Death in the Clouds (8 page)

‘Monsieur is very kind.’

Poirot rose.

‘I will go now and join my colleague. Just one last question. When you reserved a seat in the aeroplane for Madame Giselle, did you ring up the aerodrome at Le Bourget or the office of the company?’

‘I rang up the office of Universal Airlines, Monsieur.’

‘And that, I think, is in the Boulevard des Capucines?’

‘That is right, Monsieur, 254 Boulevarddes Capucines.’

Poirot inscribed the number in his little book, then with a friendly nod he left the room.

Fournier was deep in conversation with old Georges. The detective was looking hot and annoyed.

‘Just like the police,’ the old man was grumbling in his deep hoarse voice. ‘Ask one the same question over and over again. What do they hope for? That sooner or later one will give over speaking the truth and take to lies instead? Agreeable lies, naturally, lies that suit the book of
ces Messieurs
.’

‘It is not lies I want, but the truth.’

‘Very well, it is the truth that I have been telling you. Yes, a woman did come to see Madame the night before she left for England. You show me those photographs, you ask me if I recognize the woman among them. I tell you what I have told you all along—my present eyesight is not good—it was growing dark—I did not look closely. I did not recognize the lady. If I saw her face to face I should probably
not recognize her. There! You have it plainly for the fourth or fifth time.’

‘And you cannot even remember if she was tall or short, dark or fair, young or old? It is hardly to be believed, that.’

Fournier spoke with irritable sarcasm.

‘Then do not believe it. What do I care? A nice thing—to be mixed up with the police! I am ashamed. If Madame had not been killed high up in the air you would probably pretend that I, Georges, had poisoned her. The police are like that.’ Poirot forestalled an angry retort on Fournier’s part by slipping a tactful arm through that of his friend.

‘Come,
mon vieux
,’ he said. ‘The stomach calls. A simple but satisfying meal, that is what I prescribe. Let us say
omelette aux champignons, sole à la Normande
—a cheese of Port Salut, and with it red wine. What wine exactly?’

Fournier glanced at his watch.

‘True,’ he said. ‘It is one o’clock. Talking to this animal here—’ He glared at Georges.

Poirot smiled encouragingly at the old man.

‘It is understood,’ he said. ‘The nameless lady was neither tall nor short, fair nor dark, thin nor fat, but this at least you can tell us: Was she chic?’

‘Chic?’ said Georges, rather taken aback.

‘I am answered,’ said Poirot. ‘She was
chic
. And I
have a little idea, my friend, that she would look well in a bathing-dress.’

Georges stared at him.

‘A bathing-dress? What is this about a bathing-dress?’

‘A little idea of mine. A charming woman looks still more charming in a bathing-dress. Do you not agree? See here.’

He passed to the old man a page torn from the
Sketch
.

There was a moment’s pause. The old man gave a very slight start.

‘You agree, do you not?’ asked Poirot.

‘They look well enough, those two,’ said the old man, handing the sheet back. ‘To wear nothing at all would be very nearly the same thing.’

‘Ah,’ said Poirot. ‘That is because nowadays we have discovered the beneficial action of sun on the skin. It is very convenient, that.’

Georges condescended to give a hoarse chuckle, and moved away as Poirot and Fournier stepped out into the sunlit street.

Over the meal as outlined by Poirot, the little Belgian produced the little black memorandum book.

Fournier was much excited, though distinctly irate with Elise. Poirot argued the point.

‘It is natural—very natural. The police? It is always
a word frightening to that class. It embroils them in they know not what. It is the same everywhere—in every country.’

‘That is where
you
score,’ said Fournier. ‘The private investigator gets more out of witnesses than you ever get through official channels. However, there is the other side of the picture. We have official records—the whole system of a big organization at our command.’

‘So let us work together amicably,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘This omelette is delicious.’

In the interval between the omelette and the sole, Fournier turned the pages of the black book. Then he made a pencilled entry in his notebook.

He looked across at Poirot.

‘You have read through this? Yes?’

‘No. I have only glanced at it. You permit?’

He took the book from Fournier.

When the cheese was placed before them Poirot laid down the book on the table, and the eyes of the two men met.

‘There are certain entries,’ began Fournier.

‘Five,’ said Poirot.

‘I agree—five.’

He read out from his pocket-book:

‘Excellent, my friend,’ said Poirot. ‘Our minds march together to a marvel. Of all the entries in that little book, those five seem to me to be the only ones that can in any way bear a relation to the persons travelling in the aeroplane. Let us take them one by one.’

