"And she was fond of the gentlemen?"
"Well, I wouldn't like to go as far as that..."
"No, no, but one understands."
"Of course she wasn't so young."
"Appearances are very often deceptive.
How old would you have said she was?"
"It's difficult to say. Forty-fortyfive." He added, "Her health wasn't good, you know."
"So I understand."
"She drank too much - no doubt about it. And then she'd get very depressed.
Nervous about herself. Always going to doctors, I believe, and not believing what they told her. Ladies do get it into their heads - especially about that time of life -she thought that she had cancer. Was quite sure of it. The doctor reassured her but she didn't believe him. He said at the inquest that there was nothing really wrong with her. Oh well, one hears of things like that every day. She got all worked up and one final day -" he nodded.
"It is very sad," said Poirot. "Did she have any special friends among the residents of the flats?"
"Not that I know of. This place, you see, isn't what I call the matey kind.
They're mostly people in business, in jobs."
"I was thinking possibly of Miss Claudia Reece-Holland. I wondered if they had known each other."
"Miss Reece-Holland? No, I don't think so. Oh I mean they were probably acquaintances, talked when they went up in the lift together, that sort of thing. But I don't think there was much social contact of any kind. You see, they would be in a different generation. I mean-" Mr. McFarlane seemed a little flustered. Poirot wondered why.
He said, "One of the other girls who share Miss Holland's flat knew Mrs. Charpentier, I believe-Miss Norma Restarick."
"Did she? I wouldn't know - she's only come here quite recently, I hardly know her by sight. Rather a frightenedlooking young lady. Not long out of school, I'd say." He added, "Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?"
"No, thank you. You've been most kind.
I wonder if possibly I could see the flat.
Just in order to be able to say -" Poirot paused, not particularising what he wanted to be able to say.
"Well, now, let me see. A Mr. Travers has got it now. He's in the City all day.
Yes, come up with me if you like, sir." They went up to the seventh floor. As Mr. McFarlane introduced his key one of the numbers fell from the door and narrowly avoided Poirot's patent-leather shoe. He hopped nimbly and then bent to pick it up. He replaced the spike which fixed it on the door very carefully.
"These numbers are loose," he said.
"I'm very sorry, sir. I'll make a note of it.
Yes, they wear loose from time to time.
Well, here we are." Poirot went into the living-room. At the moment it had little personality. The walls were papered with a paper resembling grained wood. It had conventional comfortable furniture, the only personal touch was a television set and a certain number of books.
"All the flats are partly furnished, you see," said Mr. McFarlane. "The tenants don't need to bring anything of their own, unless they want to. We cater very largely for people who come and go."
"And the decorations are all the same?"
"Not entirely. People seem to like this raw wood effect. Good background for pictures. The only things that are different are on the one wall facing the door. We have a whole set of frescoes which people can choose from.
"We have a set of ten," said Mr. McFarlane with some pride. There is the Japanese one-very artistic, don't you think? - and there is an English garden one, a very striking one of birds, one of trees, a Harlequin one, a rather interesting abstract effect - lines and cubes, in vividly contrasting colours, that sort of thing.
They're all designs by good artists. Our furniture is all the same. Two choices of colours, or of course people can add what they like of their own. But they don't usually bother."
"Most of them are not, as you might say, home-makers," Poirot suggested.
"No, rather the bird of passage type, or busy people who want solid comfort, good plumbing and all that but aren't particularly interested in decoration, though we've had one or two of the do-it-yourself type, which isn't really satisfactory from our point of view. We've had to put a clause in the lease saying they've got to put things back as they found them - or pay for that being done." They seemed to be getting rather far away from the subject of Mrs. Charpentier's death. Poirot approached the window.
"It was from here?" he murmured delicately.
"Yes. That's the window. The left-hand one. It has a balcony." Poirot looked out down below.
"Seven floors," he said. "A long way."
"Yes, death was instantaneous, I am glad to say. Of course, it might have been an accident." Poirot shook his head.
"You cannot seriously suggest that, Mr. McFarlane. It must have been deliberate."
"Well, one always likes to suggest an easier possibility. She wasn't a happy woman, I'm afraid."
"Thank you," said Poirot, "for your great courtesy. I shall be able to give her relations in France a very clear picture." His own picture of what had occurred was not as clear as he would have liked.
So far there had been nothing to support his theory that the death of Louise Charpentier had been important. He repeated the Christian name thoughtfully.
Louise… Why had the name Louise some haunting memory about it? He shook his head. He thanked Mr. McFarlane and left.
Chapter Seventeen
CHIEF INSPECTOR NEELE was sitting behind his desk looking very official and formal. He greeted Poirot politely and motioned him to a chair. As soon as the young man who had introduced Poirot to the presence had left, Chief Inspector Neele's manner changed.
"And what are you after now, you secretive old devil?" he said.
"As to that," said Poirot, "you already know."
"Oh yes, I've rustled up some stuff but I don't think there's much for you from that particular hole."
"Why call it a hole?"
"Because you're so exactly like a good mouser. A cat sitting over a hole waiting for the mouse to come out. Well, if you ask me, there isn't any mouse in this particular hole. Mind you, I don't say that you couldn't unearth some dubious transactions. You know these financiers.
