With a gesture he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill.
"And where next, friend?" he inquired.
"To the Sыreté. They may have some news for me."
"Good. I will accompany you. Afterwards, I have a little investigation of my own to make in which, perhaps, you will assist me."
At the Sыreté, Poirot renewed acquaintance with the chief of the detective force, whom he had met some years previously in the course of one of his cases. M. Gilles was very affable and polite.
"Enchanted to learn that you are interesting yourself in this case, M. Poirot."
"My faith, my dear M. Gilles, it happened under my nose. It is an insult, that, you agree? Hercule Poirot, to sleep while murder is committed!"
M. Gilles shook his head tactfully.
"These machines! On a day of bad weather, they are far from steady - far from steady. I myself have felt seriously incommoded once or twice."
"They say that an army marches on its stomach," said Poirot. "But how much are the delicate convolutions of the brain influenced by the digestive apparatus? When the mal de mer seizes me, I, Hercule Poirot, am a creature with no gray cells, no order, no method - a mere member of the human race somewhat below average intelligence! It is deplorable, but there it is! And talking of these matters, how is my excellent friend Giraud?"
Prudently ignoring the significance of the words "these matters," M. Gilles replied that Giraud continued to advance in his career.
"He is most zealous. His energy is untiring."
"It always was," said Poirot. "He ran to and fro. He crawled on all fours. He was here, there and everywhere. Not for one moment did he ever pause and reflect."
"Ah, M. Poirot, that is your little foible. A man like Fournier will be more to your mind. He is of the newest school - all for the psychology. That should please you."
"It does. It does."
"He has a very good knowledge of English. That is why we sent him to Croydon to assist in this case. A very interesting case, M. Poirot. Madame Giselle was one of the best-known characters in Paris. And the manner of her death, extraordinary! A poisoned dart from a blowpipe in an aeroplane. I ask you! Is it possible that such a thing could happen?"
"Exactly!" cried Poirot. "Exactly! You hit the nail upon the head. You place a finger unerringly - Ah, here is our good Fournier. You have news, I see."
The melancholy-faced Fournier was looking quite eager and excited.
"Yes, indeed. A Greek antique dealer, Zeropoulos, has reported the sale of a blowpipe and darts three days before the murder. I propose now, monsieur -" he bowed respectfully to his chief - "to interview this man."
"By all means," said Gilles. "Does M. Poirot accompany you?"
"If you please," said Poirot. "This is interesting. Very interesting."
The shop of M. Zeropoulos was in the Rue St. Honoré. It was by way of being a high-class antique dealer's shop. There was a good deal of Rhages ware and other Persian pottery. There were one or two bronzes from Luristan, a good deal of inferior Indian jewelry, shelves of silks and embroideries from many countries, and a large proportion of perfectly worthless beads and cheap Egyptian goods. It was the kind of establishment in which you could spend a million francs on an object worth half a million, or ten francs on an object worth fifty centimes. It was patronized chiefly by tourists and knowledgeable connoisseurs.
M. Zeropoulos himself was a short stout little man with beady black eyes. He talked volubly and at great length.
The gentlemen were from the police? He was delighted to see them. Perhaps they would step into his private office.
Yes, he had sold a blowpipe and darts - a South American curio. "You comprehend, gentlemen, me, I sell a little of everything! I have my specialties. Persia is my specialty. M. Dupont - the esteemed M. Dupont - he will answer for me. He himself comes always to see my collection, to see what new purchases I have made, to give his judgment on the genuineness of certain doubtful pieces. What a man! So learned! Such an eye! Such a feel! But I wander from the point. I have my collection - my valuable collection that all connoisseurs know - and also I have - Well, frankly, messieurs, let us call it junk! Foreign junk, that is understood; a little bit of everything - from the South Seas, from India, from Japan, from Borneo. No matter! Usually I have no fixed price for these things. If anyone takes an interest, I make my estimate and I ask a price, and naturally I am beaten down and in the end I take only half. And even then - I will admit it - the profit is good! These articles, I buy them from sailors, usually at a very low price."
M. Zeropoulos took a breath and went on happily, delighted with himself, his importance and the easy flow of his narration.
"This blowpipe and darts, I have had it for a long time - two years perhaps. It was in that tray there, with a cowrie necklace and a red Indian headdress and one or two crude wooden idols and some inferior jade beads. Nobody remarks it, nobody notices it, till there comes this American and asks me what it is."
"An American?" said Fournier sharply.
"Yes, yes, an American - unmistakably an American - not the best type of American either. The kind that knows nothing about anything and just wants a curio to take home. He is of the type that makes the fortune of bead sellers in Egypt - that buys the most preposterous scarabs ever made in Czechoslovakia. Well, very quickly I size him up. I tell him about the habits of certain tribes, the deadly poisons they use. I explain how very rare and unusual it is that anything of this kind comes into the market. He asks the price and I tell him. It is my American price, not quite so high as formerly... Alas? They have had the depression over there!... I wait for him to bargain, but straightaway he pays my price. I am stupefied. It is a pity. I might have asked more! I give him the blowpipe and the darts wrapped up in a parcel and he takes them away. It is finished. But afterwards, when I read in the paper of this astounding murder, I wonder - yes, I wonder very much. And I communicate with the police."
