Third Girl Read Free Page A

person to go to? And then the other person says—‘My dear, you must go to that absolutely wonderful man in Queen Anne’s Street, twists your legs three times round your head and you’re cured,’ or ‘All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have been furious, so I couldn’t go to the police, but there’s a simply uncanny detective, most discreet, and he got them back for me and Henry never knew a thing.’—That’s the way it happens all the time. Someone sent that girl to you.”
    â€œI doubt it very much.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t know until you were told. And you’re going to be told now. It’s only just come to me. I sent that girl to you.”
    Poirot stared. “You? But why did you not say so at once?”
    â€œBecause it’s only just come to me—when you spoke about Ophelia—long wet-looking hair, and rather plain. It seemed a description of someone I’d actually seen. Quite lately. And then it came to me who it was.”
    â€œWho is she?”
    â€œI don’t actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talking—about private detectives and private eyes—and I spoke about you and some of the amazing things you had done.”
    â€œAnd you gave her my address?”
    â€œNo, of course I didn’t. I’d no idea she wanted a detective or anything like that. I thought we were just talking. But I’d mentioned the name several times, and of course it would be easy to look you up in the telephone book and just come along.”
    â€œWere you talking about murder?”
    â€œNot that I can remember. I don’t even know how we came to be talking about detectives—unless, yes, perhaps it was she who started the subject….”
    â€œTell me then, tell me all you can—even if you do not know her name, tell me all you know about her.”
    â€œWell, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don’t come into it except that they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there—and I didn’t enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don’t really like drink, and so people have to find a soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me—you know—how much they like my books, and how they’ve been longing tomeet me—and it all makes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I manage to cope more or less. And they say how much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But my publisher always says I’m not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real life grew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing around listening. When you said an unattractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought: ‘Now who does that remind me of?’ And then it came to me: ‘Of course. The girl at the party that day.’ I rather think she belonged there unless I’m confusing her with some other girl.”
    Poirot sighed. With Mrs. Oliver one always needed a lot of patience.
    â€œWho were these people with whom you went to have drinks?”
    â€œTrefusis, I think, unless it was Treherne. That sort of name—he’s a tycoon. Rich. Something in the City, but he’s spent most of his life in South Africa—”
    â€œHe has a wife?”
    â€œYes. Very good-looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots of golden hair. Second wife. The daughter was the first wife’s daughter. Then there was an uncle of incredible antiquity. Rather deaf. He’s frightfully distinguished—strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an air marshal or something. He’s an astronomer too, I think. Anyway, he’s got a kind of big telescope sticking out of the roof. Though I suppose that might be just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too, who sort of trots about