I dare say there's a lot of hoky-poky business, and all that, about minerals and concessions and oil and all those things.
But Joshua Restarick Ltd. has got a good reputation. Family business - or used to be - but you can't call it that now.
Simon Restarick hadn't any children, and his brother Andrew Restarick only has this daughter. There was an old aunt on the mother's side. Andrew Restarick's daughter lived with her after she left school and her own mother died. The aunt died of a stroke about six months ago. Mildly potty, I believe - belonged to a few peculiar religious societies. No harm in them. Simon Restarick was a perfectly plain type of shrewd business man, and had a social wife. They were married rather late in life."
"And Andrew?"
"Andrew seems to have suffered from wanderlust. Nothing known against him.
Never stayed anywhere long, wandered about South Africa, South America, Kenya and a good many other places. His brother pressed him to come back more than once, but he wasn't having any. He didn't like London or business, but he seems to have had the Restarick family flair for making money. He went after mineral deposits, things like that. He wasn't an elephant hunter or an archaeologist or a plant man or any of those things. All his deals were business deals and they always turned out well."
"So he also in his way is conventional?"
"Yes, that about covers it. I don't know what made him come back to England after his brother died. Possibly a new wife - he's married again. Good-looking woman a good deal younger than he is.
At the moment they're living with old Sir Roderick Horsefield whose sister had married Andrew Restarick's uncle. But I imagine that's only temporary. Is any of this news to you? Or do you know it all already?"
&nbs
p; "I've heard most of it," said Poirot. "Is there any insanity in the family on either side?"
"Shouldn't think so, apart from old Auntie and her fancy religions. And that's not unusual in a woman who lives alone."
"So all you can tell me really is that there is a lot of money," said Poirot.
"Lots of money," said Chief Inspector Neele. "And all quite respectable. Some of it, mark you, Andrew Restarick brought into the firm. South African concessions, mines, mineral deposits. I'd say that by the time these were developed, or placed on the market, there'd be a very large sum of money indeed."
"And who will inherit it?" said Poirot.
"That depends on how Andrew Restarick leaves it. It's up to him, but I'd say that there's no one obvious, except his wife and his daughter."
"So they both stand to inherit a very large amount of money one day?"
"I should say so. I expect there are a good many family trusts and things like that. All the usual City gambits."
"There is, for instance, no other woman in whom he might be interested?"
"Nothing known of such a thing. I shouldn't think it likely. He's got a goodlooking new wife."
"A young man," said Poirot thoughtfully, "could easily learn all this?"
"You mean and marry the daughter?
There's nothing to stop him, even if she was made a ward of Court or something like that. Of course her father could then disinherit her if he wanted to." Poirot looked down at a neatly written list in his hand.
"What about the Wedderburn Gallery?"
"I wondered how you'd got on to that.
Were you consulted by a client about a forgery?"
"Do they deal in forgeries?"
"People don't deal in forgeries," said Chief Inspector Neele reprovingly. "There was a rather unpleasant business. A millionaire from Texas over here buying pictures, and paying incredible sums for them. They sold him a Renoir and a Van Gogh. The Renoir was a small head of a girl and there was some query about it.
There seemed no reason to believe that the Wedderburn Gallery had not bought it in the first place in all good faith. There was a case about it. A great many art experts came and gave their verdicts. In fact, as usual, in the end they all seemed to contradict each other. The gallery offered to take it back in any case. However, the millionaire didn't change his mind, since the latest fashionable expert swore that it was perfectly genuine. So he stuck to it.
All the same there's been a bit of suspicion hanging round the gallery ever since." Poirot looked again at his list.
"And what about Mr. David Baker?
Have you looked him up for me?"
"Oh, he's one of the usual mob. Riffraff - go about in gangs and break up night clubs. Live on purple hearts - heroin - Coke - Girls go mad about them. He's the kind they moan over saying his life has been so hard and he's such a wonderful genius. His painting is not appreciated. Nothing but good old sex, if you ask me." Poirot consulted his list again.
"Do you know anything about Mr. Reece-Holland, m.p.?"
"Doing quite well, politically. Got the gift of the gab all right. One or two slightly peculiar transactions in the City, but he's wriggled out of them quite neatly.
I'd say he was a slippery one. He's made quite a good deal of money off and on by rather doubtful means." Poirot came to his last point.
"What about Sir Roderick Horsefield?"
"Nice old boy but gaga. What a nose you have, Poirot, get it into everything, don't you? Yes, there's been a lot of trouble in the Special Branch. It's this craze for memoirs. Nobody knows what indiscreet revelations are going to be made next.
All the old boys, service and otherwise, are raving hard to bring out their own particular brand of what they remember of the indiscretions of others! Usually it doesn't much matter, but sometimes - well, you know. Cabinets change their policies and you don't want to affront someone's susceptibilities or give the wrong publicity, so we have to try and muffle the old boys. Some of them are not too easy. But you'll have to go to the Special Branch if you want to nose into any of that. I shouldn't think there was much wrong. The trouble is they don't destroy the papers they should. They keep the lot. However, I don't think there is much in that, but we have evidence that a certain Power is nosing around." Poirot gave a deep sigh.
