'You found her a suitable tenant?' There was a very faint hesitation before Mr. McFarlane answered: 'She was a satisfactory tenant, yes.'
'You need not mind telling me,' said Hercule Poirot. 'There were wild parties, eh? A little too - shall we say - gay in her entertaining?' Mr. McFarlane stopped being so discreet.
'There were a few complaints from time to time, but mostly from elderly people.' Hercule Poirot made a significant gesture.
'A bit too fond of the bottle, yes, sir - and in with quite a gay lot. It made for a bit of trouble now and again.'
'And she was fond of the gentlemen?'
'Well, I wouldn't like to go as far as that...'
'No, no, but one understands.'
'Of course she wasn't so young.'
'Appearances are very often deceptive.
How old would you have said she was?'
'It's difficult to say. Forty-fortyfive.' He added, 'Her health wasn't good, you know.'
'So I understand.'
'She drank too much - no doubt about it. And then she'd get very depressed.
Nervous about herself. Always going to doctors, I believe, and not believing what they told her. Ladies do get it into their heads - especially about that time of life -she thought that she had cancer. Was quite sure of it. The doctor reassured her but she didn't believe him. He said at the inquest that there was nothing really wrong with her. Oh well, one hears of things like that every day. She got all worked up and one final day -' he nodded.
'It is very sad,' said Poirot. 'Did she have any special friends among the residents of the flats?'
'Not that I know of. This place, you see, isn't what I call the matey kind.
They're mostly people in business, in jobs.'
'I was thinking possibly of Miss Claudia Reece-Holland. I wondered if they had known each other.'
'Miss Reece-Holland? No, I don't think so. Oh I mean they were probably acquaintances, talked when they went up in the lift together, that sort of thing. But I don't think there was much social contact of any kind. You see, they would be in a different generation. I mean-' Mr. McFarlane seemed a little flustered. Poirot wondered why.
He said, 'One of the other girls who share Miss Holland's flat knew Mrs. Charpentier, I believe-Miss Norma Restarick.'
'Did she? I wouldn't know - she's only come here quite recently, I hardly know her by sight. Rather a frightenedlooking young lady. Not long out of school, I'd say.' He added, 'Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?'
'No, thank you. You've been most kind.
I wonder if possibly I could see the flat.
Just in order to be able to say -' Poirot paused, not particularising what he wanted to be able to say.
'Well, now, let me see. A Mr. Travers has got it now. He's in the City all day.
Yes, come up with me if you like, sir.' They went up to the seventh floor. As Mr. McFarlane introduced his key one of the numbers fell from the door and narrowly avoided Poirot's patent-leather shoe. He hopped nimbly and then bent to pick it up. He replaced the spike which fixed it on the door very carefully.
'These numbers are loose,' he said.
'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.'
