You felt at once that you were welcome to be in his gallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solely looking at these delightful pictures — though when you entered the gallery you might not have thought that they were delightful. But by the time you went out you were convinced that delightful was exactly the word to describe them. After receiving some useful artistic instruction, and making a few 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 may say so, great perspicacity. Of course you know it isn’t the ordinary reaction. Most people prefer something–well, shall I say slightly obvious like that” — he pointed to a blue and green striped effect arranged in one corner of the canvas — “but this, yes, you’ve spotted the quality of the thing.
I’d say myself–of course it’s only my personal opinion — that that’s one of Raphael’s masterpieces.” Poirot and he looked together with both their heads on one side at an orange lop-sided diamond with two human eyes depending from it by what looked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relations established and time obviously 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 for us. Very successful. Quite a good artist herself, but not I should say really creative, if you understand me. She is better on the business side. I think she 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 me to give a show for a little group of young artists last spring. It was quite successful — the Press noticed it — all in a small way, you understand. Yes, she has her proteges.” “I am, you understand, somewhat oldfashioned.
Some of these young men— vraimentV Poirot’s hands went up.
“Ah,” said Mr. Boscombe indulgently, “you mustn’t go by their appearance. It’s just a fashion, you know. Beards and jeans or brocades and hair. Just a passing phase.” “David someone,” said Poirot. “I forgot his last name. Miss Cary seemed to think highly of him.” “Sure you don’t mean Peter Cardiff?
He’s her present protege. 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-Jones sometimes! Still, one never knows. You do get these reactions. She acts as his model occasionally.” “David Baker — that was the name I was trying to remember,” said Poirot.
“He is not bad,” said Mr. Boscombe, without enthusiasm. “Not much originality, in my opinion. He was one of the group of artists I mentioned, but he didn’t make any particular impression. A good painter, nimd, but not striking. Derivative!” Poirot went home. Miss Lemon presented him with letters to sign, and departed with them duly signed. George served him with an omelette fines herbes garnished, as you might say, with a discreetly sympathetic manner. After lunch as Poirot was settling himself in his square-backed armchair with his coffee at his elbow, the telephone rang.
“Mrs. Oliver, sir,” said George, lifting the telephone and placing it at his elbow.
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 not want to do.
“M. Poirot?” “C’estmoi.” “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 in it 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 which came by the midday post from her father, urging me to come and see him and 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 the head.” “And get myself hit on the head also?” “I simply don’t understand you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “J gave you a clue by finding the girl in the cafe. You said so.” “I know, I know.” “And then you go and lose her!” “I know, I know.” “What about that woman who threw herself out of a window. Haven’t you got anything out of that?” “I have made enquiries, yes.” “Well?” “Nothing. The woman is one of many.