Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

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 get in 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 a stop. His eyes shifted. A little bead of perspiration 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 b

e 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 withhold information it may well be very serious for you—very serious indeed. The police will take a very grave view. You are obstructing the ends of justice.’

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

‘Come,’ said Poirot. His voice was authoritative, autocratic. ‘We want precise information, if you 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 it happened.’

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 to England on the following day. He wanted to negotiate a loan from—from Madame Giselle, but he wanted their meeting to be unpremeditated. He said it would give him a better chance. He said that he knew she was going to England on the following day. All I had to do was to tell her the early service was full up and to give her seat No. 2 in the Prometheus. I swear, Messieurs, that I saw nothing very wrong in that. What difference could it make?—that is what I thought. Americans are like 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 need to mention the matter. Since this man did not go by the plane—’

Fournier shot him a cold glance.

‘You have withheld valuable information from the police,’ he said. ‘This is a very serious matter.’