What do I care?
A nice thing - to be mixed up with the police!
I am ashamed.
If madame had not been killed high up in the air, you would probably pretend that I, Georges, had poisoned her. The police are like that."
Poirot forestalled an angry retort on Fournier's part by slipping a tactful arm through that of his friend.
"Come, mon vieux," he said.
"The stomach calls.
A simple but satisfying meal, that is what I prescribe.
Let us say omelette aux champignons, Sole а la Normande, a cheese of Port Salut. And with it red wine.
What wine exactly?"
Fournier glanced at his watch.
"True," he said. "It is one o'clock.
Talking to this animal here -" He glared at Georges.
Poirot smiled encouragingly at the old man.
"It is understood," he said. "The nameless lady was neither tall nor short, fair nor dark, thin nor fat; but this at least you can tell us: Was she chic?"
"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."
George 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 omelet is delicious."
In the interval between the omelet and the sole, Fournier turned the pages of the black book. Then he made a penciled 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 the notebook: "CL 52.