Elise hesitated a minute.
'You heard it from the police, did you not?' said Poirot. 'They came here and examined madame's papers. They found the safe empty and you told them that you had burned 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 burned, yes. After all, it was very nearly the truth. I burned 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 penciled 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 265. Colonel's wife. Stationed Syria. Regimental funds.
GF 342. French Deputy, Stavisky 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.
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 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.
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 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 omelet is delicious.'
