Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

Andrew Resderick was writing a check, signing it with a slightly bitter face. His office is spacious and well-decorated, but it is a typical tacky tycoon style-the decoration and furnishings are all left by Simon Resderick, and Andrew Resderick accepted it with a dull interest For any changes, only one or two portraits hanging on the wall were removed, and a portrait of myself brought from the countryside and a watercolor painting of Taibao Mountain were hung. Andrew Resderick was a middle-aged man who had begun to put on weight, but compared with the portrait painted fifteen years ago hanging behind him, it was surprisingly unchanged.The same protruding chin, two lips tightly pressed together, and slightly raised eyebrows are also a joke in life.He was not a man to be noticed, a man to be seen, and at the moment, not a very happy man.When his secretary entered the room, he looked up at her.

"There is a Mr. Hercule Poirot who wants to see you. He must say he has an appointment with you, but I have no way of finding out." "Hercule? Mr. Poirot?" The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember how he heard it.He shook his head and said: "I don't remember the name at all—but I think I've heard it. What did he look like?" "Very small--foreigner--French, I think--with a big beard--" "Yes, of course! I think Mary mentioned him. He went to see old Rowdy. But he says he's got an appointment with me. What's the matter?"

"He said you wrote to him." "Can't remember, even if I did. Maybe Mary—oh, well, never mind—ask him in. I think I'd better get this straight." After a while, Claudia Reese Holland brought in a short male guest with an egg-shaped head, two big beards, wearing a pair of black lacquer pointed leather shoes, and a smug look, exactly as described by his wife. very consistent. "Mr. Hercule Poirot," said Claudia Rishi Holland. After she had withdrawn, Hercule Poirot went to the table.Resderick stood up. "Mr. Resderick? My name is Hercule Poirot. Please give me your advice."

"Oh, yes. My wife mentioned that you have visited us, or should I say you have visited my uncle. What is your business?" "I came in response to your letter." "What letter? I never wrote to you." Poirot gave him a look.Then he took out a letter from his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, and handed the letter to his desk. "See for yourself, sir." Resderick looked at it attentively. It was typed on the stationery in his own office, and at the end was his own signature with a pen.Dear M. Poirot: It would be my pleasure if you could come and meet me at the above address as soon as possible.From what my insider said and from my inquiries all over London, you are the most trustworthy person once you agree to take over a job that requires careful secrecy.Andrew Resderick bowed to him and said sternly, "When did you receive this letter?"

"This morning. I happened to have nothing important at hand, so I rushed here." "It is a very strange thing, M. Poirot. I did not write this letter." "Didn't you write it?" "No. My signature is quite different—see for yourself." He stretched out his hand as if looking for some of his own handwriting, and unconsciously opened the checkbook he had just signed, and showed it to Poirot. "Do you think so? The signature on the letter doesn't look like mine at all." "That is very strange," said Poirot. "It is indeed very strange. Then who could have written the letter?"

"That's exactly the question in my own mind." "Could it be - sorry - your wife?" "No, no. How could Mary do such a thing. And why should she sign my name? No, no, she would have told me if she had arranged your visit for me." "Then you have no idea why anyone sent me this letter?" "Not at all." "Then, Mr. Resderick, you don't know why you want to hire me as mentioned in this letter?" "How should I know?" "I'm sorry," said Poirot, "you haven't read this letter completely. You can see some small words 'Please turn to the next page' on the last line after the signature on the first page."

Resderick turned a page of the letter.At the top of the second page of letter paper was written: What I want to consult with you is about my little daughter Norma. Resderick's expression changed, his face darkened. "Well, that's it! But who's going to know--who's going to take care of it? Who's going to know?" "Could it be that someone is prompting you to negotiate with me? A well-intentioned friend? Do you have no idea who wrote the letter?" "I don't have the slightest impression." "Aren't your daughters in trouble—the one named Norma?"

Resderick said slowly, "I have a daughter named Norma. My only child." His tone changed a little as he said the last sentence. "Is she in trouble at the moment? Troubled in some way?" "I don't know very well." The tone was rather hesitant. Poirot leaned over and said: "I don't see what you say is true, Mr. Restarick. I think your daughter is troublesome or disturbed." "Why do you think that? Has anyone ever talked to you about this?" "I guessed entirely from your tone, sir. Many people," said Hercule Poirot, "had some trouble with their daughters today. Their young, bright daughters often got into all kinds of trouble." and troubles. It is very likely that you have also encountered here."

