Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie
And, leaning back, Poirot closed his eyes, it may have been to think, but it is quite certain that five minutes later he was fast asleep.
On arrival in Paris they went straight to No. 3 Rue Joliette.
The Rue Joliette is on the south side of the Seine. There was nothing to distinguish No. 3 from the other houses. An aged concierge admitted them and greeted Fournier in a surly fashion.
‘So we have the police here again! Nothing but trouble. This will give the house a bad name.’
He retreated grumbling into his apartment.
‘We will go to Giselle’s office,’ said Fournier. ‘It is on the first floor.’
He drew a key from his pocket as he spoke and explained that the French police had taken the precaution of locking and sealing the door whilst awaiting the result of the English inquest.
‘Not, I fear,’ said Fournier, ‘that there is anything here to help us.’
He detached the seals, unlocked the door, and they entered. Madame Giselle’s office was a small, stuffy apartment. It had a somewhat old-fashioned type of safe in a corner, a writing desk of business-like appearance and several shabbily upholstered chairs. The one window was dirty and it seemed highly probable that it had never been opened.
Fournier shrugged his shoulders as he looked round.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Poirot passed round behind the desk. He sat down in the chair and looked across the desk at Fournier. He passed his hand gently across the surface of the wood, then down underneath it.
‘There is a bell here,’ he said.
‘Yes, it rings down to the concierge.’
‘Ah, a wise precaution. Madame’s clients might sometimes become obstreperous.’
He opened one or two of the drawers. They contained stationery, a calendar, pens and pencils, but no papers and nothing of a personal nature.
Poirot merely glanced into them in a cursory manner.
‘I will not insult you, my friend, by a close search. If there were anything to find you would have found it, I am sure.’ He looked across at the safe. ‘Not a very efficacious pattern, that?’
‘Somewhat out of date,’ agreed Fournier.
‘It was empty?’
‘Yes. That cursed maid had destroyed everything.’
‘Ah, yes, the maid. The confidential maid. We must see her. This room, as you say, has nothing to tell us. It is significant that, do you not think so?’
‘What do you mean by significant, M. Poirot?’
‘I mean that there is in this room no personal touch…I find that interesting.’
‘She was hardly a woman of sentiment,’ said Fournier dryly.
Poirot rose.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us see this maid—this highly confidential maid.’
Elise Grandier was a short stout woman of middle age with a florid face and small shrewd eyes that darted quickly from Fournier’s face to that of his companion and then back again.
‘Sit down, Mademoiselle Grandier,’ said Fournier.
‘Thank you, Monsieur.’
She sat down composedly.
‘M. Poirot and I have returned today from London. The inquest—the inquiry, that is, into the death of Madame—took place yesterday. There is no doubt whatsoever. Madame was poisoned.’
The Frenchwoman shook her head gravely.
‘It is terrible what you say there, Monsieur. Madame poisoned? Who would ever have dreamt of such a thing?’
‘That is perhaps where you can help us, Mademoiselle.’
‘Certainly, Monsieur, I will naturally do all I can to aid the police. But I know nothing—nothing at all.’
‘You know that Madame had enemies?’ said Fournier sharply.
‘That is not true. Why should Madame have enemies?’
‘Come, come, Mademoiselle Grandier,’ said Fournier dryly. ‘The profession of a moneylender—it entails certain unpleasantnesses.’
‘It is true that sometimes the clients of Madame were not very reasonable,’ agreed Elise.
‘They made scenes, eh? They threatened her?’
The maid shook her head.
‘No, no, you are wrong there. It was not they who threatened. They whined—they complained—they protested they could not pay—all that, yes.’ Her voice held a very lively contempt.
‘Sometimes, perhaps, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, ‘they could not pay.’
Elise Grandier shrugged her shoulders.
‘Possibly. That is their affair! They usually paid in the end.’
Her tone held a certain amount of satisfaction.
‘Madame Giselle was a hard woman,’ said Fournier.
‘Madame was justified.’
‘You have no pity for the victims?’
‘Victims—victims…’ Elise spoke with impatience. ‘You do not understand. Is it necessary to run into debt, to live beyond your means, to run and borrow, and then expect to keep the money as a gift? It is not reasonable, that! Madame was always fair and just. She lent—and she expected repayment. That is only fair. She herself had no debts. Always she paid honourably what she owed. Never, never were there any bills outstanding. And when you say that Madame was a hard woman it is not the truth! Madame was kind. She gave to the Little Sisters of the Poor when they came. She gave money to charitable institutions. When the wife of Georges, the concierge, was ill, Madame paid for her to go to a hospital in the country.’
She stopped, her face flushed and angry.
She repeated, ‘You do not understand. No, you do not understand Madame at all.’
