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.’
‘We are much obliged to you, M. Zeropoulos,’ said Fournier politely. ‘This blowpipe and dart—you think you would be able to identify them? At the moment they are in London, you understand, but an opportunity will be given you of identifying them.’
‘The blowpipe was about so long,’ M. Zeropoulos measured a space on his desk, ‘and so thick—you see, like this pen of mine. It was of a light colour. There were four darts. They were long pointed thorns, slightly discoloured at the tips, with a little fluff of red silk on them.’
‘Red silk?’ asked Poirot keenly.
‘Yes, Monsieur. A cerise red—somewhat faded.’
‘That is curious,’ said Fournier. ‘You are sure that there was not one of them with a black and yellow fluff of silk?’
‘Black and yellow? No, Monsieur.’
The dealer shook his head.
Fournier glanced at Poirot. There was a curious satisfied smile on the little man’s face.
Fournier wondered why. Was it because Zeropoulos was lying, or was it for some other reason?
Fournier said doubtfully, ‘It is very possible that this blowpipe and dart has nothing whatever to do with the case. It is just one chance in fifty, perhaps. Nevertheless, I should like as full a description as possible of this American.’
Zeropoulos spread out a pair of Oriental hands.
‘He was just an American. His voice was in his nose. He could not speak French. He was chewing the gum. He had tortoise-shell glasses. He was tall and, I think, not very old.’
‘Fair or dark?’
‘I could hardly say. He had his hat on.’
‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’
Zeropoulos seemed doubtful.
‘I could not say. So many Americans come and go. He was not remarkable in any way.’
Fournier showed him the collection of snapshots, but without avail. None of them, Zeropoulos thought, was the man.
‘Probably a wild-goose chase,’ said Fournier as they left the shop.
‘It is possible, yes,’ agreed Poirot. ‘But I do not think so. The price tickets were of the same shape and there are one or two points of interest about the story and about M. Zeropoulos’s remarks. And now, my friend, having been upon one wild-goose chase, indulge me and come upon another.’
‘Where to?’
‘To the Boulevard des Capucines.’
‘Let me see, that is—?’
‘The office of Universal Airlines.’
‘Of course. But we have already made perfunctory inquiries there. They could tell us nothing of interest.’
Poirot tapped him kindly on the shoulder.
‘Ah, but, you see, an answer depends on the questions. You did not know what questions to ask.’
‘And you do?’
‘Well, I have a certain little idea.’
He would say no more, and in due course they arrived at the Boulevard des Capucines.
The office of Universal Airlines was quite small. A smart-looking dark man was behind a highly-polished wooden counter and a boy of about fifteen was sitting at a typewriter.
Fournier produced his credentials and the man, whose name was Jules Perrot, declared himself to be entirely at their service.
At Poirot’s suggestion, the typewriting boy was dispatched to the farthest corner.
‘It is very confidential what we have to say,’ he explained.
Jules Perrot looked pleasantly excited.
‘Yes, Messieurs?’
‘It is this matter of the murder of Madame Giselle.’
‘Ah, yes, I recollect. I think I have already answered some questions on the subject.’
‘Precisely, precisely. But it is necessary to have the facts very exactly. Now Madame Giselle received her place—when?’
‘I think that point has already been settled. She booked her seat by telephone on the 17th.’
‘That was for the 12 o’clock service on the following day?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘But I understand from her maid that it was on the 8.45 am service that Madame reserved a seat.’
‘No, no—at least this is what happened. Madame’s maid asked for the 8.45 service, but that service was already booked up, so we gave her a seat on the 12 o’clock instead.’
‘Ah, I see. I see.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘I see—I see—but all the same it is curious—decidedly it is curious.’
The clerk looked at him inquiringly.
‘It is only that a friend of mine decided to go to England at a moment’s notice, went to England on the 8.45 service that morning, and the plane was half empty.’
M. Perrot turned over some papers. He blew his nose.
‘Possibly your friend has mistaken the day. The day before or the day after—’
‘Not at all. It was the day of the murder, because my friend said that if he had missed the plane, as he nearly did, he would have actually been one of the passengers in the Prometheus.’
‘Ah, indeed. Yes, very curious. Of course, sometimes people do not arrive at the last minute, and then, naturally, there are vacant places…and then sometimes there are mistakes. I have to get in touch with Le Bourget; they are not always accurate—’
The mild inquiring gaze of Hercule Poirot seemed to be upsetting to Jules Perrot. He came to a stop. His eyes shifted. A little bead of perspiration came out on his forehead.
