Five Little Pigs

Poirot looked in silence. It came to him with fresh amazement that a man could so imbue a conventional subject with his own particular magic. A vase of roses on a polished mahogany table. That hoary old set-piece. How then did Amyas Crale contrive to make his roses flame and burn with a riotous almost obscene life. The polished wood of the table trembled and took on sentient life. How explain the excitement the picture roused? For it was exciting. The proportions of the table would have distressed Superintendent Hale, he would have complained that no known roses were precisely of that shape or colour. And afterwards he would have gone about wondering vaguely why the roses he saw were unsatisfactory, and round mahogany tables would have annoyed him for no known reason.

Poirot gave a little sigh.

He murmured:

‘Yes – it is all there.’

Blake led the way back. He mumbled:

‘Never have understood anything about art myself. Don’t know why I like looking at that thing so much, but I do. It’s – oh, damn it all, it’s good.’

Poirot nodded emphatically.

Blake offered his guest a cigarette and lit one himself. He said:

‘And that’s the man – the man who painted those roses – the man who painted the “Woman with a Cocktail Shaker” – the man who painted that amazing painful “Nativity”,that’s the man who was cut short in his prime, deprived of his vivid forceful life all because of a vindictive mean-natured woman!’

He paused:

‘You’ll say that I’m bitter – that I’m unduly prejudiced against Caroline. She had charm – I’ve felt it. But I knew – I always knew – the real woman behind. And that woman, M. Poirot, was evil. She was cruel and malignant and a grabber!’

‘And yet it has been told me that Mrs Crale put up with many hard things in her married life?’

‘Yes, and didn’t she let everybody know about it! Always the martyr! Poor old Amyas. His married life was one long hell – or rather it would have been if it hadn’t been for his exceptional quality. His art, you see – he always had that. It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’t care, he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They were endless, you know. Not a week passed without a thundering row over one thing or another. She enjoyed it. Having rows stimulated her, I believe. It was an outlet. She could say all the hard bitter stinging things she wanted to say. She’d positively purr after one of those set-tos – go off looking as sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out of him. He wanted peace – rest – a quiet life. Of course a man like that ought never to marry – he isn’t out for domesticity. A man like Crale should have affairs but no binding ties. They’re bound to chafe him.’

‘He confided in you?’

‘Well – he knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didn’t complain. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sometimes he’d say, “Damn all women.” Or he’d say, “Never get married, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.” ’

‘You knew about his attachment to Miss Greer?’

‘Oh yes – at least I saw it coming on. He told me he’d met a marvellous girl. She was different, he said, from anything or any one he’d ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that. Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was “different”. Usually a month later he’d stare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greer really was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. She’d got him, you know, hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand.’

‘You did not like Elsa Greer either?’

‘No, I didn’t like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Crale body and soul. But I think, all the same, that she’d have been better for him than Caroline. She might conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired of him and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free of female entanglements.’

‘But that, it would seem, was not to his taste?’

Philip Blake said with a sigh:

‘The damned fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, in a way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made any impression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa.’

Poirot said:

‘Was he fond of the child?’