Third Girl by Agatha Christie

for it. “Yes? Who did you say?” She put her hand over the receiver and said to Poirot, “Mrs. Oliver.”
    â€œAh…Mrs. Oliver,” said Poirot. He did not particularly want to be interrupted at this moment, but he took the receiver from Miss Lemon. “’Allo,” he said, “Hercule Poirot speaks.”
    â€œOh, M. Poirot, I’m so glad I got you! I’ve found her for you!”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œ I’ve found her for you. Your girl! You know, the one who’s committed a murder or thinks she has. She’s talking about it too, a great deal. I think she is off her head. But never mind that now. Do you want to come and get her?”
    â€œWhere are you, chère Madame?”
    â€œSomewhere between St. Paul’s and the Mermaid Theatre and all that. Calthorpe Street,” said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly looking out of the telephone box in which she was standing. “Do you think you can get here quickly? They’re in a restaurant.”
    â€œThey?”
    â€œOh, she and what I suppose is the unsuitable boyfriend. He is rather nice really, and he seems very fond of her. I can’t think why. People are odd. Well, I don’t want to talk because I want to get back again. I followed them, you see. I came into the restaurant and saw them there.”
    â€œAha? You have been very clever, Madame.”
    â€œNo, I haven’t really. It was a pure accident. I mean, I walked into a small café place and there the girl was, just sitting there.”
    â€œAh. You had the good fortune then. That is just as important.”
    â€œAnd I’ve been sitting at the next table to them, only she’s got her back to me. And anyway I don’t suppose she’d recognise me. I’ve done things to my hair. Anway, they’ve been talking as though they were alone in the world, and when they ordered another course—baked beans—(I can’t bear baked beans, it always seems to me so funny that people should)—”
    â€œNever mind the baked beans. Go on. You left them and came out to telephone. Is that right?”
    â€œYes. Because the baked beans gave me time. And I shall go back now. Or I might hang about outside. Anway, try and get here quickly.”
    â€œWhat is the name of this café?”
    â€œThe Merry Shamrock—but it doesn’t look very merry. In fact, it looks rather sordid, but the coffee is quite good.”
    â€œSay no more. Go back. In due course, I will arrive.”
    â€œSplendid,” said Mrs. Oliver, and rang off.
    II
    Miss Lemon, always efficient, had preceded him to the street, and was waiting by a taxi. She asked no questions and displayed no curiosity. She did not tell Poirot how she would occupy her time whilst he was away. She did not need to tell him. She always knew what she was going to do and she was always right in what she did.
    Poirot duly arrived at the corner of Calthorpe Street. He descended, paid the taxi, and looked around him. He saw The Merry Shamrock but he saw no one in its vicinity who looked at all like Mrs. Oliver, however well disguised. He walked to the end of the street and back. No Mrs. Oliver. So either the couple in which they were interested had left the café and Mrs. Oliver had gone on a shadowing expedition, or else—To answer “or else” he went to the café door. One could not see the inside very well from the outside, on account of steam, so he pushed the door gently open and entered. His eyes swept round it.
    He saw at once the girl who had come to visit him at the breakfast table. She was sitting by herself at a table against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette and staring in front of her. She seemed to be lost in thought. No, Poirot thought, hardly that. There did not seem to be any thought there. She was lost in a kind of oblivion. She was somewhere else.
    He crossed the room quietly and sat down in the chair opposite her. She