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.