Eighteen

Poirot paused at the doorway of the Wedderburn Gallery to inspect a pic-ture which depicted three aggressive-looking cows with vastly elongatedbodies overshadowed by a colossal and complicated design of windmills.

The two seemed to have nothing to do with each other or the very curiouspurple colouring.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” said a soft purring voice.

A middle-aged man, who at first sight seemed to have shown a smilewhich exhibited an almost excessive number of beautiful white teeth, wasat his elbow.

“Such freshness.”

He had large white plump hands which he waved as though he was us-ing them in an arabesque.

“Clever exhibition. Closed last week. Claude Raphael show opened theday before yesterday. It’s going to do well. Very well indeed.”

“Ah,” said Poirot and was led through grey velvet curtains into a longroom.

Poirot made a few cautious if doubtful remarks. The plump man tookhim 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 theart of salesmanship. You felt at once that you were welcome to be in hisgallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solelylooking at these delightful pictures—though when you entered the galleryyou might not have thought that they were delightful. But by the time youwent out you were convinced that delightful was exactly the word to de-scribe them. After receiving some useful artistic instruction, and making afew 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 maysay so, great perspicacity. Of course you know it isn’t the ordinary reac-tion. Most people prefer something—well, shall I say slightly obvious likethat”— he pointed to a blue and green striped effect arranged in onecorner of the canvas —“but this, yes, you’ve spotted the quality of thething. I’d say myself—of course it’s only my personal opinion—that that’sone of Raphael’s masterpieces.”

Poirot and he looked together with both their heads on one side at an or-ange lopsided diamond with two human eyes depending from it by whatlooked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relations established and time obvi-ously 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 forus. Very successful. Quite a good artist herself, but not I should say reallycreative, if you understand me. She is better on the business side. I thinkshe 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 meto give a show for a little group of young artists last spring. It was quitesuccessful—the Press noticed it—all in a small way, you understand. Yes,she has her protégés.”

“I am, you understand, somewhat old-fashioned. Some of these youngmen—vraiment!” Poirot’s hands went up.

“Ah,” said Mr. Boscombe indulgently, “you mustn’t go by their appear-ances. It’s just a fashion, you know. Beards and jeans or brocades andhair. Just a passing phase.”

“David someone,” said Poirot. “I forget his last name. Miss Cary seemedto think highly of him.”

“Sure you don’t mean Peter Cardiff? He’s her present protégé. Mind you,I’m not quite so sure about him as she is. He’s really not so much avant-garde as he is—well, positively reactionary. Quite—quite—Burne-Jonessometimes! Still, one never knows. You do get these reactions. She acts ashis model occasionally.”

“David Baker — that was the name I was trying to remember,” saidPoirot.

“He is not bad,” said Mr. Boscombe, without enthusiasm. “Not much ori-ginality, in my opinion. He was one of the group of artists I mentioned,but he didn’t make any particular impression. A good painter, mind, butnot striking. Derivative!”

Poirot went home. Miss Lemon presented him with letters to sign, anddeparted with them duly signed. George served him with an omellette finesherbes garnished, as you might say, with a discreetly sympathetic manner.

After lunch, as Poirot was setting himself in his square-backed armchairwith his coffee at his elbow, the telephone rang.

“Mrs. Oliver, sir,” said George, lifting the telephone and placing it at hiselbow.

Poirot picked up the receiver reluctantly. He did not want to talk to Mrs.

Oliver. He felt that she would urge upon him something which he did notwant to do.

“M. Poirot?”

“C’est moi.”

“Well, what are you doing? What have you done?”

“I am sitting in this chair,” said Poirot. “Thinking,” he added.

“Is that all?” said Mrs. Oliver.

“It is the important thing,” said Poirot. “Whether I shall have success init or not I do not know.”

“But you must find that girl. She’s probably been kidnapped.”

“It would certainly seem so,” said Poirot. “And I have a letter here whichcame by the midday post from her father, urging me to come and see himand tell him what progress I have made.”

“Well, what progress have you made?”

“At the moment,” said Poirot reluctantly, “none.”

“Really, M. Poirot, you really must take a grip on yourself.”

“You, too!”

“What do you mean, me too?”

“Urging me on.”

“Why don’t you go down to that place in Chelsea, where I was hit on thehead?”

“And get myself hit on the head also?”

“I simply don’t understand you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I gave you a clue byfinding the girl in the café. You said so.”

“I know, I know.”

