All the same there's been a bit of suspicion hanging round the gallery ever since." Poirot looked again at his list.

"And what about Mr. David Baker?

Have you looked him up for me?" "Oh, he's one of the usual mob. Riffraff - go about in gangs and break up night clubs. Live on purple hearts - heroin - Coke - Girls go mad about them. He's the kind they moan over saying his life has been so hard and he's such a wonderful genius. His painting is not appreciated. Nothing but good old sex, if you ask me." Poirot consulted his list again.

"Do you know anything about Mr.

Reece-Holland, m.p.?" "Doing quite well, politically. Got the gift of the gab all right. One or two slightly peculiar transactions in the City, but he's wriggled out of them quite neatly.

I'd say he was a slippery one. He's made quite a good deal of money off and on by rather doubtful means." Poirot came to his last point.

"What about Sir Roderick Horsefield?" "Nice old boy but gaga. What a nose you have, Poirot, get it into everything, don't you? Yes, there's been a lot of trouble in the Special Branch. It's this craze for memoirs. Nobody knows what indiscreet revelations are going to be made next.

All the old boys, service and otherwise, are raving hard to bring out their own particular brand of what they remember of the indiscretions of others! Usually it doesn't much matter, but sometimes - well, you know. Cabinets change their policies and you don't want to affront someone's susceptibilities or give the wrong publicity, so we have to try and muffle the old boys. Some of them are not too easy. But you'll have to go to the Special Branch if you want to nose into any of that. I shouldn't think there was much wrong. The trouble is they don't destroy the papers they should. They keep the lot. However, I don't think there is much in that, but we have evidence that a certain Power is nosing around." Poirot gave a deep sigh.

"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.

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.