Chapter 18 Chapter Eighteen

Poirot stood at the entrance of the Wadeburn Gallery to admire a painting of three fierce, elongated cows set off behind a huge windmill with complex structures.Not only do the two seem unrelated, but that very weird shade of purple doesn't go well together either. "It's a strange flavor, isn't it?" said a voice like a purring cat. A middle-aged man appeared beside him. When he saw it, he seemed to show a smile, revealing a row of too many beautiful teeth. "It's so refreshing." His white and fat hands waved like a ballet dancer. "It's a very elaborate exhibition. It just ended last week. The Claude Raphael exhibition was only opened the day before yesterday. It will be a sensation and it will definitely be a success."

"Oh," replied Poirot, and was ushered into a long and narrow room through a gray velvet curtain. Poirot made a few remarks that were carefully worded but incomprehensible.The fat man took his hand naturally and familiarly. He obviously thought that such a person should never be scared away.This man has a lot of experience in selling art, and he immediately makes people feel that it is very popular to spend a whole day in this gallery without buying a picture.Concentrate on appreciating these pleasing pictures—although you don’t feel pleasing to the eye when you first step into the gallery, but after you walk out of the gallery, you will feel that “pleasing to the eye” is indeed the most appropriate adjective.After receiving some useful artistic pointers, and some common lay comments, such as "I quite like that picture", Mr. Puscomb said flatteringly and encouragingly:

"That's a very insightful view of yours. Excuse me, but you have shown great insight. Of course, you know that the average person doesn't react that way. Most people like--well, the kind that stand out, like Like that—” he said, pointing to a painting with some blue and green lines arranged in one corner of the canvas—“but this one, you do point out the quality of the painting. I think myself—of course Now, this is just my humble opinion - this is a masterpiece of Rafael." At the same time, Poirot turned his head to the side and saw a painting. There was an orange-yellow diamond hanging down, with a human eye tied to each end with spider silk.The relationship of synergy is thus established, and the moment of time enters eternity. Poirot said:

"I suppose there's a Miss Frances Jali working for you, isn't there?" "Oh, yes. Frances, very shrewd girl, very artistic and capable. She just came back from Portugal to arrange a painting exhibition for us, which was very successful. She is also good at painting herself, but she seems to be creative. not very high. She is still relatively competent for business work.I believe she knows this herself. " "As far as I know, she's very supportive of people in the art world, isn't she?" "Indeed. She is very interested in young talents. To encourage talented young people, she once persuaded me to hold an exhibition for a group of young painters in the spring. It was quite successful, and it was reported in the newspapers, although only a small news was published. Yes, She trained her own gang of painters."

"You know, I'm a little old-fashioned. Some young people—it's really queer," said Poirot, throwing up his hands. "Ah," said Mr. Puscomb magnanimously, "you can't tell by your looks. It's just a fad, you know. Big beards, jeans, fine embroidery, long hair. It's going to pass soon." "There is a David," said Poirot. "I have forgotten his last name. Miss Jiali seems to appreciate him very much." "Peter Cardiff, you mean? He's her current favorite. I can tell you, though, that I'm not as keen on him personally as she is. He's not really a super- —I think it's a bit reactionary.

Sometimes it can be said that it belongs to the school of Boone and Jones!However, it cannot be concluded now, and some people think so.She also sometimes served as his model. " "David Baker—his name comes to mind," said Poirot. "He's not bad," Mr. Puscombe said, with a lack of enthusiasm in his tone. "My opinion is that he has nothing personally original. He belongs to the group of painters I just mentioned. He is not very impressive. Still, a very good painter, but not outstanding, from a side!" Poirot returned home.Miss Lemon handed him a pile of letters to be signed, and she took the signed letters and went out of the house.George served him an omelet with kale leaves with care and compassion.After lunch, Poirot sank into a square-backed armchair when the telephone rang.

"Mrs. Oliver, sir," said George, placing the receiver close to him.Reluctantly, Poirot picked up the receiver.He really didn't want to talk to Mrs. Oliver, for he was afraid she would push him again to do things he didn't want to do. "Mr. Poirot?" "I am." "Well, what are you doing? What have you been up to?" "I am sitting in this chair," replied Poirot. "Think." Added another word. "That's all?" said Mrs. Oliver. "This is a very important matter," said Poirot. "I don't know yet whether it will have a successful outcome."