Resderick was silent for a while, tapping his fingers on the table. "Yes, Norma bothers me," he said at last. "She's a difficult girl. Nervous, almost hysterical. I—unfortunately—I don't know her very well." "There is no doubt that her troubles must have been caused by her boyfriend?" "So to speak, yes, but that's not all that worries me about her—" He looked Poirot over. "May I consider you a discreet and trustworthy person?" "If I wasn't, I'd have nothing to do in this industry." "I can tell you that the essence of this case is to get my daughter back."

"what?" "She went back to our country home last weekend as usual. She apparently said she went to the flat she shared with two other girls on Sunday night, but I now know she didn't go there. She Must have gone—somewhere else." "That is to say, she is actually missing?" "Sounds like a big deal, but it does seem like it. I guess there must be a good reason, but, but—I think any father would be anxious. You see, she didn't call, And didn't tell the two girls who lived with her." "Are they worried too?" "No, it doesn't seem to me. I think - well, I think it's normal for them to see it. Girls are all about their own things these days. It's different than when I left England fifteen years ago. too much."

"What about that young boy you said you disapproved of? Is it possible she ran off with him?" "I hope it never happens. It's possible, but I don't think--my wife doesn't think so. I'm sure you saw him, when you went to our house to see my uncle the other day--" "Oh, yes, I think I know the young man you're talking about. A handsome young man, though not, I think, a father. I sense that your wife seems I don't quite agree." "My wife is convinced that he went to our house that day to avoid being seen." "Maybe, he knows that he is not welcome in your family?" "He can't be unaware," said Resderick sullenly. "So, don't you think it's not very likely that your daughter will be with him?" "I don't know what to think. At least—I didn't think so at first." "Did you go to the police?" "No." "It's usually best to go to the police when someone goes missing. They're very cautious and they don't handle it in a way that someone like me can do." "I don't want to report it to the police. It's my daughter's business, man, you know what I mean. My daughter, if she's going anywhere for a while and doesn't want us to know, it's her business. We don't have any reason to think that there must be danger or anything. I—I just want to know where she is for my own peace of mind." "It's quite possible, though, Mr. Restarick—I hope I'm not delusional. I see you're worried about your daughter more than that?" "Why do you think there is anything else?" "Because it's not particularly unusual in this day and age for a girl to simply run away for a few days without telling her parents, or telling the people she lives with where she's been. Therefore, I Think it's something else that's making you so anxious." "Well, maybe what you said has some truth, but," he said, looking at Poirot suspiciously, "it's just that it's hard to tell strangers about such things." "Not necessarily," Poirot said, "it's usually much easier to talk about this kind of thing with a stranger than with a friend or acquaintance. You should agree with that?" "Maybe, maybe. I know what you're saying. Well, I admit I'm troubled by my daughter. She's—she's very different from a lot of other girls, and there are things that really worry me about—our couple Both are concerned." Poirot said: "Your daughter, perhaps, is in one of those difficult teenage years, an emotionally unstable immature girl who, frankly, is capable of many things for which the responsibility is not necessarily theirs. Please don't blame me for speculating: perhaps your daughter is very disgusted with having a stepmother?" "Unfortunately, it is true. But she really has no reason to be so, Mr. Poirot. My ex-wife and I did not break up recently. We separated many years ago." He paused and said: "I will just confess to you Come on, anyway, there is nothing to hide. My ex-wife and I are slowly estranged. I don't have to whitewash things, I met another woman, I was very infatuated with her. I left the UK and went to South Africa with this woman .My wife refused to divorce, and I did not force her. I made proper financial arrangements for my wife and children—she was only five years old at the time—” He paused and continued: "Looking back, I can see that I have long been dissatisfied with my life. I have always wanted to travel. At that time in my life, I hated being locked in an office. My brother repeatedly criticized my respect for my family. I don’t show interest in my career, and now I finally came back to take care of it together. He said that I didn’t do my best. But I really don’t like this kind of life, I can’t settle down, I want to live an exciting and adventurous life. I want to travel the world and the wild Where..." He stopped suddenly. "Anyway—you don't want to hear my life story. I went to South Africa, and Louise went with me. We didn't get on very well, I can admit it frankly. I was madly in love with her, but We were constantly bickering, she couldn't stand life in South Africa, she was going back to London and Paris for a better life. We were back here for almost a year before we parted." He sighed. "Perhaps I should have gone back to the self-contained lifestyle I hated so much, but I didn't, and I don't know if my wife would ever get back together with me. She might feel it was her duty to do that, She is a conscientious and good woman." Poirot detected a slight resentment in his tone of voice when he said this last sentence. "However, I think I should at least think of Normado. But things are different. The child is doing very