Mrs. Oliver paced back and forth in her living room, clearly agitated. She had just carefully wrapped the proofread manuscript and handed it to her maid, Edith, with strict instructions to rush it to the post office. The publisher was notoriously impatient, checking in every three or four days for updates.

“Here you go,” she muttered to herself, addressing the empty room as if the publisher were standing right there. “Take it! I hope you like it, even though I absolutely don’t. In fact, I doubt you even know the difference between good and bad! But I’ve warned you, haven’t I? These pages are dreadful. And you always say, ‘No, no, I don’t believe you!’ Fine, wait and see!”

With a huff, she flopped onto the sofa and glared at the cherry-patterned wallpaper. The sight reignited her irritation. “These ridiculous cherries! I should’ve replaced them ages ago with that tropical bird wallpaper. At least the birds made me feel like I was in a jungle, not some absurd orchard.”

She sighed, her eyes scanning the room before she stood again. “What on earth should I do with myself?” Suddenly, her gaze landed on the telephone.

She strode over and dialed Poirot’s number. After a few rings, the familiar voice answered, “Hercule Poirot, at your service, madame.”

“Where have you been all day?” Mrs. Oliver demanded, her tone tinged with reproach. “You’ve been completely absent. I assume you went to the Restarick house? Did you meet Sir Roderick? Did you uncover anything interesting?”

“Nothing at all,” Poirot replied in his usual composed tone.

“How disappointing!” Mrs. Oliver exclaimed.

“Not at all,” Poirot countered. “On the contrary, I find it quite intriguing.”

“Why? I don’t follow,” Mrs. Oliver said, perplexed.

“Because it suggests two possibilities,” Poirot explained, his voice deliberate. “Either there truly is nothing of note there—which does not align with my observations—or something is being hidden very skillfully. And it is the latter possibility that I find most compelling.”

“Did you speak to Mrs. Restarick? Does she know about the girl’s disappearance?” Mrs. Oliver asked.

“She appears unaware,” Poirot said. “She seems unconcerned about Norma’s whereabouts—or at least she pretends to be.”

“So, you’re saying she has nothing to do with the girl’s disappearance?” Mrs. Oliver pressed.

“On the surface, that seems to be the case,” Poirot said, pausing briefly. “However, I also encountered someone else—someone far less welcome.”

“Oh, you mean that insufferable young man?” Mrs. Oliver guessed.

“Indeed, the very one. David Baker.”

“And what do you make of him?” Mrs. Oliver asked.

“That depends on one’s perspective,” Poirot replied. “To me, his behavior is suspicious. To the girl—Norma—he is evidently quite appealing.”

“Appealing?” Mrs. Oliver’s voice rose. “I can’t stand these so-called ‘appealing’ young men, especially ones who look like vagabond performers.”

“Yet young women seem to fancy them,” Poirot said lightly.

“Do you think he knows where Norma is?” Mrs. Oliver asked.

“He might,” Poirot said thoughtfully. “And if he does, he’s keeping it to himself. He was sneaking around the Restarick house and went upstairs. Clearly, he was searching for something.”

“Searching for what?” Mrs. Oliver pressed.

“In Norma’s room, I noticed a wet mud print that matched his shoe,” Poirot explained. “It’s possible he was helping her look for something—perhaps at her request. But that is merely conjecture.”

“So, what’s your next move?” Mrs. Oliver asked.

“I shall wait,” Poirot replied. “Sometimes, clues reveal themselves only with time.”

“Wait? That’s dreadfully boring.” Mrs. Oliver’s tone grew more exasperated.

“You are free to act on your own,” Poirot advised, “but please exercise caution. Once murder enters the picture, danger often follows.”

“What danger could possibly come my way?” Mrs. Oliver chuckled lightly. “You’re being dramatic.”

Poirot’s voice dropped to a grave tone. “Mark my words, madame. When murder is involved, danger is never far behind. And I am Hercule Poirot. I do not speak of danger lightly.”