"We are much obliged to you, M. Zeropoulos," said Fournier politely. "This blowpipe and dart - you think you would be able to identify them? At the moment they are in London, you understand, but an opportunity will be given you of identifying them."
"The blowpipe was about so long -" M. Zeropoulos measured a space on his desk. "And so thick - you see, like this pen of mine. It was of a light color. There were four darts. They were long pointed thorns, slightly discolored at the tips, with a little fluff of red silk on them."
"Red silk?" asked Poirot keenly.
"Yes, monsieur. A cerise red, somewhat faded."
"That is curious," said Fournier. "You are sure that there was not one of them with a black-and-yellow fluff of silk?"
"Black and yellow? No, monsieur."
The dealer shook his head.
Fournier glanced at Poirot. There was a curious satisfied smile on the little man's face.
Fournier wondered why. Was it because Zeropoulos was lying? Or was it for some other reason?
Fournier said doubtfully: "It is very possible that this blowpipe and dart have nothing whatever to do with the case. It is just one chance in fifty, perhaps. Nevertheless, I should like as full a description as possible of this American."
Zeropoulos spread out a pair of Oriental hands.
"He was just an American. His voice was in his nose. He could not speak French. He was chewing the gum. He had tortoise-shell glasses. He was tall and, I think, not very old."
"Fair or dark?"
"I could hardly say. He had his hat on."
"Would you know him again if you saw him?"
Zeropoulos seemed doubtful.
"I could not say. So many Americans come and go. He was not remarkable in any way."
Fournier showed him the collection of snapshots, but without avail. None of them, Zeropoulos thought, was the man.
"Probably a wild-goose chase," said Fournier as they left the shop.
"It is possible, yes," agreed Poirot. "But I do not think so. The price tickets were of the same shape and there are one or two points of interest about the story and about M. Zeropoulos' remarks. And now, my friend, having been upon one wild-goose chase, indulge me and come upon another."
"Where to?"
"To the Boulevard des Capucines."
"Let me see. That is -"
"The office of Universal Air Lines."
"Of course. But we have already made perfunctory inquiries there. They could tell us nothing of interest."
Poirot tapped him kindly on the shoulder.
"Ah, but, you see, an answer depends on the questions. You did not know what questions to ask."
"And you do?"
"Well, I have a certain little idea."
He would say no more and in due course they arrived at the Boulevard des Capucines.
The office of Universal Air Lines was quite small. A smart-looking dark man was behind a highly polished wooden counter and a boy of about fifteen was sitting at a typewriter.
Fournier produced his credentials and the man, whose name was Jules Perrot, declared himself to be entirely at their service.
At Poirot's suggestion, the typewriting boy was dispatched to the farthest corner.
"It is very confidential, what we have to say," he explained.
Jules Perrot looked pleasantly excited.
"Yes, messieurs?"
"It is this matter of the murder of Madame Giselle."
"Ah, yes, I recollect. I think I have already answered some questions on the subject."
"Precisely. Precisely. But it is necessary to have the facts very exactly. Now, Madame Giselle reserved her place - when?"
"I think that point has already been settled. She booked her seat by telephone on the seventeenth."
"That was for the twelve-o'clock service on the following day?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"But I understand from her maid that it was on the 8:45 a.m. service that madame reserved a seat?"
"No, no; at least this is what happened. Madame's maid asked for the 8:45 service, but that service was already booked up, so we gave her a seat on the twelve o'clock instead."
"Ah, I see. I see."
"Yes, monsieur."
"I see. I see. But all the same, it is curious. Decidedly, it is curious."
The clerk looked at him inquiringly.
"It is only that a friend of mine, deciding to go to England at a moment's notice, went to England on the 8:45 service that morning, and the plane was half empty."
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 that 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 be 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 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 honor, 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 gray 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."
Poirot shook his head gently.
"There was no one of that name traveling and no one occupied Seat No. 1."
"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."
Together, he and Poirot left the office, leaving Jules Perrot staring after them with a frightened face.
On the pavement outside, Fournier removed his hat and bowed.
"I salute you, M. Poirot. What gave you this idea?"
"Two separate sentences. One this morning when I heard a man in our plane say that he had crossed on the morning of the murder in a nearly empty plane. The second sentence was that uttered by élise when she said that she had rung up the office of Universal Air Lines and that there was no room on the early-morning service. Now, those two statements did not agree. I remembered the steward on the 'Prometheus' saying that he had seen Madame Giselle before on the early service; so it was clearly her custom to go by the 8:45 a.m. plane.
