The clerk looked at him inquiringly.
'It is only that a friend of mine, deciding 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 that 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 be 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 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 honor, 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 gray 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.'
Poirot shook his head gently.
'There was no one of that name traveling and no one occupied Seat No. 1.'
'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 had rung up the office of Universal Air Lines 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 a.m. plane.
'But somebody wanted her to go on the twelve o'clock – somebody who was already traveling 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 horned-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
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 kindhearted, 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 when 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: 'Tres bien, m'lady,' shot a quick interested look out of the corner of her eye at
