Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘Let me explain, Monsieur. Madame never mentioned a name. She never discussed her business. But all the same one is human, is one not? There are ejaculations—comments. Madame spoke 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. She says, “You whine and you snivel, my fine lady. All the same, you must pay.” Or she would say to me, “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 very often 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—her usual 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. Business was going well, she said. Her tour had been profitable. Then she directed me to ring up Universal Airlines and book a passage to England for the following day. The early morning service was booked, 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 the day 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, of various 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 distressed.

‘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.’