Chapter 10

The Little Black Book

Fournier stared hard at her for a moment or two, then, satisfied that she was speaking the truth, heturned away with a gesture of discouragement.

‘It is a pity,’ he said. ‘You acted honourably¹, Mademoiselle, but it is a pity.’

‘I cannot help, Monsieur. I am sorry.’

Fournier sat down and drew a notebook from his pocket.

‘When I questioned you before, you told me, Mademoiselle, that you did not know the names ofMadame’s clients. Yet just now you speak of them whining² and asking for mercy. You did,therefore, know something about these clients of Madame Giselle’s?’

‘Let me explain, Monsieur. Madame never mentioned a name. She never discussed herbusiness. But all the same one is human, is one not? There are ejaculations—comments. Madamespoke to me sometimes as she would to herself.’

Poirot leaned forward.

‘If you would give us an instance, Mademoiselle—’ he said.

‘Let me see—ah, yes—say a letter comes. Madame opens it. She laughs a short, dry laugh. Shesays, “You whine⁴ and you snivel, my fine lady. All the same, you must pay.” Or she would say tome, “What fools! What fools! To think I would lend large sums without proper security.

Knowledge is security, Elise. Knowledge is power.” Something like that she would say.’

‘Madame’s clients who came to the house, did you ever see any of them?’

‘No, Monsieur—at least hardly ever. They came to the first floor only, you understand, and veryoften they came after dark.’

‘Had Madame Giselle been in Paris before her journey to England?’

‘She returned to Paris only the afternoon before.’

‘Where had she been?’

‘She had been away for a fortnight to Deauville, Le Pinet, Paris-Plage and Wimereux—herusual September round.’

‘Now think, Mademoiselle, did she say anything—anything at all that might be of use?’

Elise considered for some moments. Then she shook her head.

‘No, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘I cannot remember anything. Madame was in good spirits. Businesswas going well, she said. Her tour had been profitable. Then she directed me to ring up UniversalAirlines and book a passage to England for the following day. The early morning service wasbooked, but she obtained a seat on the 12 o’clock service.’

‘Did she say what took her to England? Was there any urgency about it?’

‘Oh, no, Monsieur. Madame journeyed to England fairly frequently. She usually told me theday before.’

‘Did any clients come to see Madame that evening?’

‘I believe there was one client, Monsieur, but I am not sure. Georges, perhaps, would know.

Madame said nothing to me.’

Fournier took from his pockets various photographs—mostly snapshots taken by reporters, ofvarious witnesses leaving the coroner’s court.

‘Can you recognize any of these, Mademoiselle?’

Elise took them and gazed at each in turn. Then she shook her head.

‘No, Monsieur.’

‘We must try Georges then.’

‘Yes, Monsieur. Unfortunately, Georges has not very good eyesight. It is a pity.’

Fournier rose.

‘Well, Mademoiselle, we will take our leave—that is, if you are quite sure that there is nothing—nothing at all—that you have omitted to mention.’

‘I? What—what could there be?’

Elise looked distressed⁶.

‘It is understood, then. Come, M. Poirot. I beg your pardon. You are looking for something?’

Poirot was indeed wandering round the room in a vague searching way.

‘It is true,’ said Poirot. ‘I am looking for something I do not see.’

‘What is that?’

‘Photographs. Photographs of Madame Giselle’s relations—of her family.’

Elise shook her head.

‘She had no family, Madame. She was alone in the world.’

‘She had a daughter,’ said Poirot sharply.

‘Yes, that is so. Yes, she had a daughter.’

Elise sighed.

‘But there is no picture of that daughter?’ Poirot persisted.

‘Oh, Monsieur does not understand. It is true that Madame had a daughter, but that was longago, you comprehend. It is my belief that Madame had never seen that daughter since she was atiny baby.’

‘How was that?’ demanded Fournier sharply.

Elise’s hands flew out in an expressive⁷ gesture.

‘I do not know. It was in the days when Madame was young. I have heard that she was prettythen—pretty and poor. She may have been married; she may not. Myself, I think not. Doubtlesssome arrangement was made about the child. As for Madame, she had the smallpox—she wasvery ill—she nearly died. When she got well her beauty was gone. There were no more follies⁸, nomore romance. Madame became a woman of business.’

