Poirot paused at the doorway1 of the Wedderburn Gallery to inspect a picture which depicted2 threeaggressive- looking cows with vastly elongated3 bodies overshadowed by a colossal4 andcomplicated design of windmills. The two seemed to have nothing to do with each other or thevery curious purple colouring.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” said a soft purring voice.
A middle-aged5 man, who at first sight seemed to have shown a smile which exhibited an almostexcessive number of beautiful white teeth, was at his elbow.
“Such freshness.”
He had large white plump hands which he waved as though he was using them in an arabesque6.
“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 velvet7 curtains into a long room.
Poirot made a few cautious if doubtful remarks. The plump man took him in hand in a practisedmanner. Here was someone, he obviously felt, who must not be frightened away. He was a veryexperienced man in the art of salesmanship. You felt at once that you were welcome to be in hisgallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solely8 looking at these delightfulpictures — though when you entered the gallery you might not have thought that they weredelightful. But by the time you went out you were convinced that delightful9 was exactly the wordto describe them. After receiving some useful artistic10 instruction, and making a few of theamateur’s stock remarks such as “I rather like that one,” Mr. Boscombe responded encouraginglyby some such phrase as:
“Now that’s very interesting that you should say that. It shows, if I may say so, greatperspicacity. Of course you know it isn’t the ordinary reaction. Most people prefer something—well, shall I say slightly obvious like that”—he pointed11 to a blue and green striped effect arrangedin one corner of the canvas—“but this, yes, you’ve spotted12 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 lopsided diamondwith two human eyes depending from it by what looked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relationsestablished 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 fromPortugal where she’s been arranging an art show for us. Very successful. Quite a good artistherself, but not I should say really creative, if you understand me. She is better on the businessside. 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 alittle group of young artists last spring. It was quite successful—the Press noticed it—all in a smallway, you understand. Yes, she has her protégés.”
“I am, you understand, somewhat old- fashioned. Some of these young men — vraiment!”
Poirot’s hands went up.
“Ah,” said Mr. Boscombe indulgently, “you mustn’t go by their appearances. It’s just a fashion,you know. Beards and jeans or brocades and hair. Just a passing phase.”
“David someone,” said Poirot. “I forget his last name. Miss Cary seemed to think highly ofhim.”
“Sure you don’t mean Peter Cardiff? He’s her present protégé. Mind you, I’m not quite so sureabout him as she is. He’s really not so much avant-garde as he is—well, positively13 reactionary14.
Quite—quite—Burne-Jones sometimes! Still, one never knows. You do get these reactions. Sheacts as his model occasionally.”
“David Baker15—that was the name I was trying to remember,” said Poirot.
“He is not bad,” said Mr. Boscombe, without enthusiasm. “Not much originality16, in my opinion.
He was one of the group of artists I mentioned, but he didn’t make any particular impression. Agood painter, mind, but not striking. Derivative17!”
Poirot went home. Miss Lemon presented him with letters to sign, and departed with them dulysigned. George served him with an omellette fines herbes garnished18, as you might say, with adiscreetly sympathetic manner. After lunch, as Poirot was setting himself in his square-backedarmchair 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 shewould urge upon him something which he did not want to do.
“M. Poirot?”
“C’est moi.”
“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 middaypost 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. “I gave you a clue by finding the girl in thecafé. You said so.”
“I know, I know.”
“What about that woman who threw herself out of a window? Haven’t you got anything out ofthat?”
“I have made inquiries19, yes.”
“Well?”
“Nothing. The woman is one of many. They are attractive when young, they have affairs, theyare passionate20, they have still more affairs, they get less attractive, they are unhappy and drink toomuch, they think they have cancer or some fatal disease and so at last in despair and lonelinessthey 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 uponwhat he did or did not know. To clarify his thoughts he spoke21 out loud. He recalled threephilosophic 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 rightquestions, 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 ofhis, so much better than anybody else’s, would come up sooner or later with an answer to aproblem 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 uponMr. Andrew Restarick who was obviously distraught about his daughter, and who would no doubtblame 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 veryunfavourable light. The only other thing he could do was to telephone to a certain number and askwhat 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 sideof the law, but it would not hesitate at swindling ignorant millionaires by selling them dubiouspictures.
He recalled Mr. Boscombe with his plump white hands and his plentiful22 teeth, and decided23 thathe did not like him. He was the kind of man who was almost certainly up to dirty work, though hewould no doubt protect himself remarkably24 well. That was a fact that might come into use becauseit might connect up with David Baker. Then there was David Baker himself, the Peacock. Whatdid he know about him? He had met him, he had conversed25 with him, and he had formed certainopinions about him. He would do a crooked26 deal of any kind for money, he would marry a richheiress for her money and not for love, he might perhaps be bought off. Yes, he probably could bebought 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 himthan of the man himself. He remembered the strong features, the jutting27 out chin, the air ofresolution, of decision. Then he thought of Mrs. Andrew Restarick, deceased. The bitter lines ofher mouth…Perhaps he would go down to Crosshedges again and look at that portrait, so as to seeit more clearly because there might be a clue to Norma in that. Norma—no, he must not think ofNorma yet. What else was there?
There was Mary Restarick whom the girl Sonia said must have a lover because she went up toLondon so often. He considered that point but he did not think that Sonia was right. He thoughtMrs. Restarick was much more likely to go to London in order to look at possible properties tobuy, luxury flats, houses in Mayfair, decorators, all the things that money in the metropolis28 couldbuy.
Money…It seemed to him that all the points that had been passing through his mind came to thisin 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 therehad been nothing to justify29 his belief that the tragic30 death of Mrs. Charpentier had been the workof Norma. No sign of evidence, no motive31; 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 dayor two previously32. A death that had occurred in the building where she lived. Surely it would betoo much of a coincidence that that death should not be connected in any way? He thought againof the mysterious illness which had affected33 Mary Restarick. An occurrence so simple as to beclassic in its outline. A poison case where the poisoner was—must be—one of the household. HadMary Restarick poisoned herself, had her husband tried to poison her, had the girl Soniaadministered poison? Or had Norma been the culprit? Everything pointed, Hercule Poirot had toconfess, to Norma as being the logical person.
“Tout de même,” said Poirot, “since I cannot find anything, et bien then the logic34 falls out of thewindow.”
He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He must keep his appointmentwith Andrew Restarick.
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1
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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derivative
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| n.派(衍)生物；adj.非独创性的，模仿他人的 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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