Fournier waited a moment for her indignation to subside and then said:
‘You made the observation that Madame’s clients usually managed to pay in the end. Were you aware of the means Madame used to compel them?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I know nothing, Monsieur—nothing at all.’
‘You knew enough to burn Madame’s papers.’
‘I was following her instructions. If ever, she said, she were to meet with an accident, or if she were taken ill and died somewhere away from home, I was to destroy her business papers.’
‘The papers in the safe downstairs?’ asked Poirot.
‘That is right. Her business papers.’
‘And they were in the safe downstairs?’
His persistence brought the red up in Elise’s cheeks.
‘I obeyed Madame’s instructions,’ she said.
‘I know that,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘But the papers were not in the safe. That is so, is it not? That safe, it is far too old-fashioned—quite an amateur might have opened it. The papers were kept elsewhere—in Madame’s bedroom, perhaps?’
Elise paused a moment and then answered:
‘Yes, that is so. Madame always pretended to clients that papers were kept in the safe, but in reality the safe was a blind. Everything was in Madame’s bedroom.’
‘Will you show us where?’
Elise rose and the two men followed her. The bedroom was a fair-sized room, but was so full of ornate heavy furniture that it was hard to move about freely in it. In one corner was a large old-fashioned trunk. Elise lifted the lid and took out an old-fashioned alpaca dress with a silk underskirt. On the inside of the dress was a deep pocket.
‘The papers were in this, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘They were kept in a large sealed envelope.’
‘You told me nothing of this,’ said Fournier sharply, ‘when I questioned you three days ago.’
‘I ask pardon, Monsieur. You asked me where were the papers that should be in the safe. I told you I had burned them. That was true. Exactly where the papers were kept seemed unimportant.’
‘True,’ said Fournier. ‘You understand, Mademoiselle Grandier, that those papers should not have been burnt.’
‘I obeyed Madame’s orders,’ said Elise sullenly.
‘You acted, I know, for the best,’ said Fournier soothingly. ‘Now I want you to listen to me very c
Elise breathed hard. She leant forward and spoke emphatically.
‘No, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘I looked at nothing. I read nothing. I burnt the envelope without undoing the seal.’
Chapter 10
The Little Black Book
Fournier stared hard at her for a moment or two, then, satisfied that she was speaking the truth, he turned away with a gesture of discouragement.
‘It is a pity,’ he said. ‘You acted honourably, Mademoiselle, but it is a pity.’
‘I cannot help, Monsieur. I am sorry.’
Fournier sat down and drew a notebook from his pocket.
‘When I questioned you before, you told me, Mademoiselle, that you did not know the names of Madame’s clients. Yet just now you speak of them whining and asking for mercy. You did, therefore, know something about these clients of Madame Giselle’s?’
‘Let me explain, Monsieur. Madame never mentioned a name. She never discussed her business. But all the same one is human, is one not? There are ejaculations—comments. Madame spoke to me sometimes as she would to herself.’
Poirot leaned forward.
‘If you would give us an instance, Mademoiselle—’ he said.
‘Let me see—ah, yes—say a letter comes. Madame opens it. She laughs a short, dry laugh. She says, “You whine and you snivel, my fine lady. All the same, you must pay.” Or she would say to me, “What fools! What fools! To think I would lend large sums without proper security. Knowledge is security, Elise. Knowledge is power.” Something like that she would say.’
‘Madame’s clients who came to the house, did you ever see any of them?’
‘No, Monsieur—at least hardly ever. They came to the first floor only, you understand, and very often they came after dark.’
‘Had Madame Giselle been in Paris before her journey to England?’
‘She returned to Paris only the afternoon before.’
‘Where had she been?’
‘She had been away for a fortnight to Deauville, Le Pinet, Paris-Plage and Wimereux—her usual September round.’
‘Now think, Mademoiselle, did she say anything—anything at all that might be of use?’
Elise considered for some moments. Then she shook her head.
‘No, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘I cannot remember anything. Madame was in good spirits. Business was going well, she said. Her tour had been profitable. Then she directed me to ring up Universal Airlines and book a passage to England for the following day. The early morning service was booked, but she obtained a seat on the 12 o’clock service.’
‘Did she say what took her to England? Was there any urgency about it?’
‘Oh, no, Monsieur. Madame journeyed to England fairly frequently. She usually told me the day before.’
‘Did any clients come to see Madame that evening?’
‘I believe there was one client, Monsieur, but I am not sure. Georges, perhaps, would know. Madame said nothing to me.’
Fournier took from his pockets various photographs—mostly snapshots taken by reporters, of various witnesses leaving the coroner’s court.
‘Can you recognize any of these, Mademoiselle?’
Elise took them and gazed at each in turn. Then she shook her head.
‘No, Monsieur.’
‘We must try Georges then.’
‘Yes, Monsieur. Unfortunately, Georges has not very good eyesight. It is a pity.’