"Haven't I helped?" asked the Chief Inspector.
"I am very glad to get the real lowdown from official quarters. But no, I don't think there is much help in what you have told me." He sighed and then said, "What would be your opinion if someone said to you casually that a woman - a young attractive woman - wore a wig?"
"Nothing in that," said Chief Inspector Neele, and added, with slight asperity, "my wife wears a wig when we're travelling any time. It saves a lot of trouble."
"I beg your pardon," said Hercule Poirot.
As the two men bade each other goodbye, the Chief Inspector asked: "You got all the dope, I suppose, on that suicide case you were asking about in the flats? I had it sent round to you."
"Yes, thank you. The official facts, at least. A bare record."
"There was something you were talking about just now that brought it back to my mind. I'll think of it in a moment. It was the usual, rather sad story. Gay woman, fond of men, enough money to live upon, no particular worries, drank too much and went down the hill. And then she gets what I call the health bug. You know, they're convinced they have cancer or something in that line. They consult a doctor and he tells them they're all right, and they go home and don't believe him.
If you ask me it's usually because they find they're no longer as attractive as they used to be to men. That's what's really depressing them. Yes, it happens all the time. They're lonely, I suppose, poor devils. Mrs. Charpentier was just one of them. I don't suppose that any - " he stopped. "Oh yes, of course, I remember.
You were asking about one of our M.P.s, Reece-Holland. He's a fairly gay one himself in a discreet way. Anyway, Louise Charpentier was his mistress at one time.
That's all."
"Was it a serious liaison?"
"Oh I shouldn't say so particularly.
They went to some rather questionable clubs together and things like that. You know, we keep a discreet eye on things of that kind. But there was never anything in the Press about them. Nothing of that kind."
"I see."
"But it lasted for a certain time. They were seen together, off and on for about six months, but I don't think she was the only one and I don't think he was the only one either. So you can't make anything of that, can you?"
"I do not think so," said Poirot.
"But all the same," he said to himself as he went down the stairs, "all the same, it is a link. It explains the embarrassment of Mr. McFarlane. It is a link, a tiny link, a link between Ernlyn ReeceHolland, m.p., and Louise Charpentier." It didn't mean anything probably. Why should it?
But yet- "I know too much," said Poirot angrily to himself. "I know too much. I know a little about everything and everyone but I cannot get my pattern. Half these facts are irrelevant. I want a pattern.
"A pattern. My kingdom for a pattern," he said aloud.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the lift boy, turning a startled head.
"It is nothing," said Poirot.
Chapter Eighteen
POIROT paused at the doorway of the Wedderburn Gallery to inspect a picture which depicted three aggressive-looking cows with vastly elongated bodies overshadowed by a colossal and complicated design of windmills. The two seemed to have nothing to do with each other or the very curious purple colouring.
"Interesting, isn't it?" said a soft purring voice.
A middle-aged man who at first sight seemed to have shown a smile which exhibited an almost excessive number of beautiful white teeth, was at his elbow. "Such freshness." He had large white plump hands which he waved as though he was using them in an arabesque.
"Clever exhibition. Closed last week.
Claude Raphael show opened the day before yesterd
ay. It's going to do well.
Very well indeed."
"Ah," said Poirot and was led through grey velvet curtains into a long room.
Poirot made a few cautious if doubtful remarks. The plump man took him in hand in a practised manner. Here was someone, he obviously felt, who must not be frightened away. He was a very experienced man in the art of salesmanship.
You felt at once that you were welcome to be in his gallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solely looking at these delightful pictures - though when you entered the gallery you might not have thought that they were delightful. But by the time you went out you were convinced that delightful was exactly the word to describe them. After receiving some useful artistic instruction, and making a few of the amateur's stock remarks such as "I rather like that one," Mr. Boscombe responded encouragingly by some such phrase as: "Now that's very interesting that you should say that. It shows, if I may say so, great perspicacity. Of course you know it isn't the ordinary reaction. Most people prefer something-well, shall I say slightly obvious like that" - he pointed to a blue and green striped effect arranged in one corner of the canvas - "but this, yes, you've spotted the quality of the thing.
I'd say myself-of course it's only my personal opinion - that that's one of Raphael's masterpieces." Poirot and he looked together with both their heads on one side at an orange lop-sided diamond with two human eyes depending from it by what looked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relations established and time obviously being infinite, Poirot remarked: "I think a Miss Frances Cary works for you, does she not?"
"Ah yes. Frances. Clever girl that.
Very artistic and very competent too.
Just come back from Portugal where she's been arranging an art show for us. Very successful. Quite a good artist herself, but not I should say really creative, if you understand me. She is better on the business side. I think she recognises that herself."
"I understand that she is a good patron of the arts?"
"Oh yes. She's interested in Les Jeunes. Encourages talent, persuaded me to give a show for a little group of young artists last spring. It was quite successful - the Press noticed it - all in a small way, you understand. Yes, she has her proteges."
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