Free Third Girl by Agatha Christie Page B

have to think of another excuse for going there. She wasn’t quite sure what excuse she would use but anyway, that seemed the only possible place where more information could be obtained. What was the time? Ten a.m. There were certain possibilities….
    On the way there she concocted an excuse. Not a very original excuse. In fact, Mrs. Oliver would have liked to have found something more intriguing, but perhaps, she reflected prudently, it was just as well to keep to something completely everyday and plausible. She arrived at the stately if grim elevation of Borodene Mansions and walked slowly round the courtyard considering it.
    A porter was conversing with a furniture van—A milkman, pushing his milk float, came to join Mrs. Oliver near the service lift.
    He rattled bottles, cheerfully whistling, whilst Mrs. Oliver continued to stare abstractedly at the furniture van.
    â€œNumber 76 moving out,” explained the milkman to Mrs. Oliver, mistaking her interest. He transferred a clutch of bottles from his float to the lift.
    â€œNot that she hasn’t moved already in a manner of speaking,” he added, emerging again. He seemed a cheery kind of milkman.
    He pointed a thumb upwards.
    â€œPitched herself out of a window—seventh floor—only a week ago, it was. Five o’clock in the morning. Funny time to choose.”
    Mrs. Oliver didn’t think it so funny.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy did she do it? Nobody knows. Balance of mind disturbed, they said.”
    â€œWas she—young?”
    â€œNah! Just an old trout. Fifty if she was a day.”
    Two men struggled in the van with a chest of drawers. It resisted them and two mahogany drawers crashed to the ground—a loose piece of paper floated toward Mrs. Oliver who caught it.
    â€œDon’t smash everything, Charlie,” said the cheerful milkman reprovingly, and went up in the lift with his cargo of bottles.
    An altercation broke out between the furniture movers. Mrs. Oliver offered them the piece of paper, but they waved it away.
    Making up her mind, Mrs. Oliver entered the building and went up to No. 67. A clank came from inside and presently the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a mop who was clearly engaged in household labours.
    â€œOh,” said Mrs. Oliver, using her favourite monosyllable. “Good morning. Is—I wonder—is anyone in?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not, Madam. They’re all out. They’ve gone to work.”
    â€œYes, of course…As a matter of fact when I was here last I left a little diary behind. So annoying. It must be in the sitting room somewhere.”
    â€œWell, I haven’t picked up anything of the kind, Madam, as far as I know. Of course I mightn’t have known it was yours. Would you like to come in?” She opened the door hospitably, set aside the mop with which she had been treating the kitchen floor, and accompanied Mrs. Oliver into the sitting room.
    â€œYes,” said Mrs. Oliver, determined to establish friendly relations, “yes, I see here—that’s the book I left for Miss Restarick, Miss Norma. Is she back from the country yet?”
    â€œI don’t think she’s living here at the moment. Her bed wasn’t slept in. Perhaps she’s still down with her people in the country. I know she was going there last weekend.”
    â€œYes, I expect that’s it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “This was a book I brought her. One of my books.”
    One of Mrs. Oliver’s books did not seem to strike any chord of interest in the cleaning woman.
    â€œI was sitting here,” went on Mrs. Oliver, patting an armchair, “at least I think so. And then I moved to the window and perhaps to the sofa.”
    She dug down vehemently behind the cushions of the chair. The cleaning woman obliged by doing the same thing to the sofa cushions.
    â€œYou’ve no idea how maddening it is when one loses something like