‘
English Peeress. Husband
,’ said Fournier. ‘That may conceivably apply to Lady Horbury. She is, I understand, a confirmed gambler. Nothing could be more likely than that she should borrow money from Giselle. Giselle’s clients are usually of that type. The word
husband
may have one of two meanings. Either Giselle expected the husband to pay up his wife’s debts, or she had some hold over Lady Horbury, a secret which she threatened to reveal to the lady’s husband.’

‘Precisely,’ said Poirot. ‘Either of those two alternatives might apply. I favour the second one myself, especially as I would be prepared to bet that the woman who visited Giselle the night before the aeroplane journey was Lady Horbury.’

‘Ah, you think that, do you?’

‘Yes, and I fancy you think the same. There is a
touch of chivalry, I think, in our
concierge’s
disposition. His persistence in remembering nothing at all about the visitor seems rather significant. Lady Horbury is an extremely pretty woman. Moreover, I observed his start—oh, a very slight one—when I handed him a reproduction of her in bathing costume from the
Sketch
. Yes, it was Lady Horbury who went to Giselle’s that night.’

‘She followed her to Paris from Le Pinet,’ said Fournier slowly. ‘It looks as though she were pretty desperate.’

‘Yes, yes, I fancy that may be true.’

Fournier looked at him curiously.

‘But it does not square with your private ideas, eh?’

‘My friend, as I tell you, I have what I am convinced is the right clue pointing to the wrong person…I am very much in the dark. My clue cannot be wrong; and yet—’

‘You wouldn’t like to tell me what it is?’ suggested Fournier.

‘No, because I may, you see, be wrong—totally and utterly wrong. And in that case I might lead you, too, astray. No, let us each work according to our own ideas. To continue with our selected items from the little book.’

‘
RT 362. Doctor. Harley Street
,’ read out Fournier.

‘A possible clue to Dr Bryant. There is nothing much to go on, but we must not neglect that line of investigation.’

‘That, of course, will be the task of Inspector Japp.’

‘And mine,’ said Poirot. ‘I, too, have my finger in this pie.’

‘
MR 24. Forged Antiquities
,’ read Fournier. ‘Far fetched, perhaps, but it is just possible that that might apply to the Duponts. I can hardly credit it. M. Dupont is an archaeologist of world-wide reputation. He bears the highest character.’

‘Which would facilitate matters very much for him,’ said Poirot. ‘Consider, my dear Fournier, how high has been the character, how lofty the sentiments, and how worthy of admiration the life of most swindlers of note—
before they are found out!
’

‘True, only too true,’ agreed the Frenchman with a sigh.

‘A high reputation,’ said Poirot, ‘is the first necessity of a swindler’s stock in trade. An interesting thought. But let us return to our list.’

‘
XVB 724
is very ambiguous.
English. Embezzlement.’

‘Not very helpful,’ agreed Poirot. ‘Who embezzles? A solicitor? A bank clerk? Anyone in a position of trust in a commercial firm. Hardly an author, a dentist or
a doctor. Mr James Ryder is the only representative of commerce. He may have embezzled money, he may have borrowed from Giselle to enable his theft to remain undetected. As to the last entry—
GF 45. Attempted Murder. English
—that gives us a very wide field. Author, dentist, doctor, businessman, steward, hairdresser’s assistant, lady of birth and breeding—any one of those might be
GF 45
. In fact only the Duponts are exempt by reason of their nationality.’

With a gesture he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill.

‘And where next, my friend?’ he inquired.

‘To the Sûreté. They may have some news for me.’

‘Good. I will accompany you. Afterwards I have a little investigation of my own to make in which, perhaps, you will assist me.’

At the Sûreté Poirot renewed acquaintance with the Chief of the Detective Force, whom he had met some years previously in the course of one of his cases. M. Gilles was very affable and polite.

‘Enchanted to learn that you are interesting yourself in this case, M. Poirot.’

‘My faith, my dear M. Gilles, it happened under my nose. It is an insult, that, you agree? Hercule Poirot to sleep while murder is committed!’

M. Gilles shook his head tactfully.

‘These machines! On a day of bad weather they are far from steady, far from steady. I myself have felt seriously incommoded once or twice.’

‘They say that an army marches on its stomach,’ said Poirot. ‘But how much are the delicate convolutions of the brain influenced by the digestive apparatus? When the
mal de mer
seizes me I, Hercule Poirot, am a creature with no grey cells, no order, no method—a mere member of the human race somewhat below average intelligence! It is deplorable, but there it is! And talking of these matters, how is my excellent friend Giraud?’