‘Two quite possible explanations,’ said Poirot, ‘but somehow, I fancy, not the true explanation. Don’t you think it might perhaps b
e better to make a clean breast of the matter?’
‘A clean breast of what? I don’t understand you.’
‘Come, come. You understand me very well. This is a case of murder—murder, M. Perrot. Remember that, if you please. If you withhold information it may well be very serious for you—very serious indeed. The police will take a very grave view. You are obstructing the ends of justice.’
Jules Perrot stared at him. His mouth fell open. His hands shook.
‘Come,’ said Poirot. His voice was authoritative, autocratic. ‘We want precise information, if you please. How much were you paid, and who paid you?’
‘I meant no harm—I had no idea—I never guessed…’
‘How much, and who by?’
‘F-five thousand francs. I never saw the man before. I—this will ruin me…’
‘What will ruin you is not to speak out. Come, now, we know the worst. Tell us exactly how it happened.’
The perspiration rolling down his forehead, Jules Perrot spoke rapidly in little jerks.
‘I meant no harm…Upon my honour, I meant no harm. A man came in. He said he was going to England on the following day. He wanted to negotiate a loan from—from Madame Giselle, but he wanted their meeting to be unpremeditated. He said it would give him a better chance. He said that he knew she was going to England on the following day. All I had to do was to tell her the early service was full up and to give her seat No. 2 in the Prometheus. I swear, Messieurs, that I saw nothing very wrong in that. What difference could it make?—that is what I thought. Americans are like that—they do business in unconventional ways—’
‘Americans?’ said Fournier sharply.
‘Yes, this Monsieur was an American.’
‘Describe him.’
‘He was tall, stooped, had grey hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a little goatee beard.’
‘Did he book a seat himself?’
‘Yes, Monsieur, seat No. 1—next to—to the one I was to keep for Madame Giselle.’
‘In what name?’
‘Silas—Silas Harper.’
‘There was no one of that name travelling, and no one occupied seat No. 1.’
Poirot shook his head gently.
‘I saw by the paper that there was no one of that name. That is why I thought there was no need to mention the matter. Since this man did not go by the plane—’
Fournier shot him a cold glance.
‘You have withheld valuable information from the police,’ he said. ‘This is a very serious matter.’
Together he and Poirot left the office, leaving Jules Perrot staring after them with a frightened face.
On the pavement outside, Fournier removed his hat and bowed.
‘I salute you, M. Poirot. What gave you this idea?’
‘Two separate sentences. One this morning when I heard a man in our plane say that he had crossed on the morning of the murder in a nearly empty plane. The second sentence was that uttered by Elise when she said that she rung up the office of Universal Airlines and that there was no room on the early morning service. Now those two statements did not agree. I remembered the steward on the Prometheus saying that he had seen Madame Giselle before on the early service—so it was clearly her custom to go by the 8.45 am plane.
‘But somebody wanted her to go on the 12 o’clock—somebody who was already travelling by the Prometheus. Why did the clerk say that the early service was booked up? A mistake, or a deliberate lie? I fancied the latter…I was right.’
‘Every minute this case gets more puzzling,’ cried Fournier. ‘First we seem to be on the track of a woman. Now it is a man. This American—’
He stopped and looked at Poirot.
The latter nodded gently.
‘Yes, my friend,’ he said. ‘It is so easy to be an American—here in Paris! A nasal voice—the chewing gum—the little goatee—the horn-rimmed spectacles—all the appurtenances of the stage American…’
He took from his pocket the page he had torn from the Sketch.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘At a countess in her bathing suit.’
‘You think—? But no, she is petite, charming, fragile—she could not impersonate a tall stooping American. She has been an actress, yes, but to act such a part is out of the question. No, my friend, that idea will not do.’
‘I never said it would,’ said Hercule Poirot.
And still he looked earnestly at the printed page.
Chapter 12
At Horbury Chase
Lord Horbury stood by the sideboard and helped himself absent-mindedly to kidneys.
Stephen Horbury was twenty-seven years of age. He had a narrow head and a long chin. He looked very much what he was—a sporting out-of-door kind of man without anything very spectacular in the way of brains. He was kind-hearted, slightly priggish, intensely loyal and invincibly obstinate.
