'By all means,' said Gilles. 'Does M. Poirot accompany you?'
'If you please,' said Poirot. 'This is interesting. Very interesting.'
The shop of M. Zeropoulos was in the Rue St. Honore. It was by way of being a high-class antique dealer's shop. There was a good deal of Rhages ware and other Persian pottery. There were one or two bronzes from Luristan, a good deal of inferior Indian jewelry, shelves of silks and embroideries from many countries, and a large proportion of perfectly worthless beads and cheap Egyptian goods. It was the kind of establishment in which you could spend a million francs on an object worth half a million, or ten francs on an object worth fifty centimes. It was patronized chiefly by tourists and knowledgeable connoisseurs.
M. Zeropoulos himself was a short stout little man with beady black eyes. He talked volubly and at great length.
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 specialties. Persia is my specialty. 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 judgment 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 Czechoslovakia. 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 so 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 color. There were four darts. They were long pointed thorns, slightly discolored 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 have 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' 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 Air Lines.'
'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 Air Lines 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 reserved her place – when?'
'I think that point has already been settled. She booked her seat by telephone on the seventeenth.'
'That was for the twelve-o'clock service on the following day?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'But I understand from her maid that it was on the 8:45 a.m. 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 twelve 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.'
