Poirot hesitated a minute, then he said slowly:
'I agree that there was – that there must have been a psychological reason why nobody saw the murderer. But ideas are running in a slightly different channel from yours. I feel that in this case mere ocular facts may be deceptive. Close your eyes, my friend, instead of opening them wide. Use the eyes of the brain, not of the body. Let the little grey cells of the mind function. Let it be their task to show you what actually happened.'
Fournier stared at him curiously.
'I do not follow you, M. Poirot.'
'Because you are deducing from things that you have seen. Nothing can be so misleading as observation.'
Fournier shook his head again and spread out his hands.
'I give it up. I cannot catch your meanings.'
'Our friend Giraud would urge you to pay no attention to my vagaries. 'Be up and doing,' he would say. 'To sit still in an armchair and think – that is the method of an old man past his prime.' But I say that a young hound is often so eager upon the scent that he overruns it. For him is the trail of the red herring. There, it is a very good hint I have given you there.'
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 businesslike 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 dreamed 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 money lender – 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 honorably 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.
