An aged concierge admitted them and greeted Fournier in a surly fashion.
"So, we have the police here again!
Nothing but trouble. This will give the house a bad name."
He retreated grumbling into his apartment.
"We will go to Giselle's office," said Fournier. "It is on the first floor."
He drew a key from his pocket as he spoke and explained that the French police had taken the precaution of locking and sealing the door whilst awaiting the result of the English inquest.
"Not, I fear," said Fournier, "that there is anything here to help us."
He detached the seals, unlocked the door, and they entered.
Madame Giselle's office was a small stuffy apartment. It had a somewhat old-fashioned type of safe in a corner, a writing desk of businesslike appearance and several shabbily upholstered chairs.
The one window was dirty, and it seemed highly probable that it had never been opened.
Fournier shrugged his shoulders as he looked round.
"You see?" he said. "Nothing.
Nothing at all."
Poirot passed round behind the desk. He sat down in the chair and looked across the desk at Fournier. He passed his hand gently across the surface of the wood, then down underneath it.
"There is a bell here," he said.
"Yes, it rings down to the concierge."
"Ah, a wise precaution.
Madame's clients might sometimes become obstreperous."
He opened one or two of the drawers.
They contained stationery, a calendar, pens and pencils, but no papers and nothing of a personal nature.
Poirot merely glanced into them in a cursory manner.
"I will not insult you, my friend, by a close search.
If there were anything to find, you would have found it, I am sure."
He looked across at the safe.
"Not a very efficacious pattern, that."
"Somewhat out of date," agreed Fournier.
"It was empty?"
"Yes.
That cursed maid had destroyed everything."
"Ah, yes, the maid. The confidential maid.
We must see her.
This room, as you say, has nothing to tell us.
It is significant, that; do you not think so?"
"What do you mean by significant, M. Poirot?"
"I mean that there is in this room no personal touch. I find that interesting."
"She was hardly a woman of sentiment," said Fournier dryly.
Poirot rose.
"Come," he said. "Let us see this maid - this highly confidential maid."
Elise Grandier was a short, stout woman of middle age with a florid face and small shrewd eyes that darted quickly from Fournier's face to that of his companion and then back again.
"Sit down, Mademoiselle Grandier," said Fournier.
"Thank you, monsieur." She sat down composedly.
"M. Poirot and I have returned today from London.
The inquest - the inquiry, that is, into the death of madame - took place yesterday.
There is no doubt whatsoever. Madame was poisoned."
The Frenchwoman shook her head gravely.
"It is terrible, what you say there, monsieur.
Madame poisoned.
Who would ever have dreamed of such a thing?"
"That is, perhaps, where you can help us, mademoiselle."
"Certainly, monsieur, I will, naturally, do all I can to aid the police.