Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘Nothing definite. It is just that there was a bitterness in Madame’s voice when she spoke of the English. I think, too, that in her business transactions she enjoyed having anyone English in her power. 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 hitherto refrained from mentioning?’

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

‘This little book was Madame’s. It went with her everywhere. When she was about to depart for England she could not find it. It was mislaid. After she had gone I found it. It had dropped down behind the head of the bed. I put it in my room to keep until Madame should return. I burned the papers as soon as I heard of Madame’s death, but I did not burn the book. There were no instructions 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 examined Madame’s rooms. They found the safe empty and you told them that you had burnt 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 burnt, yes. After all, it was very nearly the truth. I burnt 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 pencilled 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 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 of the book were pencilled memoranda 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 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?’