Poirot leant back in his armchair, as far as he could lean back since it was of an upright nature, waved to George to remove the coffee pot and also the telephone and proceeded to reflect upon what he did or did not know. To clarify his thoughts he spoke out loud. He recalled three philosophic questions.
'What do I know? What can I hope?
What ought I to do?' He was not sure that he got them in the right order or indeed if they were quite the right questions, but he reflected upon them.
'Perhaps I am too old,' said Hercule Poirot, at the bottom depths of despair.
'What do I know?' Upon reflection he thought that he knew too much! He laid that question aside for the moment.
'What can I hope?' Well, one could always hope. He could hope that those excellent brains of his, so much better than anybody else's, would come up sooner or later with an answer to a problem which he felt uneasily that he did not really understand.
'What ought I to do?' Well, that was very definite. What he ought to do was to go and call upon Mr. Andrew Restarick who, obviously distraught about his daughter, and who would no doubt blame Poirot for not having by now delivered the daughter in person. Poirot could understand that, and sympathised with his point of view, but disliked having to present himself in such a very unfavourable light. The only other thing he could do was to telephone to a certain number and ask what developments there had been.
But before he did that, he would go back to the question he had laid aside.
'What do I know?' He knew that the Wedderburn Gallery was under suspicion - so far it had kept on the right side of the law, but it would not hesitate at swindling ignorant millionaires by selling them dubious pictures.
He recalled Mr. Boscombe with his plump white hands and his plentiful teeth, and decided that he did not like him. He was the kind of man who was almost certainly up to dirty work, though he would no doubt protect himself remarkably well. That was a fact that might come into use because it might connect up with David Baker. Then there was David Baker himself, the Peacock. What did he know about him? He had met him, he had conversed with him, and he had formed certain opinions about him. He would do a crooked deal of any kind for money, he would marry a rich heiress for her money and not for love, he might perhaps be bought off. Yes, he probably could be bought off. Andrew Restarick certainly believed so and he was probably right. Unless - He considered Andrew Restarick, thinking more of the picture on the wall hanging above him than of the man himself. He remembered the strong features, the jutting out chin, the air of resolution, of decision.
Then he thought of Mrs. Andrew Restarick, deceased. The bitter lines of her mouth… Perhaps he would go down to Crosshedges again and look at that portrait, so as to see it more clearly because there might be a clue to Norma in that.
Norma - no, he must not think of Norma yet. What else was there?
There was Mary Restarick whom the girl Sonia said must have a lover because she went up to London so often. He considered that point but he did not think that Sonia was right. He thought Mrs. Restarick was much more likely to go to London in order to look at possible properties to buy, luxury flats, houses in Mayfair, decorators, all the things that money in the metropolis could buy.
Money… It seemed to him that all the points that had been passing through his mind came to this in the end. Money.
The importance of money. There was a great deal of money in this case. Somehow, in some way that was not obvious, money counted. Money played its part. So far there had been nothing to justify his belief that the tragic death of Mrs. Charpentier had been the work of Norma.
No sign of evidence, no motive; yet it seemed to him that there was an undeniable link. The girl had said that she 'might have committed a murder'. A death had taken place only a day or two previously.
A death that had occurred in the building where she lived. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence that that death should not be connected in any way?
He thought again of the mysterious illness which had affected Mary Restarick. An occurrence so simple as to be classic in its outline. A poison case where the poisoner was - must be - one of the household.
Had Mary Restarick poisoned herself, had her husband tried to poison her, had the girl Sonia administered poison? Or had Norma been the culprit. Everything pointed, Hercule Poirot had to confess, to Norma as being the logical person.
'Tout de meme,' said Poirot, 'since I cannot find anything, et bien then the logic falls out of the window.' He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He must keep his appointment with Andrew Restarick.
Chapter Nineteen
CLAUDIA REECE-HOLLAND was not in the office today. Instead, a middle-aged woman received Poirot.
She said that Mr. Restarick was waiting for him and ushered him into Restarick's room.
'Well?' Restarick hardly waited until he had come through the door. 'Well, what about my daughter?' Poirot spread out his hands.
'As yet-nothing.'
'But look here, man, there must be something - some clue. A girl can't just disappear into thin air.'
'Girls have done it before now and will do it again.'
'Did you understand that no expense was to be spared, none whatever? I - I can't go on like this.' He seemed completely on edge by this time. He looked thinner and his rednmmed eyes spoke of sleepless nights.
'I know what your anxiety must be, but I assure you that I have done everything possible to trace her. These things alas, cannot be hurried.'
'She may have lost her memory or - or she may - I mean, she might be sick.' Poirot thought he knew what the broken form of the sentence meant. Restarick had been about to say, 'she may perhaps be dead.' He sat down the other side of the desk and said: 'Believe me, I appreciate your anxiety and I have to say to you once again that the results would be a lot quicker if you consulted the police.'
'No!' The word broke out explosively.
'They have greater facilities, more lines of enquiry. I assure you it is not only a question of money. Money cannot give you the same result as a highly efficient organisation can do.'
'Man, it's no use talking in that soothing way. Norma is my daughter. My only daughter, the only flesh and blood I've got.'
'Are you sure that you have told me everything - everything possible - about your daughter?'
'What more can I tell you.'
'That is for you to say, not me. Have there been, for instance, any incidents in the past?'
'Such as? What do you mean, man?'
'Any definite history of mental instability.'
'You think that - that - '
'How do I know? How can I know?'
'And how do I know?' said Restarick, suddenly bitter. 'What do I know of her?
All these years. Grace was a bitter woman.
A woman who did not easily forgive or forget. Sometimes I feel - I feel that she was the wrong person to have brought Norma up.' He got up, walked up and down the room and then sat down again.
'Of course I shouldn't have left my wife. I know that. I left her to bring up the child. But then at the time I suppose I made excuses for myself. Grace was a woman of excellent character devoted to Norma. A thoroughly good guardian for her. But was she? Was she really? Some of the letters Grace wrote to me were as though they breathed anger and revenge.
Well, I suppose that's natural enough. But I was away all those years. I should have come back, come back more often and found out how the child was getting on. I suppose I had a bad conscience. Oh, it's no good making excuses now.' He turned his head sharply.
'Yes. I did think when I saw her again that Norma's whole attitude was neurotic, indisciplined. I hoped she and Mary would - would get on better after a little while but I have to admit that I don't feel the girl was entirely
