Death in the Clouds (16 page)

‘For some time I have been undecided—but now I have made up my mind. She and I are now on our way to Kenya to begin a new life. I hope that at last she may know a little happiness. She has suffered so long…’

Again he was silent. Then he said in a brisker tone:

‘I tell you this, M. Poirot, because it will soon be public property, and the sooner you know the better.’

‘I understand,’ said Poirot. After a minute he said, ‘You take your flute, I see?’

Dr Bryant smiled.

‘My flute, M. Poirot, is my oldest companion…When everything else fails—music remains.’

His hand ran lovingly over the flute case, then with a bow he rose.

Poirot rose also.

‘My best wishes for your future,
M. le docteur
—and for that of Madame,’ said Poirot.

When Fournier rejoined his friend, Poirot was at the desk making arrangements for a trunk call to Quebec.

‘What now?’ cried Fournier. ‘You are still preoccupied with this girl who inherits? Decidedly it is the
idée fixe
you have there.’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Poirot. ‘But there must be in all things order and method. One must finish with one thing before proceeding to the next.’

He looked round.

‘Here is Mademoiselle Jane. Suppose that you commence
déjeuner
. I will join you as soon as I can.’

Fournier acquiesced and he and Jane went into the dining-room.

‘Well?’ said Jane with curiosity. ‘What is she like?’

‘She is a little over medium height, dark, with a matte complexion, a pointed chin—’

‘You’re talking exactly like a passport,’ said Jane. ‘My passport description is simply insulting, I think. It’s composed of mediums and ordinary. Nose, medium;
mouth ordinary (how do they expect you to describe a mouth?); forehead, ordinary; chin, ordinary.’

‘But not ordinary eyes,’ said Fournier.

‘Even they are grey, which is not a very exciting colour.’

‘And who has told you, Mademoiselle, that it is not an exciting colour?’ said the Frenchman, leaning across the table.

Jane laughed.

‘Your command of the English language,’ she said, ‘is highly efficient. Tell me more about Anne Morisot—is she pretty?’

‘
Assez bien
,’ said Fournier cautiously. ‘And she is not Anne Morisot. She is Anne Richards. She is married.’

‘Was the husband there, too?’

‘No.’

‘Why not, I wonder?’

‘Because he is in Canada or America.’

He explained some of the circumstances of Anne’s life. Just as he was drawing his narrative to a close, Poirot joined them.

He looked a little dejected.

‘Well,
mon cher
?’ inquired Fournier.

‘I spoke to the principal—to Mère Angélique herself. It is romantic, you know, the transatlantic telephone. To speak so easily to someone nearly halfway across the globe.’

‘The telegraphed photograph—that too is romantic. Science is the greatest romance there is. But you were saying?’

‘I talked with Mère Angélique. She confirmed exactly what Mrs Richards told us of the circumstances of her having been brought up at the Institut de Marie. She spoke quite frankly about the mother who left Quebec with a Frenchman interested in the wine trade. She was relieved at the time that the child would not come under her mother’s influence. From her point of view Giselle was on the downward path. Money was sent regularly—but Giselle never suggested a meeting.’

‘In fact your conversation was a repetition of what we heard this morning.’

‘Practically—except that it was more detailed. Anne Morisot left the Institut de Marie six years ago to become a manicurist, afterwards she had a job as a lady’s maid—and finally left Quebec for Europe in that capacity. Her letters were not frequent, but Mère Angélique usually heard from her about twice a year. When she saw an account of the inquest in the paper she realized that this Marie Morisot was in all probability the Marie Morisot who had lived in Quebec.’

‘What about the husband?’ asked Fournier. ‘Now that we know definitely that Giselle was married, the husband might become a factor?’

‘I thought of that. It was one of the reasons for my telephone call. George Leman, Giselle’s blackguard of a husband, was killed in the early days of the war.’

He paused and then remarked abruptly:

‘What was it that I just said—not my last remark—the one before?—I have an idea that—without knowing it—I said something of significance.’

Fournier repeated as well as he could the substance of Poirot’s remarks, but the little man shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

‘No—no—it was not that. Well, no matter…’

He turned to Jane and engaged her in conversation.

At the close of the meal he suggested that they have coffee in the lounge.

Jane agreed and stretched out her hand for her bag and gloves, which were on the table. As she picked them up she winced slightly.