‘But she left her money to this daughter?’

‘That is only right,’ said Elise. ‘Who should one leave one’s money to except one’s own fleshand blood? Blood is thicker than water; and Madame had no friends. She was always alone.

Money was her passion—to make more and more money. She spent very little. She had no lovefor luxury.’

‘She left you a legacy⁹. You know that?’

‘But yes, I have been informed. Madame was always generous. She gave me a good sum everyyear as well as my wages. I am very grateful to Madame.’

‘Well,’ said Fournier, ‘we will take our leave. On the way out I will have another word with oldGeorges.’

‘Permit me to follow you in a little minute, my friend,’ said Poirot.

‘As you wish.’

Fournier departed.

Poirot roamed once more round the room, then sat down and fixed¹⁰ his eyes on Elise.

Under his scrutiny¹¹ the Frenchwoman got slightly restive¹².

‘Is there anything more Monsieur requires to know?’

‘Mademoiselle Grandier,’ said Poirot, ‘do you know who murdered your mistress?’

‘No, Monsieur. Before the good God I swear it.’

She spoke³ very earnestly. Poirot looked at her searchingly, then bent¹³ his head.

‘Bien,’ he said. ‘I accept that. But knowledge is one thing, suspicion is another. Have you anyidea—an idea only—who might have done such a thing?’

‘I have no idea, Monsieur. I have already said so to the agent of police.’

‘You might say one thing to him and another thing to me.’

‘Why do you say that, Monsieur? Why should I do such a thing?’

‘Because it is one thing to give information to the police and another thing to give it to a privateindividual.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Elise. ‘That is true.’

A look of indecision came over her face. She seemed to be thinking. Watching her very closely,Poirot leaned forward and spoke:

‘Shall I tell you something, Mademoiselle Grandier? It is part of my business to believe nothingI am told—nothing that is, that is not proved. I do not suspect first this person and then that person.

I suspect everybody. Anybody connected with a crime is regarded by me as a criminal until thatperson is proved innocent.’

Elise Grandier scowled¹⁴ at him angrily.

‘Are you saying that you suspect me—me—of having murdered Madame? It is too strong, that!

Such a thought is of a wickedness unbelievable!’

Her large bosom¹⁵ rose and fell tumultuously.

‘No, Elise,’ said Poirot. ‘I do not suspect you of having murdered Madame. Whoever murderedMadame was a passenger in the aeroplane. Therefore it was not your hand that did the deed. Butyou might have been an accomplice¹⁶ before the act. You might have passed on to someone thedetails of Madame’s journey.’

‘I did not. I swear I did not.’

Poirot looked at her again for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded his head.

‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘But, nevertheless, there is something that you conceal¹⁷. Oh, yes there is!

Listen, I will tell you something. In every case of a criminal nature one comes across the samephenomena when questioning witnesses. Everyone keeps something back. Sometimes — oftenindeed—it is something quite harmless, something, perhaps, quite unconnected with the crime; but—I say it again—there is always something. That is so with you. Oh, do not deny! I am HerculePoirot and I know. When my friend M. Fournier asked you if you were sure there was nothing youhad omitted to mention, you were troubled. You answered unconsciously, with an evasion¹⁸. Againjust now when I suggested that you might tell me something which you would not care to tell thepolice you very obviously turned the suggestion over in your mind. There is, then, something. Iwant to know what that something is.’

‘It is nothing of importance.’

‘Possibly not. But all the same, will you not tell me what it is? Remember,’ he went on as shehesitated, ‘I am not of the police.’

‘That is true,’ said Elise Grandier. She hesitated and went on, ‘Monsieur, I am in a difficulty. Ido not know what Madame herself would have wanted me to do.’

‘There is a saying that two heads are better than one. Will you not consult me? Let us examinethe question together.’

The woman still looked at him doubtfully. He said with a smile:

‘You are a good watch-dog, Elise. It is a question, I see, of loyalty¹⁹ to your dead mistress?’

