Chapter 11

The American

Fournier was deep in conversation with old Georges. The detective was looking hot and annoyed.

‘Just like the police,’ the old man was grumbling¹ in his deep hoarse² voice. ‘Ask one the samequestion over and over again. What do they hope for? That sooner or later one will give overspeaking the truth and take to lies instead? Agreeable lies, naturally, lies that suit the book of cesMessieurs.’

‘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 Madamethe night before she left for England. You show me those photographs, you ask me if I recognizethe woman among them. I tell you what I have told you all along—my present eyesight is notgood—it was growing dark—I did not look closely. I did not recognize the lady. If I saw her faceto 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 hardlyto be believed, that.’

Fournier spoke³ with irritable⁴ sarcasm⁵.

‘Then do not believe it. What do I care? A nice thing—to be mixed up with the police! I amashamed. 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 forestalled⁶ an angry retort onFournier’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 Iprescribe. Let us say omelette aux champignons, sole à la Normande—a cheese of Port Salut, andwith 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 norfat, but this at least you can tell us: Was she chic⁸?’

‘Chic?’ said Georges, rather taken aback.

‘I am answered,’ said Poirot. ‘She was chic. And I have a little idea, my friend, that she wouldlook well in a bathing-dress.’

Georges 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 younot agree? See here.’

He passed to the old man a page torn from the Sketch⁹.

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 nothingat all would be very nearly the same thing.’

‘Ah,’ said Poirot. ‘That is because nowadays we have discovered the beneficial action of sun onthe skin. It is very convenient, that.’

Georges condescended¹⁰ to give a hoarse chuckle¹¹, and moved away as Poirot and Fournierstepped out into the sunlit street.

Over the meal as outlined by Poirot, the little Belgian produced the little black memorandumbook.

Fournier was much excited, though distinctly irate¹² with Elise. Poirot argued the point.

‘It is natural—very natural. The police? It is always a word frightening to that class. It embroilsthem in they know not what. It is the same everywhere—in every country.’

‘That is where you score,’ said Fournier. ‘The private investigator¹³ gets more out of witnessesthan you ever get through official channels. However, there is the other side of the picture. Wehave official records—the whole system of a big organization at our command.’

‘So let us work together amicably,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘This omelette is delicious.’

In the interval¹⁴ between the omelette and the sole, Fournier turned the pages of the black book.

Then he made a pencilled entry in his notebook.

He looked across at Poirot.

‘You have read through this? Yes?’

‘No. I have only glanced at it. You permit?’

He took the book from Fournier.

When the cheese was placed before them Poirot laid down the book on the table, and the eyes ofthe two men met.

‘There are certain entries,’ began Fournier.

‘Five,’ said Poirot.

‘I agree—five.’

He read out from his pocket-book:

‘CL 52. English Peeress. Husband.

RT 362. Doctor. Harley Street.

MR 24. Forged Antiquities¹⁵.

XVB 724. English. Embezzlement¹⁶.

GF 45. Attempted Murder. English.’

‘Excellent, my friend,’ said Poirot. ‘Our minds march together to a marvel¹⁷. Of all the entries inthat little book, those five seem to me to be the only ones that can in any way bear a relation to thepersons travelling in the aeroplane. Let us take them one by one.’

‘English Peeress. Husband,’ said Fournier. ‘That may conceivably apply to Lady Horbury. Sheis, I understand, a confirmed gambler. Nothing could be more likely than that she should borrowmoney from Giselle. Giselle’s clients are usually of that type. The word husband may have one oftwo meanings. Either Giselle expected the husband to pay up his wife’s debts, or she had somehold over Lady Horbury, a secret which she threatened to reveal to the lady’s husband.’

‘Precisely¹⁸,’ said Poirot. ‘Either of those two alternatives might apply. I favour the second onemyself, especially as I would be prepared to bet that the woman who visited Giselle the nightbefore the aeroplane journey was Lady Horbury.’

‘Ah, you think that, do you?’