He took his heaped plate back to the table and began to eat. Presently he opened a newspaper, but immediately, with a frown, he cast it aside. He thrust aside his unfinished plate, drank some coffee and rose to his feet. He paused uncertainly for a minute, then with a slight nod of the head he left the dining-room, crossed the wide hall and went upstairs. He tapped at a door and waited for a minute. From inside the room a clear high voice cried out, ‘Come in.’
Lord Horbury went in.
It was a wide beautiful bedroom facing south. Cicely Horbury was in bed, a great carved oak Elizabethan bed. Very lovely she looked, too, in her rose chiffon draperies, with the curling gold of her hair. A breakfast tray with the remains of orange juice and coffee on it was on a table beside her. She was opening her letters. Her maid was moving about the room.
Any man might be excused if his breath came a little faster confronted by so much loveliness; but the charming picture his wife presented affected Lord Horbury not at all.
There had been a time, three years ago, when the breathtaking loveliness of his Cicely had set the young man’s senses reeling. He had been madly, wildly, passionately in love. All that was over. He had been mad. He was now sane.
Lady Horbury said in some surprise:
‘Why, Stephen?’
He said abruptly, ‘I’d like to talk to you alone.’
‘Madeleine.’ Lady Horbury spoke to her maid. ‘Leave all that. Get out.’
The French girl murmured, ‘Très bien, m’lady’, shot a quick interested look out of the corner of her eye at Lord Horbury and left the room.
Lord Horbury waited till she had shut the door, then he said:
‘I’d like to know, Cicely, just exactly what is behind this idea of coming down here.’
Lady Horbury shrugged her slender, beautiful shoulders.
‘After all, why not?’
‘Why not? It seems to me there are a good many reasons.’
His wife murmured, ‘Oh, reasons…’
‘Yes, reasons. You’ll remember that we agreed that as things were between us, it would be as well to give up this farce of living together. You were to have the town house and a generous—an extremely generous—allowance. Within certain limits you were to go your own way. Why this sudden return?’
Again Cicely shrugged her shoulders.
‘I thought it—better.’
‘You mean, I suppose, that it’s money?’
Lady Horbury said, ‘My God, how I hate you. You’re the meanest man alive.’
‘Mean? Mean, you say, when it’s because of you and your senseless extravagance that there’s a mortgage on Horbury.’
‘Horbury—Horbury—that’s all you care for! Horses and hunting and shooting and crops and tiresome old farmers. God, what a life for a woman.’
‘Some women enjoy it.’
‘Yes, women like Venetia Kerr, who’s half a horse herself. You ought to have married a woman like that.’
Lord Horbury walked over to the window.
‘It’s a little late to say that. I married you.’
‘And you can’t get out of it,’
said Cicely. Her laugh was malicious, triumphant. ‘You’d like to get rid of me, but you can’t.’
He said, ‘Need we go into all this?’
‘Very much God and the Old School, aren’t you? Most of my friends fairly laugh their heads off when I tell them the kind of things you say.’
‘They are welcome to do so. Shall we get back to our original subject of discussion—your reason for coming here?’
But his wife would not follow his lead. She said:
‘You advertised in the papers that you wouldn’t be responsible for my debts. Do you call that a gentlemanly thing to do?’
‘I regret having had to take that step. I warned you, you will remember. Twice I paid up. But there are limits. Your insensate passion for gambling—well, why discuss it? But I do want to know what prompted you to come down to Horbury. You’ve always hated the place, been bored to death here.’
Cicely Horbury, her small face sullen, said, ‘I thought it better—just now.’
‘Better—just now?’ He repeated the words thoughtfully. Then he asked a question sharply: ‘Cicely, had you been borrowing from that old French moneylender?’
‘Which one? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You know perfectly what I mean. I mean the woman who was murdered on the plane from Paris—the plane on which you travelled home. Had you borrowed money from her?’
‘No, of course not. What an idea!’
‘Now, don’t be a little fool over this, Cicely. If that woman did lend you money, you’d better tell me about it. Remember the business isn’t over and finished with. The verdict at the inquest was wilful murder by a person or persons unknown. The police of both countries are at work. It’s only a matter of time before they come on the truth. The woman’s sure to have left records of her dealings. If anything crops up to connect you with her we should be prepared beforehand. We must have ffoulkes’s advice on the matter.’ (ffoulkes, ffoulkes, Wilbraham and ffoulkes were the family solicitors who for generations had dealt with the Horbury estate.)
‘Didn’t I give evidence in that damned court and say I had never heard of the woman?’
‘I don’t think that proves very much,’ said her husband dryly. ‘If you did have dealings with this Giselle, you can be sure the police will find it out.’