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.