Prudently ignoring the significance of the words ‘these matters’, M. Gilles replied that Giraud continued to advance in his career.

‘He is most zealous. His energy is untiring.’

‘It always was,’ said Poirot. ‘He ran to and fro. He crawled on all fours. He was here, there and everywhere. Not for one moment did he ever pause and reflect.’

‘Ah, M. Poirot, that is your little foible. A man like Fournier will be more to your mind. He is of the newest school—all for the psychology. That should please you.’

‘It does. It does.’

‘He has a very good knowledge of English. That is why we sent him to Croydon to assist in this
case. A very interesting case, M. Poirot. Madame Giselle was one of the best-known characters in Paris. And the manner of her death—extraordinary! A poisoned dart from a blowpipe in an aeroplane. I ask you! Is it possible that such a thing could happen?’

‘Exactly,’ cried Poirot. ‘Exactly. You hit the nail upon the head. You place a finger unerringly—Ah, here is our good Fournier. You have news, I see.’

The melancholy-faced Fournier was looking quite eager and excited.

‘Yes, indeed. A Greek antique dealer, Zeropoulos, has reported the sale of a blowpipe and darts three days before the murder. I propose now, Monsieur’—he bowed respectfully to his chief—‘to interview this man.’

‘By all means,’ said Gilles. ‘Does M. Poirot accompany you?’

‘If you please,’ said Poirot. ‘This is interesting—very interesting.’

The shop of M. Zeropoulos was in the Rue St Honoré. It was by way of being a high-class antique dealer’s. There was a good deal of Rhages ware and other Persian pottery. There were one or two bronzes from Louristan, a good deal of inferior Indian jewellery, shelves of silks and embroideries from many countries, and a large proportion of perfectly worthless
beads and cheap Egyptian goods. It was the kind of establishment in which you could spend a million francs on an object worth half a million, or ten francs on an object worth fifty centimes. It was patronized chiefly by American tourists and knowledgeable connoisseurs.

M. Zeropoulos himself was a short, stout little man with beady black eyes. He talked volubly and at great length.

The gentlemen were from the police? He was delighted to see them. Perhaps they would step into his private office. Yes, he had sold a blowpipe and darts—a South American curio—‘you comprehend, gentlemen, me, I sell a little of everything! I have my specialities. Persia is my speciality. M. Dupont, the esteemed M. Dupont he will answer for me. He himself comes always to see my collection—to see what new purchases I have made—to give his judgement on the genuineness of certain doubtful pieces. What a man! So learned! Such an eye! Such a
feel
. But I wander from the point. I have my collection—my valuable collection that all connoisseurs know—and also I have—well, frankly, Messieurs, let us call it junk! Foreign junk, that is understood, a little bit of everything—from the South Seas, from India, from Japan, from Borneo. No matter! Usually I have no fixed price for these things. If anyone takes an interest I make
my estimate and I ask a price, and naturally I am beaten down, and in the end I take only half. And even then, I will admit it, the profit is good! These articles, I buy them from sailors usually at a very low price.’

M. Zeropoulos took a breath and went on happily, delighted with himself, his importance and the easy flow of his narration.

‘This blowpipe and darts I have had it for a long time—two years, perhaps. It was in that tray there, with a cowrie necklace and a Red Indian headdress, and one or two crude wooden idols and some inferior jade beads. Nobody remarks it, nobody notices it till there comes this American and asks me what it is.’

‘An American?’ said Fournier sharply.

‘Yes, yes, an American—unmistakably an American. Not the best type of American, either—the kind that knows nothing about anything and just wants a curio to take home. He is of the type that makes the fortune of bead sellers in Egypt—that buys the most preposterous scarabs ever made in Czecho-Slovakia. Well, very quickly I size him up, I tell him about the habits of certain tribes, the deadly poisons they use. I explain how very rare and unusual it is that anything of this kind comes into the market. He asks the price and I tell him. It is my
American price, not quite as high as formerly (alas! they have had the depression over there). I wait for him to bargain, but straightaway he pays my price. I am stupefied. It is a pity; I might have asked more! I give him the blowpipe and the darts wrapped up in a parcel and he takes them away. It is finished. But afterwards when I read in the paper of this astounding murder I wonder—yes, I wonder very much. And I communicate with the police.’