“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. cc 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 yesterday. 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.