"But, you must go to that girl, she might be kidnapped." "It is certainly possible," said Poirot. "A letter came from her father at noon today asking me to come and see him and tell him how things are going." "So, what progress have you made?" "At present," said Poirot impatiently, "nothing." "Really, Mr. Poirot, you have to take care of yourself." "the same as you!" "What do you mean, me too?" "Hurry me up." "Why don't you go to Chelsea, where I got the stick on the head."

"Am I going to take a sap myself?" "I really don't understand you," said Mrs. Oliver. "I found the girl for you in the dining room and gave you a clue. You said it yourself." "I know I know." "And what about the woman who jumped off the building? Have you found anything?" "I checked." "how is it?" "It's nothing. That woman is nothing special. When she was young, she was beautiful, romantic, and had endless affairs. Later, when she was old, sad and drunk, she thought she had cancer and other incurable diseases, so she committed suicide by jumping off the building in despair and loneliness!"

"You said her death was extremely relevant—you said it must have been." "There must be." "Really!" Oliver was so angry that he hung up the phone at once. Poirot leaned back as hard as he could to the back of the armchair, and after waving George to take the coffee pot and the phone away, he began to reflect on what he knew and what he didn't know.In order to clear the thoughts in his mind, he talked aloud to himself, and he recalled three calm questions. "What do I know? What can I hope for? What should I do?" He wasn't sure the questions were in the right order, in fact he wasn't even sure they were, but he decided to think back.

"Perhaps I am really too old," said Poirot, in despair. "What do I know?" After thinking about it, he decided that he knew too much!He should put that question aside for now. "What can I hope for?" This, people can never give up hope.He could at least hope that his far superior mind, sooner or later, would provide an answer to a question that had troubled him for so long, but which he did not really understand. "What should I do?" This question is much clearer.What he should have done was to go and see Mr. Andrew Resderick, who must be very anxious for his daughter, and would doubtless blame Poirot for not getting her back for him so far.Although Poirot understood and sympathized with his point of view, he did not want to see him under such unfavorable circumstances. The only thing he can do is make a phone call and ask how things are going over there. But before making the call, he decided to return to the question he had left off. "What do I know?" He knew that the Wadeburn Gallery was under suspicion—although so far no legal mistakes had been made, it seemed that it did not care much about selling dubiously famous paintings to defraud the ignorant rich people of their money. He thought of Mr. Proscomb's fat white hand and too many teeth, and he decided he didn't like the man.He's the kind of guy who is bound to do evil, and of course he must be very good at protecting himself.This fact is very useful, as it may relate to David Baker.As for David Baker, what about the peacock, what did he know about him?He had seen him, talked to him, had a certain opinion of him.He will engage in any dishonest business for money, he will marry a rich heiress for money, regardless of love, and he will be bribed.Yes, he will be bought.Andrew Restarick must have believed so, and perhaps he was right.Unless—when he thought of Andrew Resderick, the first thing he thought of was the portrait hanging in his office, not himself.He thought of the powerful features in the portrait, the protruding chin, the resolute and resolute expression. Afterwards, he thought of the deceased Mrs. Andrew Restarick.The line of resentment hanging from the corner of his mouth—maybe he should go to the Cross Hedges house again and take a good look at the portrait, maybe it can provide some clues on Norma.Norma—no, he couldn't think of Norma just yet.So what else is there to think about? Mary Resderick, according to this girl Sunia, she must have a lover, because she often travels to London. He thought about it, but didn't think Sunia was right.He thought it was more likely that Mrs. Resderick went to London to see the real estate available for purchase, the luxury buildings, the residences in the Mayflower Belt, or anything that money could buy in the city. Money... he felt as if all the points that had been filtered through his mind ended up here.money.Money is the key.There is a lot of money involved in this case.Somehow, though not so obviously, money plays a role in this.So far, there is no reason to support his belief that Mrs. Chabenti's tragic death was at the hands of Norma.No evidence existed, no motive existed; yet he always felt that there was an undeniable link between the two.The girl had said she had "probably killed someone," and that a death had happened a day or two earlier, in the very building where she lived.If it is said that this death has nothing to do with her, isn't that too much of a coincidence?He thought again of the mysterious illness Mary Restarick had had.The matter was too simple, too typical from the outside.In a case of poisoning, the person who poisoned was definitely a member of the family.Had Mary Restarike poisoned herself, had her husband tried to poison her, or had Sunia poisoned her?Or is Norma the suspect?Hercule Poirot had to admit that all the facts pointed to Norma as the most logical candidate. "But what's the use," said Poirot; "I still can't find a plausible reason for the fall." Sighing, he stood up and ordered George to call him a taxi.He couldn't miss Andrew Resderick's appointment.