Third Girl by Agatha Christie Page A

looked up then, and he was at least gratified to see that he was recognised.
    â€œSo we meet again, Mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly. “I see you recognise me.”
    â€œYes. Yes, I do.”
    â€œIt is always gratifying to be recognised by a young lady one has only met once and for a very short time.”
    She continued to look at him without speaking.
    â€œAnd how did you know me, may I ask? What made you recognise me?”
    â€œYour moustache,” said Norma immediately. “It couldn’t be anyone else.”
    He was gratified by that observation and stroked it with the pride and vanity that he was apt to display on these occasions.
    â€œAh yes, very true. Yes, there are not many moustaches such as mine. It is a fine one, hein?”
    â€œYes—well, yes—I suppose it is.”
    â€œAh, you are perhaps not a connoisseur of moustaches, but I can tell you, Miss Restarick—Miss Norma Restarick, is it not?—that it is a very fine moustache.”
    He had dwelt deliberately upon her name. She had at first looked so oblivious to everything around her, so far away, that he wondered if she would notice. She did. It startled her.
    â€œHow did you know my name?” she said.
    â€œTrue, you did not give your name to my servant when you came to see me that morning.”
    â€œHow did you know it? How did you get to know it? Who told you?”
    He saw the alarm, the fear.
    â€œA friend told me,” he said. “One’s friends can be very useful.”
    â€œWho was it?”
    â€œMademoiselle, you like keeping your little secrets from me. I, too, have a preference for keeping my little secrets from you.”
    â€œI don’t see how you could know who I was.”
    â€œI am Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot, with his usual magnificence. Then he left the initiative to her, merely sitting there smiling gently at her.
    â€œI—” she began, then stopped. “—Would—” Again she stopped.
    â€œWe did not get very far that morning, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “Only so far as your telling me that you had committed a murder.”
    â€œOh that! ”
    â€œYes, Mademoiselle, that. ”
    â€œBut—I didn’t mean it of course. I didn’t mean anything like that. I mean, it was just a joke.”
    â€œ Vraiment? You came to see me rather early in the morning, at breakfast time. You said it was urgent. The urgency was because you might have committed a murder. That is your idea of a joke, eh?”
    A waitress who had been hovering, looking at Poirot with a fixed attention, suddenly came up to him and proffered him what appeared to be a paper boat such as is made for children to sail in a bath.
    â€œThis for you?” she said. “Mr. Porritt? A lady left it.”
    â€œAh yes,” said Poirot. “And how did you know who I was?”
    â€œThe lady said I’d know by your moustache. Said I wouldn’t have seen a moustache like that before. And it’s true enough,” she added, gazing at it.
    â€œWell, thank you very much.”
    Poirot took the boat from her, untwisted it and smoothed it out; he read some hastily pencilled words: “He’s just going. She’s staying behind, so I’m going to leave her for you, and follow him.” It was signed Ariadne.
    â€œAh yes,” said Hercule Poirot, folding it and slipping it into his pocket. “What were we talking about? Your sense of humour, I think, Miss Restarick.”
    â€œDo you know just my name or—or do you know everything about me?”
    â€œI know a few things about you. You are Miss Norma Restarick, your address in London is 67 Borodene Mansions. Your home address is Crosshedges, Long Basing. You live there with a father, a stepmother, a great-uncle and—ah yes, an au pair girl. You see, I am quite well informed.”
    â€œYou’ve been having me followed.”
    â€œNo, no,” said