‘What is it, Mademoiselle?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ laughed Jane. ‘It’s only a jagged nail. I must file it.’

Poirot sat down again very suddenly.

‘
Nom d’un nom d’un nom
,’ he said quietly.

The other two stared at him in surprise.

‘M. Poirot?’ cried Jane. ‘What is it?’

‘It is,’ said Poirot, ‘that I remember now why the face of Anne Morisot is familiar to me. I have seen
her before…in the aeroplane on the day of the murder. Lady Horbury sent for her to get a nail file.
Anne Morisot was Lady Horbury’s maid
.’

This sudden revelation had an almost stunning effect on the three people sitting round the luncheon table. It opened up an entirely new aspect of the case.

Instead of being a person wholly remote from the tragedy, Anne Morisot was now shown to have been actually present on the scene of the crime. It took a minute or two for everyone to readjust their ideas.

Poirot made a frantic gesture with his hands—his eyes closed—his face contorted in agony.

‘A little minute—a little minute,’ he implored them. ‘I have got to think, to see, to realize how this affects my ideas of the case. I must go back in my mind. I must remember…A thousand maledictions on my unfortunate stomach. I was preoccupied only with my internal sensations!’

‘She was actually on the plane, then,’ said Fournier. ‘I see. I begin to see.’

‘I remember,’ said Jane. ‘A tall, dark girl.’ Her eyes half closed in an effort of memory. ‘Madeleine, Lady Horbury called her.’

‘That is it, Madeleine,’ said Poirot.

‘Lady Horbury sent her along to the end of the plane to fetch a case—a scarlet dressing-case.’

‘You mean,’ said Fournier, ‘that this girl went right past the seat where her mother was sitting?’

‘That is right.’

‘The motive,’ said Fournier. He gave a great sigh.

‘And the opportunity…Yes, it is all there.’

Then with a sudden vehemence most unlike his usual melancholy manner, he brought down his hand with a bang on the table.

‘But,
parbleu
!’ he cried. ‘Why did no one mention this before? Why was she not included amongst the suspected persons?’

‘I have told you, my friend. I have told you,’ said Poirot wearily. ‘My unfortunate stomach.’

‘Yes, yes, that is understandable. But there were other stomachs unaffected—the stewards’, the other passengers’.’

‘I think,’ said Jane, ‘that perhaps it was because it was so very early this happened. The plane had only just left Le Bourget; and Giselle was alive and well an hour or so after that. It seemed as though she must have been killed much later.’

‘That is curious,’ said Fournier thoughtfully. ‘Can there have been a delayed action of the poison? Such things happen…’

Poirot groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

‘I must think. I must think…Can it be possible that all along my ideas have been entirely wrong?’

‘
Mon vieux
,’ said Fournier, ‘such things happen. They happen to me. It is possible that they have happened to you. One has occasionally to pocket one’s pride and readjust one’s ideas.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Poirot. ‘It is possible that all along I have attached too much importance to one particular thing. I expected to find a certain clue. I found it, and I built up my case from it. But if I have been wrong from the beginning—if that particular article was where it was merely as the result of an
accident
…why, then—yes—I will admit that I have been wrong—completely wrong.’

‘You cannot shut your eyes to the importance of this turn of events,’ said Fournier. ‘Motive and opportunity—what more can you want?’

‘Nothing. It must be as you say. The delayed action of the poison is indeed extraordinary—practically speaking—one would say
impossible
. But where poisons are concerned the impossible does happen. One has to reckon with idiosyncrasy…’

His voice tailed off.

‘We must discuss a plan of campaign,’ said Fournier. ‘For the moment it would, I think, be unwise to arouse Anne Morisot’s suspicions. She is completely unaware that you have recognized her. Her
bona fide
have been accepted. We know the hotel at which she is staying and we can keep in touch with her through Thibault. Legal formalities can always be delayed. We have two points established—opportunity and motive. We have still to prove that Anne Morisot had snake venom in her possession. There is also the question of the American who bought the blowpipe and bribed Jules Perrot. It might certainly be the husband—Richards. We have only her word for it that he is in Canada.’

‘As you say—the husband…Yes, the husband. Ah, wait—wait!’

Poirot pressed his hands upon his temples.