‘Yes, and I fancy you think the same. There is a touch of chivalry¹⁹, I think, in our concierge’sdisposition. His persistence²⁰ in remembering nothing at all about the visitor seems rathersignificant. Lady Horbury is an extremely pretty woman. Moreover, I observed his start—oh, avery slight one—when I handed him a reproduction of her in bathing costume from the Sketch.

Yes, it was Lady Horbury who went to Giselle’s that night.’

‘She followed her to Paris from Le Pinet,’ said Fournier slowly. ‘It looks as though she werepretty desperate.’

‘Yes, yes, I fancy that may be true.’

Fournier looked at him curiously²¹.

‘But it does not square with your private ideas, eh?’

‘My friend, as I tell you, I have what I am convinced is the right clue pointing to the wrongperson…I am very much in the dark. My clue cannot be wrong; and yet—’

‘You wouldn’t like to tell me what it is?’ suggested Fournier.

‘No, because I may, you see, be wrong—totally and utterly²² wrong. And in that case I might leadyou, too, astray. No, let us each work according to our own ideas. To continue with our selecteditems from the little book.’

‘RT 362. Doctor. Harley Street,’ read out Fournier.

‘A possible clue to Dr Bryant. There is nothing much to go on, but we must not neglect that lineof investigation²³.’

‘That, of course, will be the task of Inspector²⁴ Japp.’

‘And mine,’ said Poirot. ‘I, too, have my finger in this pie.’

‘MR 24. Forged Antiquities,’ read Fournier. ‘Far fetched, perhaps, but it is just possible that thatmight apply to the Duponts. I can hardly credit it. M. Dupont is an archaeologist of world-widereputation. He bears the highest character.’

‘Which would facilitate matters very much for him,’ said Poirot. ‘Consider, my dear Fournier,how high has been the character, how lofty the sentiments, and how worthy²⁵ of admiration²⁶ the lifeof most swindlers of note—before they are found out!’

‘True, only too true,’ agreed the Frenchman with a sigh.

‘A high reputation,’ said Poirot, ‘is the first necessity of a swindler’s stock in trade. Aninteresting thought. But let us return to our list.’

‘XVB 724 is very ambiguous. English. Embezzlement.’

‘Not very helpful,’ agreed Poirot. ‘Who embezzles²⁷? A solicitor²⁸? A bank clerk? Anyone in aposition of trust in a commercial firm. Hardly an author, a dentist or a doctor. Mr James Ryder isthe only representative of commerce. He may have embezzled²⁹ money, he may have borrowedfrom Giselle to enable his theft to remain undetected. As to the last entry—GF 45. AttemptedMurder. English—that gives us a very wide field. Author, dentist, doctor, businessman, steward,hairdresser’s assistant, lady of birth and breeding—any one of those might be GF 45. In fact onlythe Duponts are exempt³⁰ by reason of their nationality.’

With a gesture he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill.

‘And where next, my friend?’ he inquired.

‘To the S?reté. They may have some news for me.’

‘Good. I will accompany you. Afterwards I have a little investigation of my own to make inwhich, perhaps, you will assist me.’

At the S?reté Poirot renewed acquaintance with the Chief of the Detective Force, whom he hadmet some years previously³¹ in the course of one of his cases. M. Gilles was very affable and polite.

‘Enchanted to learn that you are interesting yourself in this case, M. Poirot.’

‘My faith, my dear M. Gilles, it happened under my nose. It is an insult, that, you agree?

Hercule Poirot to sleep while murder is committed!’

M. Gilles shook his head tactfully.

‘These machines! On a day of bad weather they are far from steady, far from steady. I myselfhave felt seriously incommoded once or twice.’

‘They say that an army marches on its stomach,’ said Poirot. ‘But how much are the delicateconvolutions of the brain influenced by the digestive apparatus³²? When the mal de mer seizes me I,Hercule Poirot, am a creature with no grey cells, no order, no method—a mere³³ member of thehuman race somewhat below average intelligence! It is deplorable, but there it is! And talking ofthese matters, how is my excellent friend Giraud?’

Prudently³⁴ ignoring the significance of the words ‘these matters’, M. Gilles replied that Giraudcontinued to advance in his career.

‘He is most zealous³⁵. His energy is untiring.’

