connection.
There were perhaps twenty entries in all. At the end of the book were penciled memoranda of dates or places such as:
Le Pinet, Monday. Casino, 10:30. Savoy Hotel, 5 o'clock. A.B.C. 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.
Élise 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 Élise, 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 Air Lines, monsieur.”
“And that, I think, is in the Boulevard des Capucines?”
“That is right, monsieur; Boulevard des Capucines.”
Poirot made a note in his little book; then, with a friendly nod, he left the room.
Death in the Clouds
Chapter 11
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 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 а 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.”
George 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
There were perhaps twenty entries in all. At the end of the book were penciled memoranda of dates or places such as:
Le Pinet, Monday. Casino, 10:30. Savoy Hotel, 5 o'clock. A.B.C. 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.
Élise 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 Élise, 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 Air Lines, monsieur.”
“And that, I think, is in the Boulevard des Capucines?”
“That is right, monsieur; Boulevard des Capucines.”
Poirot made a note in his little book; then, with a friendly nod, he left the room.
Death in the Clouds
Chapter 11
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 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 а 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.”
George 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
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