Third Girl

‘Blood in the courtyard,’ said Poirot.

‘Really!’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘That’s just like the title of an old-fashioned detective story. The Stain on the Staircase. I mean nowadays you say something more like She Asked for Death.’

‘Perhaps there may not have been blood in the courtyard. Perhaps it is only what an imaginative, Irish porter imagined.’

‘Probably an upset milk bottle,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘He couldn’t see it at night. What happened?’

Poirot did not answer directly.

‘The girl thought she “might have committed a murder”. Was that the murder she meant?’

‘You mean she did shoot someone?’

‘One might presume that she did shoot at someone, but for all intents and purposes missed them. A few drops of blood… That was all. No body.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘it’s all very confused. Surely if anyone could still run out of a courtyard, you wouldn’t think you’d killed him, would you?’

‘C’est difficile,’ said Poirot, and rang off.

‘I’m worried,’ said Claudia Reece-Holland.

She refilled her cup from the coffee percolator. Frances Cary gave an enormous yawn. Both girls were breakfasting in the small kitchen of the flat. Claudia was dressed and ready to start for her day’s work. Frances was still in dressing-gown and pyjamas. Her black hair fell over one eye.

‘I’m worried about Norma,’ continued Claudia.

Frances yawned.

‘I shouldn’t worry if I were you. She’ll ring up or turn up sooner or later, I suppose.’

‘Will she? You know, Fran, I can’t help wondering—’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Frances, pouring herself out more coffee. She sipped it doubtfully. ‘I mean—Norma’s not really our business, is she? I mean, we’re not looking after her or spoon-feeding her or anything. She just shares the flat. Why all this motherly solicitude? I certainly wouldn’t worry.’

‘I daresay you wouldn’t. You never worry over anything. But it’s not the same for you as it is for me.’

‘Why isn’t it the same? You mean because you’re the tenant of the flat or something?’

‘Well, I’m in rather a special position, as you might say.’

Frances gave another enormous yawn.

‘I was up too late last night,’ she said. ‘At Basil’s party. I feel dreadful. Oh well, I suppose black coffee will be helpful. Have some more before I’ve drunk it all? Basil would make us try some new pills—Emerald Dreams. I don’t think it’s really worth trying all these silly things.’

‘You’ll be late at your gallery,’ said Claudia.

‘Oh well, I don’t suppose it matters much. Nobody notices or cares.

‘I saw David last night,’ she added. ‘He was all dressed up and really looked rather wonderful.’

‘Now don’t say you’re falling for him, too, Fran. He really is too awful.’

‘Oh, I know you think so. You’re such a conventional type, Claudia.’

‘Not at all. But I cannot say I care for all your arty set. Trying out all these drugs and passing out or getting fighting mad.’