Nineteen
Claudia Reece-Holland was not in the office today. Instead, a middle-aged¹ woman received Poirot.
She said that Mr. Restarick was waiting for him and ushered² him into Restarick’s room.
“Well?” Restarick hardly waited until he had come through the door. “Well, what about mydaughter?”
Poirot spread out his hands.
“As yet—nothing.”
“But look here, man, there must be something—some clue. A girl can’t just disappear into thinair.”
“Girls have done it before now and will do it again.”
“Did you understand that no expense was to be spared, none whatever? I—I can’t go on likethis.”
He seemed completely on edge by this time. He looked thinner and his red-rimmed eyes spokeof sleepless³ nights.
“I know what your anxiety must be, but I assure you that I have done everything possible totrace her. These things, alas⁴, cannot be hurried.”
“She may have lost her memory or—or she may—I mean, she might be sick. Ill.”
Poirot thought he knew what the broken form of the sentence meant. Restarick had been aboutto say “she may perhaps be dead.”
He sat down on the other side of the desk and said:
“Believe me, I appreciate your anxiety and I have to say to you once again that the resultswould be a lot quicker if you consulted the police.”
“No!” The word broke out explosively.
“They have greater facilities, more lines of inquiry⁵. I assure you it is not only a question ofmoney. Money cannot give you the same result as a highly efficient organisation⁶ can do.”
“Man, it’s no use your talking in that soothing⁷ way. Norma is my daughter. My only daughter,the only flesh and blood I’ve got.”
“Are you sure that you have told me everything—everything possible—about your daughter?”

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