‘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 inscribed the number in his little book, then with a friendly nod he left the room.
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 grumbling in his deep hoarse voice. ‘Ask one the same question over and over again. What do they hope for? That sooner or later one will give over speaking the truth and take to lies instead? Agreeable lies, naturally, lies that suit the book of ces Messieurs.’
‘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 Madame the night before she left for England. You show me those photographs, you ask me if I recognize the woman among them. I tell you what I have told you all along—my present eyesight is not good—it was growing dark—I did not look closely. I did not recognize the lady. If I saw her face to 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 hardly to be believed, that.’
Fournier spoke with irritable sarcasm.
‘Then do not believe it. What do I care? A nice thing—to be mixed up with the police! I am ashamed. 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 forestalled an angry retort on Fournier’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 I prescribe. Let us say omelette aux champignons, sole à la Normande—a cheese of Port Salut, and with 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 n
or fat, but this at least you can tell us: Was she chic?’
‘Chic?’ said Georges, rather taken aback.
‘I am answered,’ said Poirot. ‘She was chic. And I have a little idea, my friend, that she would look 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 you not agree? See here.’
He passed to the old man a page torn from the Sketch.
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 nothing at all would be very nearly the same thing.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot. ‘That is because nowadays we have discovered the beneficial action of sun on the skin. It is very convenient, that.’
Georges condescended to give a hoarse chuckle, and moved away as Poirot and Fournier stepped out into the sunlit street.