"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.
"But somebody wanted her to go on the twelve o'clock – somebody who was already traveling by the 'Prometheus.' Why did the clerk say that the early service was booked up? A mistake? Or a deliberate lie? I fancied the latter. I was right."
"Every minute this case gets more puzzling!" cried Fournier. "First we seem to be on the track of a woman. Now it is a man. This American -"
He stopped and looked at Poirot.
The latter nodded gently.
"Yes, my friend," he said. "It is so easy to be an American here in Paris! A nasal voice, the chewing gum, the little goatee, the horned-rimmed spectacles – all the appurtenances of the stage American."
He took from his pocket the page he had torn from the Sketch.
"What are you looking at?"
"At a countess in her bathing suit."
"You think – But no, she is petite, charming, fragile; she could not impersonate a tall stooping American. She has been an actress, yes, but to act such a part is out of the question. No, my friend, that idea will not do."
"I never said it would," said Hercule Poirot.
And still he looked earnestly at the printed page.
Chapter 12
Lord Horbury stood by the sideboard and helped himself absent-mindedly to kidneys.
Stephen Horbury was twenty-seven years of age. He had a narrow head and a long chin. He looked very much what he was – a sporting, out-of-door kind of man without anything very spectacular in the way of brains. He was kindhearted, slightly priggish, intensely loyal and invincibly obstinate.
He took his heaped plate back to the table and began to eat. Presently he opened a newspaper, but immediately, with a frown, he cast it aside. He thrust aside his unfinished plate, drank some coffee and rose to his feet. He paused uncertainly for a minute, then, with a slight nod of the head, he left the dining room, crossed the wide hall and went upstairs. He tapped at a door and waited for a minute. From inside the room a clear high voice cried out, "Come in!"
Lord Horbury went in.
It was a wide beautiful bedroom facing south. Cicely Horbury was in bed – a great carved-oak Elizabethan bed. Very lovely she looked, too, in her rose-chiffon draperies, with the curling gold of her hair. A breakfast tray with the remains of orange juice and coffee on it was on a table beside her. She was opening her letters. Her maid was moving about the room.
Any man might be excused if his breath came a little faster when confronted by so much loveliness, but the charming picture his wife presented affected Lord Horbury not at all.
There had been a time, three years ago, when the breathtaking loveliness of his Cicely had set the young man's senses reeling. He had been madly, wildly, passionately in love. All that was over. He had been mad. He was now sane.
Lady Horbury said in some surprise:
"Why, Stephen?"
He said abruptly, "I'd like to talk to you alone."
"Madeleine," Lady Horbury spoke to her maid. "Leave all that. Get out."
The French girl murmured: "Très bien, m'lady," shot a quick interested look out of the corner of her eye at Lord Horbury and left the room.
Lord Horbury waited till she had shut
the door, then he said:
"I'd like to know, Cicely, just exactly what is behind this idea of coming down here?"
Lady Horbury shrugged her slender beautiful shoulders.
"After all, why not?"
"Why not? It seems to me there are a good many reasons."
His wife murmured: "Oh, reasons."
"Yes, reasons. You'll remember that we agreed that as things were between us, it would be as well to give up this farce of living together. You were to have the town house and a generous – an extremely generous – allowance. Within certain limits, you were to go your own way. Why this sudden return?"
Again Cicely shrugged her shoulders.
"I thought it better."
"You mean, I suppose, that it's money?"
Lady Horbury said: "How I hate you! You're the meanest man alive."
"Mean! Mean, you say, when it's because of you and your senseless extravagance that there's a mortgage on Horbury."
"Horbury – Horbury – that's all you care for! Horses and hunting and shooting and crops and tiresome old farmers. What a life for a woman!"
"Some women enjoy it."
"Yes, women like Venetia Kerr, who's half a horse herself. You ought to have married a woman like that."
Lord Horbury walked over to the window.
"It's a little late to say that. I married you."
"And you can't get out of it," said Cicely. Her laugh was malicious, triumphant. "You'd like to get rid of me, but you can't."
He said, "Need we go into all this?"
"Very much God and the old school, aren't you? Most of my friends fairly laugh their heads off when I tell them the kind of things you say."
"They are quite welcome to do so. Shall we get back to our original subject of discussion? Your reason for coming here."
But his wife would not follow his lead. She said:
"You advertised in the papers that you wouldn't be responsible for my debts. Do you call that a gentlemanly thing to do?"
"I regret having had to take that step. I warned you, you will remember. Twice I paid up. But there are limits. Your insensate passion for gambling – well, why discuss it? But I do want to know what prompted you to come down to Horbury? You've always hated the place, been bored to death here."
Cicely Horbury, her small face sullen, said, "I thought it better just now."
"Better just now?" He repeated the words thoughtfully. Then he asked a question sharply: "Cicely, had you been borrowing from that old French money lender?"
"Which one? I don't know what you mean."
"You know perfectly what I mean. I mean the woman who was murdered on the plane from Paris – the plane on which you traveled home. Had you borrowed money from her?"
"No, of course not. What an idea!"
"Now don't be a little fool over this, Cicely. If that woman did lend you money you'd better tell me about it. Remember, the business isn't over and finished with. The verdict at the inquest was willful murder by a person or persons unknown. The police of both countries are at work. It's only a matter of time before they come on the truth. The woman's sure to have left records of her dealings. If anything crops up to connect you with her, we should be prepared beforehand. We must have Ffoulkes' advice on the matter." Ffoulkes, Ffoulkes, Wilbraham Ffoulkes were the family solicitors, who, for generations, had dealt with the Horbury estate.
"Didn't I give evidence in that damned court and say I had never heard of the woman?"
