a man violently, to break up his home, perhaps, to live with him, and then to quarrel with him and leave him. He felt sure, absolutely sure, that this Louise Charpentier was the same Louise.
Even so, how did it tie up with the girl Norma? Had Restarick and Louise Charpentier come together again when he returned to England? Poirot doubted it.
Their lives had parted years ago. That they had by any chance come together again seemed unlikely to the point of impossibility. It had been a brief and in reality unimportant infatuation. His present wife would hardly be jealous enough of her husband's past to wish to push his former mistress out of a window. Ridiculous! The only person so far as he could see who might have been the type to harbour a grudge over many long years, and wish to execute revenge upon the woman who had broken up her home, might have been the first Mrs. Restarick. And that sounded wildly impossible also, and anyway, the first Mrs. Restarick was dead!
The telephone rang. Poirot did not move.
At this particular moment he did not want to be disturbed. He had a feeling of being on a trail of some kind… He wanted to pursue it… The telephone stopped.
Good. Miss Lemon would be coping with it.
The door opened and Miss Lemon entered.
'Mrs. Oliver wants to speak to you,' she said.
Poirot waved a hand. 'Not now, not now, I pray you! I cannot speak to her now.'
'She says there is something that she has just thought of - something she forget to tell you. About a piece of paper - an unfinished letter, which seems to have fallen out of a blotter in a desk in a furniture van. A rather incoherent story,' added Miss Lemon, allowing a note of disapproval to enter her voice.
Poirot waved more frantically.
'Not now,' he urged. 'I beg of you, not now.'
'I will tell her you are busy.' Miss Lemon retreated.
Peace descended once more upon the room. Poirot felt waves of fatigue creeping over him. Too much thinking. One must relax. Yes, one must relax. One must let tension go - in relaxation the pattern would come. He closed his eyes. There were all the components there. He was sure of that now, there was nothing more he could learn from outside. It must come from inside.
And quite suddenly - just as his eyelids were relaxing in sleep - it came.
It was all there - waiting for him! He would have to work it all out. But he knew now. All the bits were there, disconnected bits and pieces, all fitting in. A wig, a picture, 5 a.m., women and their hair dos, the Peacock Boy - all leading to the phrase with which it had begun: Third Girl.
'I may have committed a murder…' Of course!
A ridiculous nursery rhyme came into his mind. He repeated it aloud.
Too bad, he couldn't remember the last line.
A baker, yes, and in a far-fetched way, a butcher - He tried out a feminine parody: Pat a cake, pat, three girls in a flat And who do you think they be?
A Personal Aide and a girl from the Slade And the Third is a - Miss Lemon came in.
'Ah - I remember now - 'And they all came out of a weenie potato.' ' Miss Lemon looked at him in anxiety.
'Dr. Stillingfleet insists on speaking to you at once. He says it is urgent.'
'Tell Dr. Stillingfleet he can-Dr. Stillingfleet, did you say?' He pushed past her, caught up the receiver. 'I am here. Poirot speaking!
Something has happened?'
'She's walked out on me.'
'What?'
'You heard me. She's walked out.
Walked out through the front gate.'
'You let her go?'
'What else could I do?'
'You could have stopped her.'
'No.'
'To let her go was madness.'
'No.'
'You don't understand.'
'That was the arrangement. Free to go at any time.'
'You don't understand what may be involved.'
'All right then, I don't. But I know what I'm doing. And if I don't let her go, all the work I've done on her would go for nothing.
And I have worked on her. Your job and my job aren't the same. We're not out for the same thing. I tell you I was getting somewhere. Getting somewhere, so that I was quite sure she wouldn't walk out on me.'
'Ah yes. And then, mon ami, she did.'
'Frankly, I can't understand it. I can't see why the setback came.'
'Something happened.'
'Yes, but what?'
'Somebody she saw, somebody who spoke to her, somebody who found out where she was.'
'I don't see how that could have happened… But what you don't seem to see is that she's a free agent. She had to be a free agent.'
'Somebody got at her. Somebody found out where she was. Did she get a letter, a telegram, a telephone call?'
'No, nothing of that kind. That I am quite sure of.'
'Then how-of course! Newspapers.
You have newspapers, I suppose, in that establishment of yours?'
'Certainly. Normal everyday life, that's what I stand for in my place of business.'
'Then that is how they got at her.
Normal, everyday life. What papers do you take?'
'Five.' He named the five.
'When did she go?'
'This morning. Half past ten.'
'Exactly. After she read the papers. That is good enough to start on. Which paper did she usually read?'
'I don't think she had any special choice. Sometimes one, sometimes another, sometimes the whole lot of them - sometimes only glanced at them.'
'Well, I must not waste time talking.'
'You think she saw an advertisement.
Something of that kind?'
'What other explanation can there be?
Good-bye, I can say no more now. I have to search. Search for the possible advertisement and then get on quickly.' He replaced the receiver.
'Miss Lemon, bring me our two papers.
The Morning News and the Daily Comet. Send Georges out for all the others.' As he opened out the papers to the Personal advertisements and went carefully down them, he followed his line of thought.
He would be in time. He must be in time. There had been one murder already.
