Chapter 5 chapter Five

Hercule Poirot stood for a moment on the landing of the stairs.He tilted his head and listened with his ears up, but there was no sound downstairs. He went to the window by the stairs and looked out.Mary, Resderick is working in the garden down there again.Poirot nodded reassuringly.He walked lightly along the corridor.One by one, he opened the doors.A bathroom, a towel closet, a spare double bedroom, an occupied single bedroom, a maid's room with a double bed (Mary Restarick's?), the next There was a door between neighboring rooms. He guessed it might belong to Andrew Resderick, and he turned to the other side of the staircase.The first door he opened was a single bedroom, which he judged to be unoccupied at the time but which might be used on weekends.There was a hairbrush on the dressing table, he listened carefully, and then tiptoed in.He opens the wardrobe.Yes, there are clothes hanging in there, country clothes.

There was a desk, but it was empty.He gently opened the desk drawer.Aside from some odds and ends, there was a letter or two, but the content was gossip, and the date was very long.He closed the drawer. He went downstairs and out of the house to say good-bye to the mistress.He politely thanked her for asking him to stay for tea.He said that he had promised his friend that he would hurry back to the city, and that he would take the train back soon. "Don't want a taxi? We can call you one, or I can drive you there myself." "No, no, madam, you are too kind." Poirot walked back into the village and turned into the alley next to the church.A short distance after crossing a bridge over a stream, you came to a beech tree, where a large car was parked, and a driver sat in it and waited cautiously.The driver opened the car door, and after Poirot got in, he took off his black patent leather shoes and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Let's go back to London now," he said. The driver closed the door, returned to the driver's seat, and drove the car forward quietly.There was a young man on the side of the road, with a thumbs up, eager for a ride.This situation has become very common.Poirot's eyes fell almost indifferently on this young man who belonged to this gang, dressed in fancy clothes and with long and strange hair.Such people are everywhere, but at this moment Poirot suddenly sat upright and spoke to the driver. "Stop, please. Alright, back down...someone wants a ride." The driver glanced suspiciously over his shoulder.He never thought that the master would say such a thing.However, Poirot nodded kindly, and he had to obey.

The young man named David ushered towards the car. "Thought you wouldn't stop," he said happily, "Thanks, it's true." He got into the car, removed the small leather bag hanging from his shoulders, slid it down on the floor of the car, and straightened his long bronze-colored hair. "So you still know me," he said. "Maybe your clothes are too eye-catching." "Oh, really? Not really. I just have a bunch of guys that wear it." "Sent by Van Dyck. Very styled." "Oh, I didn't think of that. However, there is some truth in what you said."

"If I may suggest, I think you should wear a knight's hat," said Poirot, "and some lace around the collar." "Oh, I don't think we can go too far." The young man said with a smile, "Mrs. Resderick hates me. Actually, each other. I don't like Resdelik either." The Ke family. Rich tycoons are kind of disgusting, don't you think?" "It's a matter of opinion. From what I know, you've been kind to their daughter." "That's a good way of saying it," said David, "to be courteous to my daughter. I suppose it might be fair to say that. But, you know, it's kind of a wish. She's courteous to me, too."

"Where is the lady now?" David turned his head and asked coldly, "Why are you asking this?" "I'd love to know her," he said, shrugging. "I don't think she's to your liking, nor am I. Norma's in London." "But you told her stepmother—" "Oh. We don't tell the truth to our stepmother." "Where is she in London?" "She worked for an upholstery firm in King's Road, Chelsea. Can't remember the name. Susan Phelps, maybe." "But I don't think she lives there herself. Do you have the address of where she lives?"

"Yes. It's a large row of buildings. I don't know what your interest is." "There are so many interests in one person." "What's the meaning?" "What did you do in that house today (what's the name?—Cross Hedges)? Sneaked into the house and went upstairs." "I admit that I entered through the back door." "What are you looking for upstairs?" "It's my business. I'm not being rude, but aren't you meddling too much?" "Yes, I was expressing my curiosity. I should like to know where the lady is."

