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.

They are attractive when young, they have affairs, they are passionate, they have still more affairs, they get less attractive, they are unhappy and drink too much, they think they have cancer or some fatal disease and so at last in despair and loneliness they throw themselves out of a window!" "You said her death was important - that it meant something." "It ought to have done." "Really!" At a loss for further comment, Mrs. Oliver rang off.

Poirot leant back in his armchair, as far as he could lean back since it was of an upright nature, waved to George to remove the coffee pot and also the telephone and proceeded to reflect upon what he did or did not know. To clarify his thoughts he spoke out loud. He recalled three philosophic questions.

"What do I know? What can I hope?

What ought I to do?" He was not sure that he got them in the right order or indeed if they were quite the right questions, but he reflected upon them.

"Perhaps I am too old," said Hercule Poirot, at the bottom depths of despair.

"What do I know?" Upon reflection he thought that he knew too much! He laid that question aside for the moment.

"What can I hope?" Well, one could always hope. He could hope that those excellent brains of his, so much better than anybody else's, would come up sooner or later with an answer to a problem which he felt uneasily that he did not really understand.

"What ought I to do?" Well, that was very definite. What he ought to do was to go and call upon Mr. Andrew Restarick who, obviously distraught about his daughter, and who would no doubt blame Poirot for not having by now delivered the daughter in person. Poirot could understand that, and sympathised with his point of view, but disliked having to present himself in such a very unfavourable light. The only other thing he could do was to telephone to a certain number and ask what developments there had been.

But before he did that, he would go back to the question he had laid aside.

"What do I know?" He knew that the Wedderburn Gallery was under suspicion - so far it had kept on the right side of the law, but it would not hesitate at swindling ignorant millionaires by selling them dubious pictures.

He recalled Mr. Boscombe with his plump white hands and his plentiful teeth, and decided that he did not like him. He was the kind of man who was almost certainly up to dirty work, though he would no doubt protect himself remarkably well. That was a fact that might come into use because it might connect up with David Baker. Then there was David Baker himself, the Peacock. What did he know about him? He had met him, he had conversed with him, and he had formed certain opinions about him. He would do a crooked deal of any kind for money, he would marry a rich heiress for her money and not for love, he might perhaps be bought off. Yes, he probably could be bought off. Andrew Restarick certainly believed so and he was probably right. Unless - He considered Andrew Restarick, thinking more of the picture on the wall hanging above him than of the man himself. He remembered the strong features, the jutting out chin, the air of resolution, of decision.

Then he thought of Mrs. Andrew Restarick, deceased. The bitter lines of her mouth… Perhaps he would go down to Crosshedges again and look at that portrait, so as to see it more clearly because there might be a clue to Norma in that.

Norma - no, he must not think of Norma yet. What else was there?

There was Mary Restarick whom the girl Sonia said must have a lover because she went up to London so often. He considered that point but he did not think that Sonia was right. He thought Mrs.

Restarick was much more likely to go to London in order to look at possible properties to buy, luxury flats, houses in Mayfair, decorators, all the things that money in the metropolis could buy.

Money… It seemed to him that all the points that had been passing through his mind came to this in the end. Money.

The importance of money. There was a great deal of money in this case. Somehow, in some way that was not obvious, money counted. Money played its part. So far there had been nothing to justify his belief that the tragic death of Mrs.

Charpentier had been the work of Norma.

No sign of evidence, no motive; yet it seemed to him that there was an undeniable link. The girl had said that she "might have committed a murder". A death had taken place only a day or two previously.

A death that had occurred in the building where she lived. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence that that death should not be connected in any way?

He thought again of the mysterious illness which had affected Mary Restarick. An occurrence so simple as to be classic in its outline. A poison case where the poisoner was - must be - one of the household.

Had Mary Restarick poisoned herself, had her husband tried to poison her, had the girl Sonia administered poison? Or had Norma been the culprit. Everything pointed, Hercule Poirot had to confess, to Norma as being the logical person.

"Tout de meme," said Poirot, "since I cannot find anything, et bien then the logic falls out of the window." He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He must keep his appointment with Andrew Restarick.