‘It is all wrong,’ he murmured. ‘I do not employ the little grey cells of the brain in an orderly and methodical way. No, I leap to conclusions. I think, perhaps, what I am
meant
to think. No, that is wrong again. If my original idea were right, I could not be
meant
to think—’

He broke off.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Jane.

Poirot did not answer for a moment or two; then he took his hands from his temples, sat very upright and
straightened two forks and a salt-cellar which offended his sense of symmetry.

‘Let us reason,’ he said. ‘Anne Morisot is either guilty or innocent of the crime. If she is innocent why has she lied? Why has she concealed the fact that she was lady’s maid to Lady Horbury?’

‘Why, indeed?’ said Fournier.

‘So we say Anne Morisot is guilty because she has lied. But wait. Suppose my first supposition was correct. Will that supposition fit in with Anne Morisot’s guilt, or with Anne Morisot’s lie? Yes—yes—it
might
—given one premise. But in that case—and if that premise is correct—
then Anne Morisot should not have been on the plane at all
.’

The others looked at him politely, if with, perhaps, a rather perfunctory interest.

Fournier thought:

‘I see now what the Englishman, Japp, meant. He makes difficulties, this old one. He tries to make an affair which is now simple sound complicated. He cannot accept a straightforward solution without pretending that it squares with his preconceived ideas.’

Jane thought:

‘I don’t see in the least what he means…Why couldn’t the girl be on the plane? She had to go wherever Lady Horbury wanted her to go…I think he’s rather a mountebank, really…’

Suddenly Poirot drew in his breath with a hiss.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It is a possibility; and it ought to be very simple to find out.’

He rose.

‘What now, my friend?’ asked Fournier.

‘Again the telephone,’ said Poirot.

‘The transatlantic to Quebec?’

‘This time it is merely a call to London.’

‘To Scotland Yard?’

‘No, to Lord Horbury’s house in Grosvenor Square. If only I have the good fortune to find Lady Horbury at home.’

‘Be careful, my friend. If any suspicion gets round to Anne Morisot that we have been making inquiries about her it would not suit our affairs. Above all, we must not put her upon her guard.’

‘Have no fears. I will be discreet. I ask only one little question—a question of a most harmless nature.’ He smiled. ‘You shall come with me if you like.’

‘No, no.’

‘But yes. I insist.’

The two men went off, leaving Jane in the lounge.

It took some little time to put the call through; but Poirot’s luck was in. Lady Horbury was lunching at home.

‘Good. Will you tell Lady Horbury that it is M. Hercule Poirot speaking from Paris.’ There was a
pause. ‘That is you, Lady Horbury? No, no, all is well. I assure you
all is well
. It is not that matter at all. I want you to answer me a question. Yes…When you go from Paris to England by air does your maid usually go with you, or does she go by train? By train…And so on that particular occasion…I see…You are sure? Ah, she has left you. I see. She left you very suddenly at a moment’s notice.
Mais oui
, base ingratitude. It is too true. A most ungrateful class! Yes, yes, exactly. No, no, you need not worry.
Au revoir
. Thank you.’

He replaced the receiver and turned to Fournier, his eyes green and shining.

‘Listen, my friend,
Lady Horbury’s maid usually travelled by train and boat
. On the occasion of Giselle’s murder Lady Horbury decided
at the last moment
that Madeleine had better go by air, too.’

He took the Frenchman by the arm.

‘Quick, my friend,’ he said. ‘We must go to her hotel. If my little idea is correct—and I think it is—there is no time to be lost.’

Fournier stared at him. But before he could frame a question Poirot had turned away and was heading for the revolving doors leading out of the hotel.

Fournier hastened after him.

‘But I do not understand. What is all this?’

The commissionaire was holding open the door of
a taxi. Poirot jumped in and gave the address of Anne Morisot’s hotel.

‘And drive quickly, but quickly!’

Fournier jumped in after him.

‘What fly is this that has bitten you? Why this mad rush—this haste?’

‘Because, my friend, if, as I say, my little idea is correct—
Anne Morisot is in imminent danger
.’

‘You think so?’

Fournier could not help a sceptical tone creeping into his voice.

‘I am afraid,’ said Poirot. ‘Afraid.
Bon Dieu
—how this taxi crawls!’

The taxi at the moment was doing a good forty miles an hour and cutting in and out of traffic with a miraculous immunity due to the excellent eye of the driver.

