did not think that he would have liked her.
He said, âThose are fine portraits, Madame.â
âYes. Lansberger did them.â
It was the name of a famous and exceedingly expensive fashionable portrait painter of twenty years ago. His meticulous naturalism had now gone out of fashion, and since his death, he was little spoken of. His sitters were sometimes sneeringly spoken of as âclothes props,â but Poirot thought they were a good deal more than that. He suspected that there was a carefully concealed mockery behind the smooth exteriors that Lansberger executed so effortlessly.
Mary Restarick said as she went up the stairs ahead of him:
âThey have just come out of storageâand been cleaned up andââ
She stopped abruptlyâcoming to a dead halt, one hand on the stair rail.
Above her, a figure had just turned the corner of the staircase on its way down. It was a figure that seemed strangely incongruous. It might have been someone in fancy dress, someone who certainly did not match with this house.
He was a figure familiar enough to Poirot in different conditions, a figure often met in the streets of London or even at parties. A representative of the youth of today. He wore a black coat, anelaborate velvet waistcoat, skintight pants, and rich curls of chestnut hair hung down on his neck. He looked exotic and rather beautiful, and it needed a few moments to be certain of his sex.
âDavid!â Mary Restarick spoke sharply. âWhat on earth are you doing here?â
The young man was by no means taken aback. âStartled you?â he asked. âSo sorry.â
âWhat are you doing hereâin this house? Youâhave you come down here with Norma?â
âNorma? No, I hoped to find her here.â
âFind her hereâwhat do you mean? Sheâs in London.â
âOh, but my dear, she isnât. At any rate, sheâs not at 67 Borodene Mansions.â
âWhat do you mean, she isnât there?â
âWell, since she didnât come back this weekend, I thought she was probably here with you. I came down to see what she was up to.â
âShe left here Sunday night as usual.â She added in an angry voice, âWhy didnât you ring the bell and let us know you were here? What are you doing roaming about the house?â
âReally, darling, you seem to be thinking Iâm going to pinch the spoons or something. Surely itâs natural to walk into a house in broad daylight. Why ever not?â
âWell, weâre old-fashioned and we donât like it.â
âOh dear, dear.â David sighed. âThe fuss everyone makes. Well, my dear, if Iâm not going to have a welcome and you donât seem to know where your stepdaughter is, I suppose Iâd better be moving along. Shall I turn out my pockets before I go?â
âDonât be absurd, David.â
âTa-ta, then.â The young man passed them, waved an airy hand and went on down and out through the open front door.
âHorrible creature,â said Mary Restarick, with a sharpness of rancour that startled Poirot. âI canât bear him. I simply canât stand him. Why is En gland absolutely full of these people nowadays?â
âAh, Madame, do not disquiet yourself. It is all a question of fashion. There have always been fashions. You see less in the country, but in London you meet plenty of them.â
âDreadful,â said Mary. âAbsolutely dreadful. Effeminate, exotic.â
âAnd yet not unlike a Vandyke portrait, do you not think so, Madame? In a gold frame, wearing a lace collar, you would not then say he was effeminate or exotic.â
âDaring to come down here like that. Andrew would have been furious. It worries him dreadfully. Daughters can be very worrying. Itâs not even as though Andrew knew Norma well. Heâs been abroad since she was a child. He left her entirely to her