‘It always was,’ said Poirot. ‘He ran to and fro. He crawled on all fours. He was here, there andeverywhere. Not for one moment did he ever pause and reflect.’

‘Ah, M. Poirot, that is your little foible. A man like Fournier will be more to your mind. He is ofthe newest school—all for the psychology³⁶. That should please you.’

‘It does. It does.’

‘He has a very good knowledge of English. That is why we sent him to Croydon to assist in thiscase. A very interesting case, M. Poirot. Madame Giselle was one of the best-known characters inParis. And the manner of her death—extraordinary! A poisoned dart³⁷ from a blowpipe in anaeroplane. I ask you! Is it possible that such a thing could happen?’

‘Exactly,’ cried Poirot. ‘Exactly. You hit the nail upon the head. You place a finger unerringly—Ah, here is our good Fournier. You have news, I see.’

The melancholy-faced Fournier was looking quite eager and excited.

‘Yes, indeed. A Greek antique dealer³⁸, Zeropoulos, has reported the sale of a blowpipe and dartsthree days before the murder. I propose now, Monsieur’—he bowed respectfully to his chief—‘tointerview this man.’

‘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 Rue⁷ St Honoré. It was by way of being a high-classantique dealer’s. There was a good deal of Rhages ware⁴⁰ and other Persian pottery⁴¹. There were oneor two bronzes from Louristan, a good deal of inferior Indian jewellery, shelves of silks andembroideries from many countries, and a large proportion of perfectly⁴² worthless beads⁴⁴ and cheapEgyptian goods. It was the kind of establishment in which you could spend a million francs on anobject worth half a million, or ten francs on an object worth fifty centimes. It was patronizedchiefly by American tourists and knowledgeable⁴⁵ connoisseurs⁴⁶.

M. Zeropoulos himself was a short, stout⁴⁷ little man with beady black eyes. He talked volublyand at great length.

The gentlemen were from the police? He was delighted to see them. Perhaps they would stepinto his private office. Yes, he had sold a blowpipe and darts³⁹—a South American curio—‘youcomprehend, gentlemen, me, I sell a little of everything! I have my specialities. Persia is myspeciality. M. Dupont, the esteemed⁴⁸ M. Dupont he will answer for me. He himself comes alwaysto see my collection—to see what new purchases I have made—to give his judgement on thegenuineness of certain doubtful pieces. What a man! So learned! Such an eye! Such a feel. But Iwander from the point. I have my collection—my valuable collection that all connoisseurs know—and also I have—well, frankly⁴⁹, Messieurs, let us call it junk! Foreign junk, that is understood, alittle bit of everything—from the South Seas, from India, from Japan, from Borneo. No matter!

Usually I have no fixed⁵⁰ price for these things. If anyone takes an interest I make my estimate and Iask a price, and naturally I am beaten down, and in the end I take only half. And even then, I willadmit 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 andthe easy flow of his narration⁵¹.

‘This blowpipe and darts I have had it for a long time—two years, perhaps. It was in that traythere, with a cowrie necklace and a Red Indian headdress, and one or two crude wooden idols⁵² andsome inferior jade⁵³ beads. Nobody remarks it, nobody notices it till there comes this American andasks 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 typethat makes the fortune of bead⁴³ sellers in Egypt—that buys the most preposterous⁵⁴ scarabs evermade in Czecho-Slovakia. Well, very quickly I size him up, I tell him about the habits of certaintribes, the deadly poisons they use. I explain how very rare and unusual it is that anything of thiskind comes into the market. He asks the price and I tell him. It is my American price, not quite ashigh as formerly⁵⁵ (alas! they have had the depression over there). I wait for him to bargain, butstraightaway he pays my price. I am stupefied. It is a pity; I might have asked more! I give him theblowpipe and the darts wrapped up in a parcel and he takes them away. It is finished. Butafterwards when I read in the paper of this astounding⁵⁶ murder I wonder—yes, I wonder verymuch. 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, youunderstand, 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 colour. There were four darts. They were longpointed thorns, slightly discoloured 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 andyellow 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 has nothing whatever todo with the case. It is just one chance in fifty, perhaps. Nevertheless, I should like as full adescription 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 waschewing 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 remarkable⁵⁷ in any way.’