“What about that woman who threw herself out of a window? Haven’tyou got anything out of that?”

“I have made inquiries, yes.”

“Well?”

“Nothing. The woman is one of many. They are attractive when young,they have affairs, they are passionate, they have still more affairs, they getless attractive, they are unhappy and drink too much, they think they havecancer or some fatal disease and so at last in despair and loneliness theythrow themselves out of a window!”

“You said her death was important—that it meant something.”

“It ought to have done.”

“Really!” At a loss for further comment, Mrs. Oliver rang off.

Poirot leant back in his armchair, as far as he could lean back since itwas of an upright nature, waved to George to remove the coffee pot andalso the telephone and proceeded to reflect upon what he did or did notknow. To clarify his thoughts he spoke out loud. He recalled three philo-sophic questions.

“What do I know? What can I hope? What ought I to do?”

He was not sure that he got them in the right order or indeed if theywere quite the right questions, but he reflected upon them.

“Perhaps I am too old,” said Hercule Poirot, at the bottom depths of des-pair. “What do I know?”

Upon reflection he thought that he knew too much! He laid that questionaside for the moment.

“What can I hope?” Well, one could always hope. He could hope thatthose excellent brains of his, so much better than anybody else’s, wouldcome up sooner or later with an answer to a problem which he felt uneas-ily that he did not really understand.

“What ought I to do?” Well, that was very definite. What he ought to dowas to go and call upon Mr. Andrew Restarick who was obviously dis-traught about his daughter, and who would no doubt blame Poirot for nothaving by now delivered the daughter in person. Poirot could understandthat, and sympathised with his point of view, but disliked having topresent himself in such a very unfavourable light. The only other thing hecould do was to telephone to a certain number and ask what develop-ments there had been.

But before he did that, he would go back to the question he had laidaside.

“What do I know?”

He knew that the Wedderburn Gallery was under suspicion—so far ithad kept on the right side of the law, but it would not hesitate at swindlingignorant millionaires by selling them dubious pictures.

He recalled Mr. Boscombe with his plump white hands and his plentifulteeth, and decided that he did not like him. He was the kind of man whowas almost certainly up to dirty work, though he would no doubt protecthimself remarkably well. That was a fact that might come into use becauseit might connect up with David Baker. Then there was David Baker him-self, the Peacock. What did he know about him? He had met him, he hadconversed with him, and he had formed certain opinions about him. Hewould do a crooked deal of any kind for money, he would marry a richheiress for her money and not for love, he might perhaps be bought off.

Yes, he probably could be bought off. Andrew Restarick certainly believedso and he was probably right. Unless—

He considered Andrew Restarick, thinking more of the picture on thewall hanging above him than of the man himself. He remembered thestrong features, the jutting out chin, the air of resolution, of decision. Thenhe thought of Mrs. Andrew Restarick, deceased. The bitter lines of hermouth…Perhaps he would go down to Crosshedges again and look at thatportrait, so as to see it more clearly because there might be a clue toNorma in that. Norma—no, he must not think of Norma yet. What elsewas there?

There was Mary Restarick whom the girl Sonia said must have a loverbecause she went up to London so often. He considered that point but hedid not think that Sonia was right. He thought Mrs. Restarick was muchmore likely to go to London in order to look at possible properties to buy,luxury flats, houses in Mayfair, decorators, all the things that money in themetropolis could buy.

Money… It seemed to him that all the points that had been passingthrough his mind came to this in the end. Money. The importance ofmoney. There was a great deal of money in this case. Somehow, in someway that was not obvious, money counted. Money played its part. So farthere had been nothing to justify his belief that the tragic death of Mrs.

Charpentier had been the work of Norma. No sign of evidence, no motive;yet it seemed to him that there was an undeniable link. The girl had saidthat she “might have committed a murder.” A death had taken place onlya day or two previously. A death that had occurred in the building whereshe lived. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence that that deathshould not be connected in any way? He thought again of the mysteriousillness which had affected Mary Restarick. An occurrence so simple as tobe classic in its outline. A poison case where the poisoner was—must be—one of the household. Had Mary Restarick poisoned herself, had her hus-band tried to poison her, had the girl Sonia administered poison? Or hadNorma been the culprit? Everything pointed, Hercule Poirot had to con-fess, to Norma as being the logical person.

“Tout de même,” said Poirot, “since I cannot find anything, et bien thenthe logic falls out of the window.”

He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He mustkeep his appointment with Andrew Restarick.