Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie
‘There is a saying that two heads are better than one. Will you not consult me? Let us examine the question together.’
The woman still looked at him doubtfully. He said with a smile:
‘You are a good watch-dog, Elise. It is a question, I see, of loyalty to your dead mistress?’
‘That is quite right, Monsieur. Madame trusted me. Ever since I entered her service I have carried out her instructions faithfully.’
‘You were grateful, were you not, for some great service she had rendered you?’
‘Monsieur is very quick. Yes, that is true. I do not mind admitting it. I had been deceived, Monsieur, my savings stolen—and there was a child. Madame was good to me. She arranged for the baby to be brought up by some good people on a farm—a good farm, Monsieur, and honest people. It was then, at that time, that she mentioned to me that she, too, was a mother.’
‘Did she tell you the age of her child, where it was, any details?’
‘No, Monsieur, she spoke of a part of her life that was over and done with. It was best so, she said. The little girl was well provided for and would be brought up to a trade or profession. She would also inherit her money when she died.’
‘She told you nothing further about this child or about its father?’
‘No, Monsieur, but I have an idea—’
‘Speak, Mademoiselle Elise.’
‘It is an idea only, you understand.’
‘Perfectly, perfectly.’
‘I have an idea that the father of the child was an Englishman.’
‘What exactly do you think gave you that impression?’
‘Nothing definite. It is just that there was a bitterness in Madame’s voice when she spoke of the English. I think, too, that in her business transactions she enjoyed having anyone English in her power. It is an impression only—’
‘Yes, but it may be a very valuable one. It opens up possibilities…Your own child, Mademoiselle Elise? Was it a girl or a boy?’
‘A girl, Monsieur. But she is dead—dead these five years now.’
‘Ah—all my sympathy.’
There was a pause.
‘And now, Mademoiselle Elise,’ said Poirot, ‘what is this something that you have hitherto refrained from mentioning?’
Elise rose and left the room. She returned a few minutes later with a small shabby black notebook in her hand.
‘This little book was Madame’s. It went with her everywhere. When she was about to depart for England she could not find it. It was mislaid. After she had gone I found it. It had dropped down behind the head of the bed. I put it in my room to keep until Madame should return. I burned the papers as soon as I heard of Madame’s death, but I did not burn the book. There were no instructions as to that.’
‘When did you hear of Madame’s death?’
Elise hesitated a minute.
‘You heard it from the police, did you not?’ said Poirot. ‘They came here and examined Madame’s rooms. They found the safe empty and you told them that you had burnt the papers, but actually you did not burn the papers until afterwards.’
‘It is true, Monsieur,’ admitted Elise. ‘Whilst they were looking in the safe I removed the papers from the trunk. I said they were burnt, yes. After all, it was very nearly the truth. I burnt them at the first opportunity. I had to carry out Madame’s orders. You see my difficulty, Monsieur? You will not inform the police? It might be a very serious matter for me.’
‘I believe, Mademoiselle Elise, that you acted with the best intentions. All the same, you understand, it is a pity…a great pity. But it does no good to regret what is done, and I see no necessity for communicating the exact hour of the destruction to the excellent M. Fournier. Now let me see if there is anything in this little book to aid us.’
‘I do not think there will be, Monsieur,’ said Elise, shaking her head. ‘It is Madame’s private memorandums, yes, but there are numbers only. Without the documents and files these entries are meaningless.’
Unwillingly she held out the book to Poirot. He took it and turned the pages. There were pencilled entries in a sloping foreign writing. They seemed to be all of the same kind. A number followed by a few descriptive details, such as:
CX 256. Colonel’s wife. Stationed Syria. Regimental funds.
GF 342. French Deputy. Stavisky connexion.
The entries seemed to be all of the same kind. There were perhaps twenty in all. At the end of the book were pencilled memoranda of dates or places, such as:
Le Pinet, Monday. Casino, 10.30. Savoy Hotel, 5 o’clock.
ABC. Fleet Street, 11 o’clock.
None of these were complete in themselves, and seemed to have been put down less as actual appointments than as aids to Giselle’s memory.
Elise was watching Poirot anxiously.
‘It means nothing, Monsieur, or so it seems to me. It was comprehensible to Madame, but not to a mere reader.’
Poirot closed the book and put it in his pocket.
‘This may be very valuable, Mademoiselle. You did wisely to give it to me. And your conscience may be quite at rest. Madame never asked you to burn this book?’
‘That is true,’ said Elise, her face brightening a little.
‘Therefore, having no instructions, it is your duty to hand this over to the police. I will arrange matters with M. Fournier so that you shall not be blamed for not having done so sooner.’
‘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.
Chapter 11
The American
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 n
‘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:
‘CL 52. English Peeress. Husband.
RT 362. Doctor. Harley Street.
MR 24. Forged Antiquities.
XVB 724. English. Embezzlement.
GF 45. Attempted Murder. English.’
‘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
‘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.