Fournier rose.
‘Well, Mademoiselle, we will take our leave—that is, if you are quite sure that there is nothing—nothing at all—that you have omitted to mention.’
‘I? What—what could there be?’
Elise looked distressed.
‘It is understood, then. Come, M. Poirot. I beg your pardon. You are looking for something?’
Poirot was indeed wandering round the room in a vague searching way.
‘It is true,’ said Poirot. ‘I am looking for something I do not see.’
‘What is that?’
‘Photographs. Photographs of Madame Giselle’s relations—of her family.’
Elise shook her head.
‘She had no family, Madame. She was alone in the world.’
‘She had a daughter,’ said Poirot sharply.
‘Yes, that is so. Yes, she had a daughter.’
Elise sighed.
‘But there is no picture of that daughter?’ Poirot persisted.
‘Oh, Monsieur does not understand. It is true that Madame had a daughter, but that was long ago, you comprehend. It is my belief that Madame had never seen that daughter since she was a tiny baby.’
‘How was that?’ demanded Fournier sharply.
Elise’s hands flew out in an expressive gesture.
‘I do not know. It was in the days when Madame was young. I have heard that she was pretty then—pretty and poor. She may have been married; she may not. Myself, I think not. Doubtless some arrangement was made about the child. As for Madame, she had the smallpox—she was very ill—she nearly died. When she got well her beauty was gone. There were no more follies, no more romance. Madame became a woman of business.’
‘But she left her money to this daughter?’
‘That is only right,’ said Elise. ‘Who should one leave one’s money to except one’s own flesh and blood? Blood is thicker than water; and Madame had no friends. She was always alone. Money was her passion—to make more and more money. She spent very little. She had no love for luxury.’
‘She left you a legacy. You know that?’
‘But yes, I have been informed. Madame was always generous. She gave me a good sum every year as well as my wages. I am very grateful to Madame.’
‘Well,’ said Fournier, ‘we will take our leave. On the way out I will have another word with old Georges.’
‘Permit me to follow you in a little minute, my friend,’ said Poirot.
‘As you wish.’
Fournier departed.
Poirot roamed once more round the room, then sat down and fixed his eyes on Elise.
Under his scrutiny the Frenchwoman got slightly restive.
‘Is there anything more Monsieur requires to know?’
‘Mademoiselle Grandier,’ said Poirot, ‘do you know who murdered your mistress?’
‘No, Monsieur. Before the good God I swear it.’
She spoke very earnestly. Poirot looked at her searchingly, then bent his head.
‘Bien,’ he said. ‘I accept that. But knowledge is one thing, suspicion is another. Have you any idea—an idea only—who might have done such a thing?’
‘I have no idea, Monsieur. I have already said so to the agent of police.’
‘You might say one thing to him and another thing to me.’
‘Why do you say that, Monsieur? Why should I do such a thing?’
‘Because it is one thing to give information to the police and another thing to give it to a private individual.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Elise. ‘That is true.’
A look of indecision came over her face. She seemed to be thinking. Watching her very closely, Poirot leaned forward and spoke:
‘Shall I tell you something, Mademoiselle Grandier? It is part of my business to believe nothing I am told—nothing that is, that is not proved. I do not s
Elise Grandier scowled at him angrily.
‘Are you saying that you suspect me—me—of having murdered Madame? It is too strong, that! Such a thought is of a wickedness unbelievable!’
Her large bosom rose and fell tumultuously.
‘No, Elise,’ said Poirot. ‘I do not suspect you of having murdered Madame. Whoever murdered Madame was a passenger in the aeroplane. Therefore it was not your hand that did the deed. But you might have been an accomplice before the act. You might have passed on to someone the details of Madame’s journey.’
‘I did not. I swear I did not.’
Poirot looked at her again for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded his head.
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘But, nevertheless, there is something that you conceal. Oh, yes there is! Listen, I will tell you something. In every case of a criminal nature one comes across the same phenomena when questioning witnesses. Everyone keeps something back. Sometimes—often indeed—it is something quite harmless, something, perhaps, quite unconnected with the crime; but—I say it again—there is always something. That is so with you. Oh, do not deny! I am Hercule Poirot and I know. When my friend M. Fournier asked you if you were sure there was nothing you had omitted to mention, you were troubled. You answered unconsciously, with an evasion. Again just now when I suggested that you might tell me something which you would not care to tell the police you very obviously turned the suggestion over in your mind. There is, then, something. I want to know what that something is.’
‘It is nothing of importance.’
‘Possibly not. But all the same, will you not tell me what it is? Remember,’ he went on as she hesitated, ‘I am not of the police.’
‘That is true,’ said Elise Grandier. She hesitated and went on, ‘Monsieur, I am in a difficulty. I do not know what Madame herself would have wanted me to do.’