Fournier showed him the collection of snapshots, but without avail. None of them, Zeropoulosthought, 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 sameshape and there are one or two points of interest about the story and about M. Zeropoulos’sremarks. And now, my friend, having been upon one wild-goose chase, indulge me and comeupon another.’

‘Where to?’

‘To the Boulevard des Capucines.’

‘Let me see, that is—?’

‘The office of Universal Airlines.’

‘Of course. But we have already made perfunctory inquiries⁵⁸ there. They could tell us nothing ofinterest.’

Poirot tapped him kindly⁵⁹ on the shoulder.

‘Ah, but, you see, an answer depends on the questions. You did not know what questions toask.’

‘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 Airlines was quite small. A smart-looking dark man was behind ahighly-polished wooden counter and a boy of about fifteen was sitting at a typewriter.

Fournier produced his credentials⁶⁰ and the man, whose name was Jules Perrot, declared himselfto be entirely⁶¹ at their service.

At Poirot’s suggestion, the typewriting boy was dispatched to the farthest corner.

‘It is very confidential⁶² 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 recollect⁶³. 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 Gisellereceived her place—when?’

‘I think that point has already been settled. She booked her seat by telephone on the 17th.’

‘That was for the 12 o’clock service on the following day?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘But I understand from her maid that it was on the 8.45 am service that Madame reserved aseat.’

‘No, no—at least this is what happened. Madame’s maid asked for the 8.45 service, but thatservice was already booked up, so we gave her a seat on the 12 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.’

The clerk looked at him inquiringly.

‘It is only that a friend of mine decided⁶⁴ to go to England at a moment’s notice, went to Englandon 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 the 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 getin 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 astop. His eyes shifted. A little bead of perspiration⁶⁵ 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 withhold⁶⁶ information it may well be very serious for you—very serious indeed. The police will take a very grave view. You are obstructing⁶⁷ the ends ofjustice.’

Jules Perrot stared at him. His mouth fell open. His hands shook.

‘Come,’ said Poirot. His voice was authoritative⁶⁸, autocratic. ‘We want precise information, ifyou 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 ithappened.’

The perspiration rolling down his forehead, Jules Perrot spoke rapidly in little jerks.

‘I meant no harm…Upon my honour, I meant no harm. A man came in. He said he was going toEngland on the following day. He wanted to negotiate a loan from—from Madame Giselle, but hewanted their meeting to be unpremeditated. He said it would give him a better chance. He said thathe knew she was going to England on the following day. All I had to do was to tell her the earlyservice was full up and to give her seat No. 2 in the Prometheus. I swear, Messieurs, that I sawnothing very wrong in that. What difference could it make?—that is what I thought. Americans arelike that—they do business in unconventional ways—’

‘Americans?’ said Fournier sharply.

‘Yes, this Monsieur was an American.’

‘Describe him.’

‘He was tall, stooped, had grey 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.’

‘There was no one of that name travelling, and no one occupied seat No. 1.’

Poirot shook his head gently.

‘I saw by the paper that there was no one of that name. That is why I thought there was no needto mention the matter. Since this man did not go by the plane—’

Fournier shot him a cold glance.

‘You have withheld⁶⁹ valuable information from the police,’ he said. ‘This is a very seriousmatter.’

Together he and Poirot left the office, leaving Jules Perrot staring after them with a frightenedface.

On the pavement outside, Fournier removed his hat and bowed.

‘I salute⁷⁰ 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 hadcrossed on the morning of the murder in a nearly empty plane. The second sentence was thatuttered by Elise when she said that she rung up the office of Universal Airlines and that there wasno room on the early morning service. Now those two statements did not agree. I remembered thesteward 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 am plane.

‘But somebody wanted her to go on the 12 o’clock—somebody who was already travelling bythe Prometheus. Why did the clerk say that the early service was booked up? A mistake, or adeliberate 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 ofa 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—thechewing gum—the little goatee—the horn-rimmed spectacles—all the appurtenances of the stageAmerican…’

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 tallstooping 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.

 

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