"Oh, I see. Dear Andrew and dear Mary—hope God is blind—have hired you, haven't they? They're looking for her, aren't they?" "Not yet," said Poirot, "I don't think they know she's missing yet." "Someone must have hired you." "You have a good eye." Poirot said, leaning back. "I was wondering what you were doing there," David said. "That's why I stopped your car. I was hoping you'd stop and tell me something. She's my girl, and that, I think you know?" "From what I understand, there seems to be such a thing," said Poirot cautiously. "If it is true, then you should know where she is. Don't you? Er--excuse me, Mr. What .All I know is your name is David and your surname is—"Baker. "

"Perhaps, Mr. Baker, you had a quarrel." "No, we haven't quarreled. Why do you think we have?" "Did Miss Norma Restarick leave Cross Hedges on Sunday night, or Sunday morning?" "That depends. There's an early bus. It's a little past ten in London. She's a little late for work, but not too late. Usually she's back on Sunday evening." "She left on Sunday night, but hasn't returned to Borrowden Flats yet." "Probably not. At least that's what Claudia said." "This Miss Ruixi Holland—is this her?—Is it strange or anxious?"

"God, no, there's nothing weird and anxious about her. These girls, they don't stare at each other all the time." "But you think she went back there?" "She didn't go back to work either, and her company has had enough of her, I can tell you that." "Are you worried, Mr. Baker?" "No. Of course—I mean, well, how do I know. I don't see any reason why I should worry, except that the days are numbered. What day is it—Thursday?" "Didn't she quarrel with you?" "No. We don't quarrel." "But you are thinking about her, Mr. Baker?"

