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 tookit 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 probablynot 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
‘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 tookit 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 probablynot 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
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