HERCULE POIROT stood upon the landing for a moment. His head was a little on one side with a listening air. He could hear nothing from downstairs.

He crossed to the landing window and looked out. Mary Restarick was below on the terrace, resuming her gardening work. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction.

He walked gently along the corridor.

One by one in turn he opened the doors.

A bathroom, a linen cupboard, a double bedded spare room, an occupied single bedroom, a woman's room, with a double bed (Mary Restarick's?). The next door was that of an adjoining room and was, he guessed, the room belonging to Andrew Restarick. He turned to the other side of the landing. The door he opened first was a single bedroom. It was not, he judged, occupied at the time, but it was a room which possibly was occupied at weekends.

There were toilet brushes on the dressingtable.

He listened carefully, then tiptoed in. He opened the wardrobe. Yes, there were some clothes hanging up there.

Country clothes.

There was a writing table but there was nothing on it. He opened the desk drawers very softly. There were a few odds and ends, a letter or two, but the letters were trivial and dated some time ago. He shut the desk drawers. He walked downstairs, and going out of the house, bade farewell to his hostess. He refused her offer of tea.

He had promised to get back, he said as he had to catch a train to town very shortly afterwards.

"Don't you want a taxi? We could order you one, or I could drive you in the car." "No, no, Madame, you are too kind." Poirot walked back to the village and turned down the lane by the church. He crossed a little bridge over a stream.

Presently he came to where a large car with a chauffeur was waiting discreetly under a beech tree. The chauffeur opened the door of the car, Poirot got inside, sat down and removed his patent leather shoes, uttering a gasp of relief.

"Now we return to London," he said.

The chauffeur closed the door, returned to his seat and the car purred quietly away.

The sight of a young man standing by the roadside furiously thumbing a ride was not an unusual one. Poirot's eyes rested almost indifferently on this member of the fraternity, a brightly dressed young man with long and exotic hair. There were many such but in the moment of passing him Poirot suddenly sat upright and addressed the driver.

"If you please, stop. Yes, and if you can reverse a little… There is someone requesting a lift." The chauffeur turned an incredulous eye over his shoulder. It was the last remark he would have expected. However, Poirot was gently nodding his head, so he obeyed.

The young man called David advanced to the door. "Thought you weren't going to stop for me," he said cheerfully. "Much obliged, I'm sure." He got in, removed a small pack from his shoulders and let it slide to the floor, smoothed down his copper brown locks.

"So you recognised me," he said.

"You are perhaps somewhat conspicuously dressed." "Oh, do you think so? Not really. I'm just one of a band of brothers." "The school of Vandyke. Very dressy." "Oh. I've never thought of it like that.

Yes, there may be something in what you say." "You should wear a cavalier's hat," said Poirot, "and a lace collar, if I might advise." "Oh, I don't think we go quite as far as that." The young man laughed. "How Mrs. Restarick dislikes the mere sight of me. Actually I reciprocate her dislike.

I don't care much for Restarick, either.

There is something singularly unattractive about successful tycoons, don't you think?" "It depends on the point of view. You have been paying attentions to the daughter, I understand." "That is such a nice phrase," said David.

"Paying attentions to the daughter. I suppose it might be called that. But there's plenty of fifty-fifty about it, you know.

She's paying attention to me, too." "Where is Mademoiselle now?" Davis turned his head rather sharply.

"And why do you ask that?" "I should like to meet her." He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't believe she'd be your type, you know, any more than I am. Normals in London." "But you said to her stepmother - " "Oh! we don't tell stepmothers everything."

"And where is she in London?" "She works in an interior decorator's down the King's Road somewhere in Chelsea. Can't remember the name of it for the moment. Susan Phelps, I think." "But that is not where she lives, I presume. You have her address?" "Oh yes, a great block of flats. I don't really understand your interest." "One is interested in so many things." "What do you mean?" "What brought you to that house - (what is its name? - Crosshedges) today.

Brought you secretly into the house and up the stairs." "I came in the back door, I admit." "What were you looking for upstairs?" "That's my business. I don't want to be rude - but aren't you being rather nosy?" "Yes, I am displaying curiosity. I would like to know exactly where this young lady is." "I see. Dear Andrew and dear Mary lord rot 'em - are employing you, is that it? They are trying to find her?" "As yet," said Poirot, "I do not think they know that she is missing." "Someone must be employing you." "You are exceedingly perceptive," said Poirot. He leant back.

"I wondered what you were up to," said David. "That's why I hailed you. I hoped you'd stop and give me a bit of dope. She's my girl. You know that, I suppose?" "I understand that that is supposed to be the idea," said Poirot cautiously. "If so, you should know where she is. Is that not so, Mr. - I am sorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, that is, that your Christian name is David." "Baker." "Perhaps, Mr. Baker, you have had a quarrel." "No, we haven't had a quarrel. Why should you think we had?" "Miss Norma Restarick left Crosshedges on Sunday evening or was it Monday morning?" "It depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London a little after ten. It would make her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usually she goes back on Sunday night." "She left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Mansions." "Apparently not. So Claudia says." "This Miss Reece-Holland - that is her name, is it not? - was she surprised or worried?" "Good lord no, why should she be. They don't keep tabs on each other all the time, these girls." "But you thought she was going back there?" "She didn't go back to work either.

They're fed up at the shop, I can tell you." "Are you worried, Mr. Baker?" "No. Naturally - I mean, well, I'm damned if I know. I don't see any reason I should be worried, only time's getting on.

What is it today - Thursday?" "She has not quarrelled with you?" "No. We don't quarrel." "But you are worried about her, Mr.

Baker?" "What business is it of yours?" "It is no business of mine but there has, I understand, been trouble at home. She does not like her stepmother." "Quite right too. She's a bitch, that woman. Hard as nails. She doesn't like Norma either." "She has been ill, has she not? She had to go to hospital." "Who are you talking about - Norma?" "No, I am not talking about Miss Restarick. I am talking about Mrs. Restarick." "I believe she did go into a nursing home. No reason she should. Strong as a horse, I'd say." "And Miss Restarick hates her stepmother."

"She's a bit unbalanced sometimes, Norma. You know, goes off the deep end.

I tell you, girls always hate their stepmothers."

"Does that always make stepmothers ill.

Ill enough to go to hospital?" "What the hell are you getting at?" "Gardening perhaps - or the use of weedkiller." "What do you mean by talking about weed killer? Are you suggesting that Norma - that she'd dream of - that - " "People talk," said Poirot. "Talk goes round the neighbourhood." "Do you mean that somebody has said that Norma has tried to poison her stepmother?