“There were a few complaints from time to time, but mostly from elderly people.” Hercule Poirot made a significant gesture.
“A bit too fond of the bottle, yes, sir — and in with quite a gay lot. It made for a bit of trouble now and again.” “And she was fond of the gentlemen?” “Well, I wouldn’t like to go as far as that.59 “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.