"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.

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.

At the moment they're living with old Sir Roderick Horsefield whose sister had married Andrew Restarick's uncle. But I imagine that's only temporary. Is any of this news to you? Or do you know it all already?" "I've heard most of it," said Poirot. "Is there any insanity in the family on either side?" "Shouldn't think so, apart from old Auntie and her fancy religions. And that's not unusual in a woman who lives alone." "So all you can tell me really is that there is a lot of money," said Poirot.

"Lots of money," said Chief Inspector Neele. "And all quite respectable. Some of it, mark you, Andrew Restarick brought into the firm. South African concessions, mines, mineral deposits. I'd say that by the time these were developed, or placed on the market, there'd be a very large sum of money indeed." "And who will inherit it?" said Poirot.

"That depends on how Andrew Restarick leaves it. It's up to him, but I'd say that there's no one obvious, except his wife and his daughter." "So they both stand to inherit a very large amount of money one day?" "I should say so. I expect there are a good many family trusts and things like that. All the usual City gambits." "There is, for instance, no other woman in whom he might be interested?" "Nothing known of such a thing. I shouldn't think it likely. He's got a goodlooking new wife." "A young man," said Poirot thoughtfully, "could easily learn all this?" ^You mean and marry the daughter?

There's nothing to stop him, even if she was made a ward of Court or something like that. Of course her father could then disinherit her if he wanted to." Poirot looked down at a neatly written list in his hand.

"What about the Wedderburn Gallery?" "I wondered how you'd got on to that.

Were you consulted by a client about a forgery?" "Do they deal in forgeries?" "People don't deal in forgeries," said Chief Inspector Neele reprovingly.

"There was a rather unpleasant business. A millionaire from Texas over here buying pictures, and paying incredible sums for them. They sold him a Renoir and a Van Gogh. The Renoir was a small head of a girl and there was some query about it.

There seemed no reason to believe that the Wedderburn Gallery had not bought it in the first place in all good faith. There was a case about it. A great many art experts came and gave their verdicts. In fact, as usual, in the end they all seemed to contradict each other. The gallery offered to take it back in any case. However, the millionaire didn't change his mind, since the latest fashionable expert swore that it was perfectly genuine. So he stuck to it.