"I don't think that proves very much," said her husband dryly. "If you did have dealings with this Giselle, you can be sure the police will find it out."
Cicely sat up angrily in bed.
"Perhaps you think I killed her. Stood up there in that plane and puffed darts at her from a blowpipe. Of all the crazy businesses!"
"The whole thing sounds mad," Stephen agreed thoughtfully. "But I do want you to realize your position."
"What position? There isn't any position. You don't believe a word I say. It's damnable. And why be so anxious about me all of a sudden? A lot you care about what happens to me. You dislike me. You hate me. You'd be glad if I died tomorrow. Why pretend?"
"Aren't you exaggerating a little? In any case, old-fashioned though you think me, I do happen to care about my family name. An out-of-date sentiment which you will probably despise. But there it is."
Turning abruptly on his heel, he left the room.
A pulse was beating in his temple. Thoughts followed each other rapidly through his head:
"Dislike? Hate? Yes, that's true enough. Should I be glad if she died tomorrow? I'd feel like a man who's been let out of prison… What a queer beastly business life is! When I first saw her – in 'Do It Now' – what a child, what an adorable child she looked! So fair and so lovely… Young fool! I was mad about her – crazy. She seemed everything that was adorable and sweet. And all the time she was what she is now – vulgar, vicious, spiteful, empty-headed… I can't even see her loveliness now."
He whistled and a spaniel came running to him, looking up at him with adoring sentimental eyes.
He said, "Good old Betsy," and fondled the long fringed ears.
Cramming an old fishing hat on his head, he left the house accompanied by the dog.
This aimless saunter of his round the estate began gradually to soothe his jangled nerves. He stroked the neck of his favorite hunter, had a word with the groom, then he went to the home farm and had a chat with the farmer's wife. He was walking along a narrow lane. Betsy at his heels, when he met Venetia Kerr on her bay mare.
Venetia looked her best upon a horse. Lord Horbury looked up at her with admiration, fondness and a queer sense of home-coming.
He said, "Hullo, Venetia."
"Hullo, Stephen."
"Where've you been? Out in the five acre?"
"Yes, she's coming along nicely, isn't she?"
"First rate. Have you seen that two-year-old of mine I bought at Chattisley's sale?"
They talked horses for some minutes. Then he said:
"By the way, Cicely's here."
"Here, at Horbury?"
It was against Venetia 's code to show surprise, but she could not quite keep the undertone of it out of her voice.
"Yes. Turned up last night."
There was a silence between them. Then Stephen said:
"You were at that inquest, Venetia. How – how – er – did it go?"
She considered a moment.
"Well, nobody was saying very much, if you know what I mean."
"Police weren't giving anything away?"
"No."
Stephen said, "Must have been rather an unpleasant business for you."
"Well, I didn't exactly enjoy it. But it wasn't too devastating. The coroner was quite decent."
Stephen slashed absent-mindedly at the hedge.
"I say, Venetia, any idea – have you, I mean – as to who did it?"
Venetia Kerr shook her head slowly.
"No." She paused a minute, seeking how best and most tactfully to put into words what she wanted to say. She achieved it at last with a little laugh: "Anyway, it wasn't Cicely or me. That I do know. She'd have spotted me and I'd have spotted her."
Stephen laughed too.
"That's all right then," he said cheerfully.
He passed it off as a joke, but she heard the relief in his voice. So he had been thinking -
She switched her thoughts away.
" Venetia," said Stephen, "I've known you a long time, haven't I?"
"H'm, yes. Do you remember those awful dancing classes we used to go to as children?"
"Do I not? I feel I can say things to you -"
"Of course you can."
She hesitated, then went on in a calm matter-of-fact tone:
"It's Cicely, I suppose?"
"Yes. Look here, Venetia. Was Cicely mixed up with this woman Giselle in any way?"
Venetia answered slowly, "I don't know. I've been in the south of France, remember. I haven't hear
d the Le Pinet gossip yet."
"What do you think?"
"Well, candidly, I shouldn't be surprised."
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. Venetia said gently:
"Need it worry you? I mean, you live pretty semi-detached lives, don't you? This business is her affair, not yours."
"As long as she's my wife it's bound to be my business too."
"Can you – er – agree to a divorce?"
"A trumped-up business, you mean? I doubt if she'd accept it."
"Would you divorce her if you had the chance?"
"If I had cause I certainly would." He spoke grimly.
"I suppose," said Venetia thoughtfully, "she knows that."
"Yes."
They were both silent. Venetia thought: "She has the morals of a cat! I know that well enough. But she's careful. She's shrewd as they make 'em." Aloud she said: "So there's nothing doing?"
He shook his head. Then he said:
"If I were free, Venetia, would you marry me?"
Looking very straight between her horse's ears, Venetia said in a voice carefully devoid of emotion:
"I suppose I would."
Stephen! She'd always loved Stephen – always since the old days of dancing classes and cubbing and bird's nesting. And Stephen had been fond of her, but not fond enough to prevent him from falling desperately, wildly, madly in love with a clever calculating cat of a chorus girl.
Stephen said, "We could have a marvelous life together."
Pictures floated before his eyes – hunting, tea and muffins, the smell of wet earth and leaves, children. All the things that Cicely could never share with him, that Cicely would never give him. A kind of mist came over his eyes. Then he heard Venetia speaking, still in that flat, emotionless voice:
"Stephen, if you care, what about it? If we went off together. Cicely would have to divorce you."
He interrupted her fiercely:
"Do you think I'd let you do a thing like that?"
"I shouldn't care."
"I should."
He spoke with finality.
Venetia thought. "That's that. It's a pity, really. He's hopelessly prejudiced, but rather a dear. I wouldn't like him to be different."
Aloud she said: "Well, Stephen, I'll be getting along."
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