well with the mother. I have made arrangements for them. I also write occasionally. Or give her presents, but never thought of going back to England to visit her, and it's not all my fault. A whole different shape of my life, I think a father comes and goes, right After all, having a child is not a good solution, and it may disturb her inner peace even more. All in all, I can say that what I do is the best way for everyone. " Resderick's words grew faster and faster, as if he found it a great comfort to be able to confide what was on his mind to a sympathetic listener.This reaction Poirot had also noticed and often encouraged before. "You never came back thinking of yourself?" Resderick shook his head very positively. "No. You know, I've always lived the way I like, the life I've been meant to live. I've gone from South Africa to East Africa. In business, I've prospered and made money from everything I've done; sometimes in partnership , sometimes on my own, with great success. I travel a lot in the jungle, and that's what I've always wanted in life. I'm an outdoorsman by nature, and maybe because of that, after I married my ex-wife, I felt trapped. I can't take it anymore, I want to enjoy my piece of freedom, I don't want to go back to the rigid way of life here." "But you're back after all?" Resderick said with a sigh: "Yes, I'm back anyway. Well, I think, I'm getting old. Also, because I've done a good deal with another guy. We Acquired a potentially very lucrative patent which would have to be negotiated in London. Could have done it with my brother, but he passed away. I'm still a shareholder in the company though, and I can still go back and run it myself if I want .It's the first time I've thought about doing that, I mean going back to city life." "Perhaps your wife—your present wife—" "Yes, I understand what you're thinking. I married Mary just a month or two before my brother died. Mary was born in South Africa, but she has been to England a few times and loves life here, especially with a An English garden! "Myself? It was also the first time I felt that maybe I would get used to life in England. I thought about Norma too. Her mother died two years ago. I talked to Mary and she was also very willing to take care of Norma so that my daughter could have a good life." A home. It looks like everything will be fine, so—" He smiled wryly: "So I'm back." Poirot looked at the portrait hanging behind Resderick.The light here is better than in their house in the country, and one can tell at a glance that the painting is the person sitting at the desk at the moment; the facial features are very special, with a protruding chin, cynical eyebrows, and the pose of the head, just sitting The person on the chair lacks the temperament in the portrait—youth! Another wave of thought rose in Poirot's mind.Why had Resderick brought the portrait from the country to his London office?The portrait of him and his wife is one, and it was painted by a very famous portrait painter at the same time.Poirot thought, it stands to reason that these two portraits should hang together in one place according to the original conception.However, Resderick has moved his portrait to his office. Is this based on his vanity-in order to show that he is a city person, a prestigious and important person in this city?Yet he is a man who has spent a long time in the wilderness, and he himself claims to like the wilderness.Otherwise, he just needs to remind himself at all times that he is a city figure now.Did he feel he needed to reinforce that image? "Perhaps, of course," thought Poirot, "it's all out of vanity!" "Even myself," said Poirot to himself with a rather unusual modesty, "even I myself can't help a fit of vanity at times." The silence that neither of them noticed was finally broken by Resderick's slightly apologetic words. "Please do forgive me, Monsieur Poirot. It seems that my talk of my life has bored you." "There, Mr. Resderick. In fact, all you have said about your life is that it may affect your daughter. You are very worried about your daughter, but I don't think you have told me the real truth. The reason. You said, are you looking for her?" "Yes, I want to find her." "Well, you're looking for her, but you want me to find her? Oh, don't hesitate. Courtesy—sometimes in life it's necessary, but not at this moment. Listen, I'm I tell you, if you want to look for your daughter, I—Hercule Poirot—advise you to go to the police, because they have the ability. And, as far as I know, they are very careful to keep it secret.” "I'm not going to the police unless—unless I'm desperate." "You'd rather have a private eye?" "Yes. But you see, I don't know anything about private eyes. I don't know who to—trust. I don't know who to—" "How much do you know about me?" "I do know something about you. For example, I know that you held a responsible position in intelligence work during the war. In fact, my uncle once admired you. This is an indisputable fact." There was a hint of sarcasm on Poirot's face, but Resderick did not notice it.The so-called indisputable facts, Poirot himself knew very well, were completely hallucinations; this point, presumably Resderick himself should also know how unreliable Sir Roderick's memory and vision are; Zhilian swallowed the hook, line and hammer all at once.Poirot did not coax him.He just confirmed for the old man what he had always believed in: never believe anything anyone said without proof.Doubting everyone—for many years, if not all his life—had always been his first golden rule. "Let me assure you once more," said Poirot, "that I have had a very successful career in my life, and, to tell you the truth, I am in many respects beyond the reach of others." Resderick's reaction was far less