‘It crawls to such an extent that we shall have an accident in a minute,’ said Fournier drily. ‘And Mademoiselle Grey, we have left her planted there awaiting our return from the telephone, and instead we leave the hotel without a word. It is not very polite, that!’

‘Politeness or impoliteness—what does it matter in an affair of life and death?’

‘Life or death?’ Fournier shrugged his shoulders.

He thought to himself:

‘It is all very well, but this obstinate madman may
endanger the whole business. Once the girl knows that we are on her track—’

He said in a persuasive voice:

‘See now, M. Poirot, be reasonable. We must go carefully.’

‘You do not understand,’ said Poirot. ‘I am afraid—afraid—’

The taxi drew up with a jerk at the quiet hotel where Anne Morisot was staying.

Poirot sprang out and nearly collided with a young man just leaving the hotel.

Poirot stopped dead for a moment, looking after him.

‘Another face that I know—but where—? Ah, I remember—it is the actor Raymond Barraclough.’

As he stepped forward to enter the hotel, Fournier placed a restraining hand on his arm.

‘M. Poirot, I have the utmost respect, the utmost admiration for your methods—but I feel very strongly that no precipitate action must be taken. I am responsible here in France for the conduct of this case…’

Poirot interrupted him:

‘I comprehend your anxiety; but do not fear any “precipitate action” on my part. Let us make inquiries at the desk. If Madame Richards is here and all is well—then no harm is done—and we can discuss together our future action. You do not object to that?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘Good.’

Poirot passed through the revolving door and went up to the reception desk. Fournier followed him.

‘You have a Mrs Richards staying here, I believe,’ said Poirot.

‘No, Monsieur. She was staying here, but she left today.’

‘She has left?’ demanded Fournier.

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘When did she leave?’

The clerk glanced up at the clock.

‘A little over half an hour ago.’

‘Was her departure unexpected? Where has she gone?’

The clerk stiffened at the questions and was disposed to refuse to answer; but when Fournier’s credentials were produced the clerk changed his tone and was eager to give any assistance in his power.

No, the lady had not left an address. He thought her departure was the result of a sudden change of plans. She had formerly said she was making a stay of about a week.

More questions. The concierge was summoned, the luggage porters, the lift boys.

According to the concierge a gentleman had called to see the lady. He had come while she was out, but
had awaited her return, and they had lunched together. What kind of gentleman? An American gentleman—very American. She had seemed surprised to see him. After lunch the lady gave orders for her luggage to be brought down and put in a taxi.

Where had she driven to? She had driven to the Gare du Nord—at least that is the order she had given to the taximan. Did the American gentleman go with her? No, she had gone alone.

‘The Gare du Nord,’ said Fournier. ‘That means England on the face of it. The two o’clock service. But it may be a blind. We must telephone to Boulogne and also try and get hold of that taxi.’

It was as though Poirot’s fears had communicated themselves to Fournier.

The Frenchman’s face was anxious.

Rapidly and efficiently he set the machinery of the law in motion.

It was five o’clock when Jane, sitting in the lounge of the hotel with a book, looked up to see Poirot coming towards her.

She opened her mouth reproachfully, but the words remained unspoken. Something in his face stopped her.

‘What was it?’ she said. ‘Has anything happened?’

Poirot took both her hands in his.

‘Life is very terrible, Mademoiselle,’ he said.

Something in his tone made Jane feel frightened.

‘What is it?’ she said again.

Poirot said slowly:

‘When the boat train reached Boulogne they found a woman in a first-class carriage—dead.’

The colour ebbed from Jane’s face.

‘Anne Morisot?’

‘Anne Morisot. In her hand was a little blue glass bottle which had contained hydrocyanic acid.’

‘Oh!’ said Jane. ‘Suicide?’

Poirot did not answer for a moment or two. Then he said, with the air of one who chooses his words carefully:

‘Yes, the police think it was suicide.’

‘And you?’

Poirot slowly spread out his hands in an expressive gesture.

‘What else—is there to think?’

‘She killed herself—why? Because of remorse—or because she was afraid of being found out?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Life can be very terrible,’ he said. ‘One needs much courage.’

‘To kill oneself? Yes, I suppose one does.’

‘Also to live,’ said Poirot, ‘one needs courage.’