"What does it have to do with you?" "It's nothing to do with me, but, as far as I know, there is something wrong with their family. She doesn't like her stepmother." "I can't blame her at all. That woman is really a tricky woman, as hard as a nail. She doesn't necessarily like Norma." "She's not feeling well recently, right? She's been checked in the hospital." "Who are you talking about, Norma?" "No, I'm not talking about Miss Resderick, I'm talking about Mrs. Resderick." "I think she did go to a nursing home. I don't know what she did. I think she's as tough as a horse." "Miss Resderick hates her stepmother." "Sometimes, she's not very balanced psychologically, Norma, you know, to get into the wrong end. I tell you, girls hate their stepmothers." "I hate my stepmother so much that she must be sick. Does she have to go to the hospital?" "What the hell are you referring to?" "Perhaps tidying up the garden—or using herbicide." "What do you mean weed killer? Are you referring to Norma—she, she's thinking—she—" "A man has a mouth," said Poirot. "Gossip spreads around the neighbourhood." "You mean someone saying Norma tried to poison her stepmother? Absurd. Absurd." "Very unlikely, I agree," said Poirot. "Actually, no one says so." "Oh, sorry, I misunderstood. But what exactly are you referring to?" "Dear young man," said Poirot: you should know that rumors are always spread, and the rumors are almost always directed at the same person-the husband. " "What? Poor Andrew? Very unlikely, I think." "Yes, yes, I think it is very unlikely." "Then what's your business with them? You're a detective, aren't you?" "yes." "Okay, so what's the purpose?" "Our purpose is not the same," said Poirot. "I was not there to investigate any suspicious or possible case of poisoning. Forgive me, there are many questions which I cannot answer you, all of which are still very secret, You understand." "What the hell are you talking about?" "I went there," said Poirot, "to call on Sir Roderick." "What, the old guy? He's a real douchebag, isn't he?" "He's a man of many secrets," said Poirot. "I don't mean that he's active in it, but he knows a great deal. He knows a lot about the last war. He also I know a few people." "That was many years ago." "It is true that what happened to him himself has passed. But don't you know that many things are often useful." "What kind of thing?" "A face," said Poirot, "maybe a well-known face, and Sir Rodrik might recognize it. A face, a movement, a talk, a way of walking, or a gesture. One remembers, you know. Old man." , don't remember last week, last month or last year, they remember something that could have happened almost twenty years ago. They may remember someone who would rather be forgotten. They can tell you about a certain guy you've been with Or women's private affairs—I can't say too much about that, you know. I went to him to get some information." "Are you going to ask him for news? That old guy? Old fool? Did he give it to you?" "I'm pretty satisfied, so to speak." David stared at him intently. "I wonder now," he said, "are you going to see the old man, or the little girl, eh? Are you going to see what she's doing in their house? I wonder myself sometimes." .You see, she wants the job because she wants to get some past information from the old man?" "I don't think," said Poirot, "that there is much use in talking about these things. She seems to be a loyal and careful—what should I call her—secretary, isn't she?" "I think it's a mixture of nurse, secretary, accompanying, and taking care of the old uncle! Indeed, it is not difficult to find a title for her, is it? He is really dazed by her, have you noticed?" "There is nothing unusual in the circumstances," said Poirot gravely. "I can tell you who doesn't like her, it's our Mary." "Perhaps she doesn't like Mary Resderick, then." "That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" said David, "Sonia doesn't like Mary Resderick. Maybe you're even thinking she went to investigate where the herbicides were kept?Nonsense," he went on, "it's all such nonsense.All right.Thanks for the ride.I think I got off here. " "Oh, that's where you are? We're seven miles from London." "I will get off here. Good-bye, M. Poirot." "goodbye." After David pushed the door shut, Poirot leaned back in his seat. Mrs. Oliver was pacing up and down in her drawing-room, very restless.An hour earlier, she had packed the proofreaded typescript.She was about to send it to her publisher, and he had been waiting impatiently, urging her every three or four days. "Oh, here you are," said Mrs. Oliver, to the imaginary publisher in the empty room. "Here you are, I hope you like the story. I don't, I feel awful! I can't believe you know." I write good and bad novels. Anyway, I warned you about it, and I told you it was horrible. And you said, 'Oh! No, no, I don't believe it at all.'" "You wait and see," said Mrs. Oliver bitterly, "you wait and see." She opened the door and called Edith, the maid, and handed her the parcel, ordering her to post it at the post office. "Now," said Mrs. Oliver, "what shall I do?" She started pacing again. "Really," Oliver thought to himself, "I should have pasted back those tropical birds wallpaper instead of these silly cherries. I used to think I was a jungle animal, a lion, tiger, leopard Or an orangutan or something. What do you feel like a scarecrow in a cherry orchard these days?" She looked around. "I should learn how to sing like a bird," she said resignedly. "Eating cherries... I wish it was the season for cherries, I really want to eat some cherries. I don't know now—" She went to the phone. "Let me show you, ma'am," George said back on the phone.Immediately another voice came. "Hercule Poirot, I am here to teach you, madam." "Where have you been?" said Mrs. Oliver. "You haven't been in all day. I reckon you went to see the Resdericks, didn't you? Did you see Mr. Roderick? Do you ask?" What's up?" "No," said Hercule Poirot. "How bad it is," said Mrs. Oliver. "No, I don't think it's that bad. I'm surprised that nothing came out." "What's the surprise? I don't understand." "Because," said Poirot, "it shows that there is not much to discover, which is quite at odds with the truth; it is that the matter is very cleverly concealed. You see, isn't that very intriguing? Oh, yes. Mrs. Restarick didn't know the girl was missing." "You mean—she had nothing to do with the girl's disappearance?" "It seems so. I saw the young man there, too." "You mean that nasty young man who everyone hates?" "Yes, that bad young man." "Do you think he's really bad?" "From whose eyes?" "Of course not from the girl's eyes, I suppose." "I believe: that girl who came to see me must like him very much." "Isn't he scary looking?" "He is handsome," said Hercule Poirot. "Pretty?" said Mrs. Oliver. "I don't think I like pretty men." "Young girls do, however," said Poirot: "Indeed, you're quite right, they like handsome men. I don't mean handsome, dashing, or well-dressed, well-groomed young men, I mean the kind of men you see in Restoration period comedies, or those who go around Wandering man." "It seems that he doesn't know where the girl is now—" "Or he won't admit it." "Maybe. He went there too. Why? He was in the house. He managed to sneak in without being seen. Why? He was looking for the girl." Is it? Or are you looking for something else?" "Do you think he's looking for something?" "He was looking for something in the girl's bedroom," said Poirot. "How do you know? Did you see it?" "No, I just saw him coming down the stairs, but I found a piece of mud in Norma's room that might have fallen from under his shoe. Maybe she herself asked him to fetch something for her—everything." There's every possibility. There's another girl in the family—pretty pretty—and he's probably going to meet her. Lots of possibilities, indeed." "What are you going to do next?" demanded Mrs. Oliver. "Not much," said Poirot. "Very bad," said Mrs. Oliver disapprovingly. "I may receive some information from the person to whom I have commissioned the inquiry; of course it is quite probable that I will get nothing at all." "But you don't take any action?" "Get the timing right." "I'm going to do something, then," said Mrs. Oliver. "Please, I beg you to be careful," he begged her. "Laugh! Could something be wrong with me?" "Once a murder is committed, anything can follow. I can tell you. I, Poirot."