Seventeen

Chief Inspector Neele was sitting behind his desk looking very official andformal. He greeted Poirot politely and motioned him to a chair. As soon asthe young man who had introduced Poirot to the presence had left, ChiefInspector 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 youfrom that particular hole.”

“Why call it a hole?”

“Because you’re so exactly like a good mouser. A cat sitting over a holewaiting for the mouse to come out. Well, if you ask me, there isn’t anymouse in this particular hole. Mind you, I don’t say that you couldn’t un-earth some dubious transactions. You know these financiers. I daresaythere’s a lot of hoky-poky business, and all that, about minerals and con-cessions and oil and all those things. But Joshua Restarick Ltd. has got agood reputation. Family business—or used to be—but you can’t call it thatnow. Simon Restarick hadn’t any children, and his brother Andrew Re-starick 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 herown mother died. The aunt died of a stroke about six months ago. Mildlypotty, I believe—belonged to a few rather peculiar religious societies. Noharm in them. Simon Restarick was a perfectly plain type of shrewd busi-nessman, and had a social wife. They were married rather late in life.”

“And Andrew?”

“Andrew seems to have suffered from wanderlust. Nothing knownagainst him. Never stayed anywhere long, wandered about South Africa,South America, Kenya and a good many other places. His brother pressedhim to come back more than once, but he wasn’t having any. He didn’tlike London or business, but he seems to have had the Restarick familyflair 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 ofthose things. All his deals were business deals and they always turned outwell.”

“So he also in his way is conventional?”

“Yes, that about covers it. I don’t know what made him come back toEngland after his brother died. Possibly a new wife—he’s married again.

Good- looking woman a good deal younger than he is. At the momentthey’re living with old Sir Roderick Horsefield whose sister had marriedAndrew Restarick’s uncle. But I imagine that’s only temporary. Is any ofthis news to you? Or do you know it all already?”

“I’ve heard most of it,” said Poirot. “Is there any insanity in the familyon either side?”

“Shouldn’t think so, apart from old Auntie and her fancy religions. Andthat’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. SouthAfrican concessions, mines, mineral deposits. I’d say that by the time thesewere developed, or placed on the market, there’d be a very large sum ofmoney indeed.”

“And who will inherit it?” said Poirot.

“That depends on how Andrew Restarick leaves it. It’s up to him, but I’dsay 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 thingslike that. All the usual City gambits.”

“There is, for instance, no other woman in whom he might be interes-ted?”

“Nothing known of such a thing. I shouldn’t think it likely. He’s got agood-looking 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 ifshe was made a ward of Court or something like that. Of course her fathercould 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 onto that. Were you consulted by a clientabout 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 overhere buying pictures, and paying incredible sums for them. They sold hima Renoir and a Van Gogh. The Renoir was a small head of a girl and therewas some query about it. There seemed no reason to believe that the Wed-derburn Gallery had not bought it in the first place in all good faith. Therewas a case about it. A great many art experts came and gave their ver-dicts. 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 millionairedidn’t change his mind, since the latest fashionable expert swore that itwas perfectly genuine. So he stuck to it. All the same there’s been a bit ofsuspicion 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 upnightclubs. Live on purple hearts—heroin—Coke—Girls go mad aboutthem. He’s the kind they moan over saying his life has been so hard andhe’s such a wonderful genius. His painting is not appreciated. Nothing butgood old sex, if you ask me.”

Poirot consulted his list again.

“Do you know anything about Mr. Reece-Holland, MP?”

“Doing quite well, politically. Got the gift of the gab all right. One or twoslightly peculiar transactions in the City, but he’s wriggled out of themquite neatly. I’d say he was a slippery one. He’s made quite a good deal ofmoney 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 intoeverything, don’t you? Yes, there’s been a lot of trouble in the SpecialBranch. It’s this craze for memoirs. Nobody knows what indiscreet revela-tions are going to be made next. All the old boys, service and otherwise,are racing hard to bring out their own particular brand of what they re-member of the indiscretions of others! Usually it doesn’t much matter, butsometimes—well, you know, Cabinets change their policies and you don’twant to afront someone’s susceptibilities or give the wrong publicity, sowe have to try and muffle the old boys. Some of them are not too easy. Butyou’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 destroythe papers they should. They keep the lot. However, I don’t think there ismuch in that, but we have evidence that a certain Power is nosingaround.”

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, Idon’t think there is much help in what you have told me.” He sighed andthen said, “What would be your opinion if someone said to you casuallythat a woman—a young attractive woman—wore a wig?”

“Nothing in that,” said Chief Inspector Neele, and added, with a slight as-perity, “my wife wears a wig when we’re travelling anytime. It saves a lotof trouble.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Hercule Poirot.

As the two men bade each other good-bye, the Chief Inspector asked:

“You got all the dope, I suppose, on that suicide case you were askingabout 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 itback to my mind. I’ll think of it in a moment. It was the usual, rather sadstory. Gay woman, fond of men, enough money to live upon, no particularworries, drank too much and went down the hill. And then she gets what Icall the health bug. You know, they’re convinced they have cancer orsomething in that line. They consult a doctor and he tells them they’re allright, and they go home and don’t believe him. If you ask me it’s usuallybecause 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’relonely, I suppose, poor devils. Mrs. Charpentier was just one of them. Idon’t suppose that any—” he stopped. “Oh yes, of course, I remember. Youwere asking about one of our MPs, Reece-Holland. He’s a fairly gay onehimself in a discreet way. Anyway, Louise Charpentier was his mistress atone time. That’s all.”

“Was it a serious liaison?”

“Oh I shouldn’t say so particularly. They went to some rather question-able clubs together and things like that. You know, we keep a discreet eyeon things of that kind. But there was never anything in the Press aboutthem. Nothing of that kind.”

“I see.”

“But it lasted for a certain time. They were seen together, off and on, forabout six months, but I don’t think she was the only one and I don’t thinkhe 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 thesame, it is a link. It explains the embarrassment of Mr. McFarlane. It is alink, a tiny link, a link between Emlyn Reece- Holland, MP, and LouiseCharpentier.” It didn’t mean anything probably. Why should it? But yet—“I know too much,” said Poirot angrily to himself. “I know too much. Iknow a little about everything and everyone but I cannot get my pattern.

Half these facts are irrelevant. I want a pattern. A pattern. My kingdomfor a pattern,” he said aloud.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lift boy, turning a startled head.

“It is nothing,” said Poirot.