convincing than he might have been!To an Englishman, it was somewhat suspicious that someone should boast so much. He said: "How do you feel about yourself, M. Poirot? Are you confident that you will find my daughter?" "Maybe not as fast as the police, but I can. I'll find her." "If—if only you could—" "If you wish me to find her, Mr. Resderick, you must tell me all about it." "But I've told you everything. Time, place, and where she should be. I can also give you a list of her friends..." Poirot shook his head violently. "No, no. What I want you to tell me is the truth of the matter." "Do you think I'm hiding something from you?" "You haven't told me all of that, I'm sure of that. What are you afraid of? What are the unstated facts—facts I must know if I'm going to help you with your case. Your daughter doesn't like it." Her stepmother, that's obviously nothing out of the ordinary, it's a natural reaction. You'll remember that she privately thought of you as perfect for many years. That's very emotional for a child who's been emotionally devastated by a family breakup. What could have happened. Yes, of course I understand what I'm talking about. You think a child always forgets things. Yes. In a way, it's possible for your daughter to forget you, which means she won't see you again Sometimes, perhaps not knowing your face and voice, she will make an image of you for herself. You leave her far away, and she longs for you to come back. Her mother, no doubt, will try to dissuade her from talking about you, because In this way, she may miss you more. You are more important to her. Because she can't talk about you with her mother, she will have the usual reaction of ordinary children-a father (or mother) who is about to leave All the faults are blamed on the mother (or father) who stayed behind. She will tell herself in a logical way: "Father likes me, and the one who doesn't like me is mother." In this way, between her meditation association with you, Idealized you. It wasn't her father's fault. She couldn't believe it! "Indeed, I can assure you that this happens often. I know some psychology. In this way, when she learns that you are coming back and that she is going to be reunited with you, many memories that have been put aside for many years and do not want to be picked up again will be All of a sudden turned around. Her dad is back!He and she will be together happily for the rest of their lives!Maybe she didn't realize her existence until she met her stepmother.So she will be extremely jealous, I can tell you, this is the most natural thing.Part of the reason why she is so vehemently jealous is that your lady is a very beautiful woman, with elegance, which is usually the most objectionable to girls, because they often lack self-confidence themselves.She herself may be clumsy and have a deep inferiority complex.Therefore, seeing that her stepmother is so capable and beautiful, she is likely to hate her; and this kind of jealousy belongs to the mentality of a half-grown child. " "That's—" Resderick said hesitantly, "that's pretty much what the doctor said when we went to see him, I mean—" "Well," said Poirot, "so you did go to the doctor? You must have a reason for going to the doctor, no?" "That's not quite the case." "Oh! You can't say that to me, Hercule Poirot. There's nothing wrong with it. It must be serious, and you'd better tell me, because I can't proceed until I know what's on the girl's mind." Things can be done faster." After being silent for a long time, Resderick made up his mind. "Can you keep absolute secrecy, M. Poirot? I can rely on you—can I have your assurances in this matter?" "No problem. What's the trouble?" "I—I, I'm not sure." "Did your daughter take action against your wife? And it wasn't just childish disrespect or saying something nasty, it was more than that - much more. Did she physically attack her?" "No, not an attack—not a physical attack, but—there's no way to prove it." "Indeed, we have to determine this." "My wife's health is getting worse and worse—" he stammered. "Oh," said Poirot, "yes, I see . . . what is she suffering from?"Digestive, maybe?A type of enteritis? " "You have a quick mind, Mr. Poirot. Yes, it is about digestion. My wife is always uncomfortable, and the situation is very inexplicable, because she has always been in very good health. Later, she had to be sent to the hospital for their help." The so-called 'observation' means inspection." "How is the result?" "I don't think they can explain why... After the examination, it seemed that her body recovered, so she went home. However, the condition relapsed. We checked her diet thoroughly. She seemed to be The intestines were poisoned, but no cause could be found. We further tested the food she ate. After sampling each food, it was determined that a certain substance was present in many foods. And every food sampled There is a kind of food that only my wife loves to eat." "To put it bluntly, someone poisoned her. Right?" "Exactly. It's a small amount, but it has a cumulative effect in the end." "Do you doubt your daughter?" "No." "I think you are suspicious. Who else is she? You are suspicious of your daughter." Resderick sighed deeply. "Frankly, I doubt her." Georges was waiting for Poirot when he returned home: "A woman named Edith called, sir—" "Edith?" Poirot frowned. "She was—as I guessed—a helper at Mrs. Oliver's. She asked me to inform you that Mrs. Oliver is at St. Giles' Hospital." "What happened to her?" "As far as I know, she was - er - smacked with a stick." George did not report the rest of the message, which was: "Tell him again, it's all his fault." Poirot stuttered his tongue. "I warned her - when I called her last night, I was a little uneasy, and no one answered the phone. Woman!"