‘That is quite right, Monsieur. Madame trusted me. Ever since I entered her service I havecarried out her instructions faithfully.’

‘You were grateful, were you not, for some great service she had rendered you?’

‘Monsieur is very quick. Yes, that is true. I do not mind admitting it. I had been deceived,Monsieur, my savings²⁰ stolen—and there was a child. Madame was good to me. She arranged forthe baby to be brought up by some good people on a farm—a good farm, Monsieur, and honestpeople. It was then, at that time, that she mentioned to me that she, too, was a mother.’

‘Did she tell you the age of her child, where it was, any details?’

‘No, Monsieur, she spoke of a part of her life that was over and done with. It was best so, shesaid. The little girl was well provided for and would be brought up to a trade or profession. Shewould also inherit her money when she died.’

‘She told you nothing further about this child or about its father?’

‘No, Monsieur, but I have an idea—’

‘Speak, Mademoiselle Elise.’

‘It is an idea only, you understand.’

‘Perfectly²¹, perfectly.’

‘I have an idea that the father of the child was an Englishman.’

‘What exactly do you think gave you that impression?’

‘Nothing definite. It is just that there was a bitterness in Madame’s voice when she spoke of theEnglish. I think, too, that in her business transactions she enjoyed having anyone English in herpower. It is an impression only—’

‘Yes, but it may be a very valuable one. It opens up possibilities… Your own child,Mademoiselle Elise? Was it a girl or a boy?’

‘A girl, Monsieur. But she is dead—dead these five years now.’

‘Ah—all my sympathy.’

There was a pause.

‘And now, Mademoiselle Elise,’ said Poirot, ‘what is this something that you have hithertorefrained from mentioning?’

Elise rose and left the room. She returned a few minutes later with a small shabby blacknotebook in her hand.

‘This little book was Madame’s. It went with her everywhere. When she was about to depart forEngland she could not find it. It was mislaid. After she had gone I found it. It had dropped downbehind the head of the bed. I put it in my room to keep until Madame should return. I burned thepapers as soon as I heard of Madame’s death, but I did not burn the book. There were noinstructions as to that.’

‘When did you hear of Madame’s death?’

Elise hesitated a minute.

‘You heard it from the police, did you not?’ said Poirot. ‘They came here and examinedMadame’s rooms. They found the safe empty and you told them that you had burnt the papers, butactually you did not burn the papers until afterwards.’

‘It is true, Monsieur,’ admitted Elise. ‘Whilst they were looking in the safe I removed the papersfrom the trunk. I said they were burnt, yes. After all, it was very nearly the truth. I burnt them atthe first opportunity. I had to carry out Madame’s orders. You see my difficulty, Monsieur? Youwill 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, youunderstand, it is a pity…a great pity. But it does no good to regret what is done, and I see nonecessity for communicating the exact hour of the destruction to the excellent M. Fournier. Nowlet 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 privatememorandums, yes, but there are numbers only. Without the documents and files these entries aremeaningless.’

Unwillingly²² she held out the book to Poirot. He took it and turned the pages. There werepencilled entries in a sloping foreign writing. They seemed to be all of the same kind. A numberfollowed by a few descriptive details, such as:

CX 256. Colonel’s wife. Stationed Syria. Regimental funds.

GF 342. French Deputy. Stavisky connexion.

The entries seemed to be all of the same kind. There were perhaps twenty in all. At the end ofthe book were pencilled memoranda²³ of dates or places, such as:

Le Pinet, Monday. Casino, 10.30. Savoy Hotel, 5 o’clock.

ABC. Fleet Street, 11 o’clock.

None of these were complete in themselves, and seemed to have been put down less as actualappointments 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 toa mere⁵ 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 yourconscience 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 arrangematters 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 theaeroplane for Madame Giselle, did you ring up the aerodrome at Le Bourget or the office of thecompany?’

‘I rang up the office of Universal Airlines, Monsieur.’

‘And that, I think, is in the Boulevard des Capucines?’

‘That is right, Monsieur, 254 Boulevarddes Capucines.’

Poirot inscribed²⁴ the number in his little book, then with a friendly nod he left the room.

 

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