Third girl - Agatha Christie [70]
‘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 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 of him.’
‘Sure you don’t mean Peter Cardiff? He’s her present protégé. 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, mind, 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 omellette fines herbes garnished, as you might say, with a discreetly sympathetic manner. After lunch, as Poirot was setting 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’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 midday