Death in the Clouds - Agatha Christie [35]
‘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.
Over the meal as outlined by Poirot, the little Belgian produced the little black memorandum book.
Fournier was much excited, though distinctly irate with Elise. Poirot argued the point.
‘It is natural—very natural. The police? It is always a word frightening to that class. It embroils them in they know not what. It is the same everywhere—in every country.’
‘That is where you score,’ said Fournier. ‘The private investigator gets more out of witnesses than you ever get through official channels. However, there is the other side of the picture. We have 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 interval 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 of the 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 Antiquities.
XVB 724. English. Embezzlement.
GF 45. Attempted Murder. English.’
‘Excellent, my friend,’ said Poirot. ‘Our minds march together to a marvel. Of all the entries in that little book, those five seem to me to be the only ones that can in any way bear a relation to the persons travelling in the aeroplane. Let us take them one by one.’
‘English Peeress. Husband,’ said Fournier. ‘That may conceivably apply to Lady Horbury. She is, I understand, a confirmed gambler. Nothing could be more likely than that she should borrow money from Giselle. Giselle’s clients are usually of that type. The word husband may have one of two meanings. Either Giselle expected the husband to pay up his wife’s debts, or she had some hold over Lady Horbury, a secret which she threatened to reveal to the lady’s husband.’
‘Precisely,’ said Poirot. ‘Either of those two alternatives might apply. I favour the second one myself, especially as I would be prepared to bet that the woman who visited Giselle the night before 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 chivalry, I think, in our concierge’s disposition. His persistence in remembering nothing at all about the visitor seems rather significant. Lady Horbury is an extremely pretty woman. Moreover, I observed his start—oh, a very 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 were pretty desperate.’
‘Yes, yes, I fancy that may be true.’
Fournier looked at him curiously.
‘But it does not square with your private ideas, eh?’
‘My friend, as I tell you, I have what I