Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie Page B

occasion, indeed, every eye in the car seemed to be fixed upon him.
    Fournier sank in his seat discouraged, and was but little cheered by observing Poirot's open amusement.
    “You are amused, my friend? But you agree, one must try the experiments?”
    “Évidemment! In truth, I admire your thoroughness. There is nothing like ocular demonstration. You play the part of the murderer with blowpipe. The result is perfectly clear. Everybody sees you!”
    “Not everybody.”
    “In a sense, no. On each occasion there is somebody who does not see you. But for a successful murder that is not enough. You must be reasonably sure that nobody will see you.”
    “And that is impossible, given ordinary conditions,” said Fournier. “I hold then to my theory that there must have been extraordinary conditions. The psychological moment! There must have been a psychological moment when everyone's attention was mathematically centered elsewhere.”
    “Our friend Inspector Japp is going to make minute inquiries on that point.”
    “Do you not agree with me, M. Poirot?”
    Poirot hesitated a minute, then he said slowly:
    “I agree that there was - that there must have been a psychological reason why nobody saw the murderer. But ideas are running in a slightly different channel from yours. I feel that in this case mere ocular facts may be deceptive. Close your eyes, my friend, instead of opening them wide. Use the eyes of the brain, not of the body. Let the little grey cells of the mind function. Let it be their task to show you what actually happened.”
    Fournier stared at him curiously.
    “I do not follow you, M. Poirot.”
    “Because you are deducing from things that you have seen. Nothing can be so misleading as observation.”
    Fournier shook his head again and spread out his hands.
    “I give it up. I cannot catch your meanings.”
    “Our friend Giraud would urge you to pay no attention to my vagaries. 'Be up and doing,' he would say. 'To sit still in an armchair and think - that is the method of an old man past his prime.' But I say that a young hound is often so eager upon the scent that he overruns it. For him is the trail of the red herring. There, it is a very good hint I have given you there.”
    And leaning back, Poirot closed his eyes, it may have been to think, but it is quite certain that five minutes later he was fast asleep.
    On arrival in Paris they went straight to No. 3, Rue Joliette.
    The Rue Joliette is on the south side of the Seine. There was nothing to distinguish No. 3 from the other houses. 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