think he was unsatisfactory?”
    â€œFrom whose point of view?”
    â€œNot from the girl’s point of view, I suppose.”
    â€œThe girl who came to see me I am sure would have been highly delighted with him.”
    â€œDid he look very awful?”
    â€œHe looked very beautiful,” said Hercule Poirot.
    â€œBeautiful?” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know that I like beautiful young men.”
    â€œGirls do,” said Poirot.
    â€œYes, you’re quite right. They like beautiful young men. I don’t mean good-looking young men or smart-looking young men or well-dressed or well-washed looking young men. I mean they either like young men looking as though they were just going on in a Restoration comedy, or else very dirty young men looking as though they were just going to take some awful tramp’s job.”
    â€œIt seemed that he also did not know where the girl is now—”
    â€œOr else he wasn’t admitting it.”
    â€œPerhaps. He had gone down there. Why? He was actually in the house. He had taken the trouble to walk in without anyone seeing him. Again why? For what reason? Was he looking for the girl? Or was he looking for something else?”
    â€œYou think he was looking for something?”
    â€œHe was looking for something in the girl’s room,” said Poirot.
    â€œHow do you know? Did you see him there?”
    â€œNo, I only saw him coming down the stairs, but I found a very nice little piece of damp mud in Norma’s room that could have come from his shoe. It is possible that she herself may have askedhim to bring her something from that room—there are a lot of possibilities. There is another girl in that house—and a pretty one—He may have come down there to meet her. Yes—many possibilities.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do next?” demanded Mrs. Oliver.
    â€œNothing,” said Poirot.
    â€œThat’s very dull,” said Mrs. Oliver disapprovingly.
    â€œI am going to receive, perhaps, a little