Third girl - Agatha Christie [94]
‘Again it was you, Madame, who drew my attention to how easily a woman’s appearance is altered by the way she arranges her hair. Frances Cary, remember, had had dramatic training. She knew all about the art of swift make-up. She could alter her voice at need. As Frances, she had long black hair, framing her face and half hiding it, heavy dead white maquillage, dark pencilled eyebrows and mascara, with a drawling husky voice. Mary Restarick, with her wig of formally arranged golden hair with crimped waves, her conventional clothes, her slight Colonial accent, her brisk way of talking, presented a complete contrast. Yet one felt, from the beginning, that she was not quite real. What kind of a woman was she? I did not know.
‘I was not clever about her — No — I, Hercule Poirot, was not clever at all.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Dr Stillingfleet. ‘First time I’ve ever heard you say that, Poirot! Wonders will never cease!’
‘I don’t really see why she wanted two personalities,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It seems unnecessarily confusing.’
‘No. It was very valuable to her. It gave her, you see, a perpetual alibi whenever she wanted it. To think that it was there, all the time, before my eyes, and I did not see it! There was the wig — I kept being subconsciously worried by it, but not seeing why I was worried. Two women — never, at any time, seen together. Their lives so arranged that no one noticed the large gaps in their time schedules when they were unaccounted for. Mary goes often to London, to shop, to visit house agents, to depart with a sheaf of orders to view, supposedly to spend her time that way. Frances goes to Birmingham, to Manchester, even flies abroad, frequents Chelsea with her special coterie of arty young men whom she employs in various capacities which would not be looked on with approval by the law. Special picture frames were designed for the Wedderburn Gallery. Rising young artists had “shows” there — their pictures sold quite well, and were shipped abroad or sent on exhibition with their frames stuffed with secret packets of heroin — Art rackets — skilful forgeries of the more obscure Old Masters — She arranged and organised all these things. David Baker was one of the artists she employed. He had the gift of being a marvellous copyist.’
Norma murmured: ‘Poor David. When I first met him I thought he was wonderful.’
‘That picture,’ said Poirot dreamily. ‘Always, always, I came back to that in my mind. Why had Restarick brought it up to his office? What special significance did it have for him? Enfin, I do not admire myself for being so dense.’
‘I don’t understand about the pictures.’
‘It was a very clever idea. It served as a kind of certificate of identity. A pair of portraits, husband and wife, by a celebrated and fashionable portrait painter of his day. David Baker, when they come out of store, replaces Restarick’s portrait with one of Orwell, making him about twenty years younger in appearance. Nobody would have dreamed that the portrait was a fake; the style, the brush strokes, the canvas, it was a splendidly convincing bit of work. Restarick hung it over his desk. Anyone who knew Restarick years ago, might say: “I’d hardly have known you!” Or “You’ve changed quite a lot,” would look up at the portrait, but would only think he himself had really forgotten what the other man had looked like!’
‘It was a great risk for Restarick — or rather Orwell — to take,’ said Mrs Oliver thoughtfully.
‘Less than you might think. He was never a claimant, you see, in the Tichborne sense. He was only a member of a well-known City firm, returning home after his brother’s death to settle up his brother’s affairs after having spent some years abroad. He brought with him a young wife recently acquired abroad, and took up residence with an elderly, half blind but extremely distinguished uncle by marriage who had never known him well after his schoolboy days, and who accepted him without question. He had no other near relations, except for the daughter whom he had last seen when she was a child of five. When he originally left