"Bravo! Bravo! My reasoning exactly."
"I say to myself: 'The poisoned dart, yes, but not the blowpipe.' Then something else was used to send that dart through the air – something that a man or woman might put to their lips in a normal manner, and which would cause no remark. And I remembered your insistence on a complete list of all that was found in the passengers' luggage and upon their persons. There were two things that especially attracted my attention – Lady Horbury had two cigarette holders, and on the table in front of the Duponts were a number of Kurdish pipes."
M. Fournier paused. He looked at Poirot. Poirot did not speak.
"Both those things could have been put to the lips naturally without anyone remarking on it. I am right, am I not?"
Poirot hesitated, then he said:
"You are on the right track, yes, but go a little further. And do not forget the wasp."
"The wasp?" Fournier stared. "No, there I do not follow you. I cannot see where the wasp comes in."
"You cannot see? But it is there that I -"
He broke off as the telephone rang.
He took up the receiver.
"Allô. Allô… Ah, good morning… Yes, it is I myself, Hercule Poirot." In an aside to Fournier, he said, "It is Thibault…
"Yes, yes, indeed… Very well. And you?… M. Fournier?… Quite right… Yes; he has arrived. He is here at this moment."
Lowering the receiver, he said to Fournier:
"He tried to get you at the Sûreté. They told him that you had come to see me here. You had better speak to him. He sounds excited."
Fournier took the telephone.
"Allô. Allô… Yes, it is Fournier speaking…What? What?… In verity, is that so?… Yes, indeed… Yes. Yes, I am sure he will. We will come round at once."
He replaced the telephone on its hook and looked across at Poirot.
"It is the daughter. The daughter of Madame Giselle."
"What?"
"Yes, she has arrived to claim her heritage."
"Where has she come from?"
" America, I understand. Thibault has asked her to return at half past eleven. He suggests we should go round and see him."
"Most certainly. We will go immediately. I will leave a note for Mademoiselle Grey."
He wrote:
Some developments have occurred which force me to go out. If M. Jean Dupont should ring up or call, be amiable to him. Talk of buttons and socks, but not as yet of prehistoric pottery. He admires you, but he is intelligent!
Au revoir.
Hercule Poirot.
"And now let us come, my friend," he said, rising. "This is what I have been waiting for – the entry on the scene of the shadowy figure of whose presence I have been conscious all along. Now, soon, I ought to understand everything."
Maître Thibault received Poirot and Fournier with great affability.
After an interchange of compliments and polite questions and answers, the lawyer settled down to the discussion of Madame Giselle's heiress.
"I received a letter yesterday," he said. "And this morning the young lady herself called upon me."
"What age is Mademoiselle Morisot?"
"Mademoiselle Morisot – or rather Mrs Richards; for she is married – is exactly twenty-four years of age."
"She brought documents to prove her identity?" said Fournier.
"Certainly. Certainly."
He opened a file at his elbow.
"To begin with, there is this."
It was a copy of a marriage certificate between George Leman, bachelor, and Marie Morisot, both of Quebec. Its date was 1910. There was also the birth certificate of Anne Morisot Leman. There were various other documents and papers.
"This throws a certain light on the early life of Madame Giselle," said Fournier.
Thibault nodded.
"As far as I can piece it out," he said, "Marie Morisot was nursery governess or sewing maid when she met this man Leman.
"He was, I gather, a bad lot who deserted her soon after the marriage, and she resumed her maiden name.
"The child was received in the Institut de Marie at Quebec and was brought up there. Marie Morisot, or Leman, left Quebec shortly afterwards – I imagine with a man – and came to France. She remitted sums of money from time to time and finally dispatched a lump sum of ready money to be given to the child on attaining the age of twenty-one. At that time, Marie Morisot, or Leman, was no doubt living an irregular life, and considered it better to sunder any personal relations."
"How did the girl realize that she was the heiress to a fortune?"
"We have inserted discreet advertisements in various journals. It seems one of these came to the notice of the principal of the Institut de Marie and she wrote or telegraphed to Mrs Richards, who was then in Europe, but on the point of returning to the States."
"Who is Richards?"
"I gather he is an American or Canadian from Detroit; by profession a maker of surgical instruments."
"He did not accompany his wife?"
"No, he is still in America."
"Is Mrs Richards able to throw any light upon a possible reason for her mother's murder?"
The lawyer shook his head.
"She knows nothing about her. In fact, although she had once heard the principal mention it, she did not even remember what her mother's maiden name was."
"It looks," said Fournier, "as though her appearance on the scene is not going to be of any help in solving the murder problem. Not, I must admit, that I ever thought it would. I am on quite another tack at present. My inquiries have narrowed down to a choice of three persons."
"Four," said Poirot.
"You think four?"
"It is not I who say four. But on the theory that you advanced to me you cannot confine yourself to three persons." He made a sudden rapid motion with his hands. "The two cigarette holders, the Kurdish pipes and a flute. Remember the flute, my friend."
Fournier gave an exclamation, but at that moment the door opened and an aged clerk mumbled:
"The lady has returned."
"Ah," said Thibault. "Now you will be able to see the heiress for yourself… Come in, madame. Let me present to you M. Fournier, of the Sûreté, who is in charge in this country of the inquiries into your mother's death. This is M. Hercule Poirot, whose name may be familiar to you and who is kindly giving us his assistance. Madame Richards."
Giselle's daughter was a dark chic-looking young woman. She was very smartly, though plainly, dressed.
She held out her hand to each of the men in turn, murmuring a few appreciative words.
"Though I fear, messieurs, that I have hardly the feeling of a daughter in the matter. I have been to all intents and purposes an orphan all my life."
In answer to Fournier's questions, she spoke warmly and gratefully of Mère Angélique, the head of the Institut de Marie.
"She has always been kindness itself to me."
"You left the Institut – when, madame?"
"When I was eighteen, monsieur. I started to earn my living. I was, for a time, a manicurist. I have also been in a dressmaker's establishment. I met my husband in Nice. He was then just returning to the States. He came over again on business to Holland and we were married in Rotterdam a month ago. Unfortunately, he had to return to Canada. I was detained, but I am now about to rejoin him."
Anne Richard's French was fluent and easy. She was clearly more French than English.
"You heard of the tragedy – how?"
"Naturally, I read of it in me papers. But I did not know – that is, I did not realize – that the victim in the case was my mother. Then I received a telegram here in Paris from Mère Angélique giving me the address of Maître Thibault and reminding me of my mother's maiden name."
Fournier nodded thoughtfully.
They talked a little further, but it seemed clear that Mrs Richards could be of little assistance to them in their search for the murderer. She knew nothing at all of her mother's life or b
usiness relations.
Having elicited the name of the hotel at which she was staying, Poirot and Fournier took leave of her.
"You are disappointed, mon vieux," said Fournier. "You have some idea in your brain about this girl? Did you suspect that she might be an impostor? Or do you, in fact, still suspect that she is an impostor?"
Poirot shook his head in a discouraged manner.
"No, I do not think she is an impostor. Her proofs of identity sound genuine enough. It is odd, though; I feel that I have either seen her before, or that she reminds me of someone."
"A likeness to the dead woman?" suggested Fournier doubtfully. "Surely not."
"No, it is not that. I wish I could remember what it was. I am sure her face reminds me of someone."
Fournier looked at him curiously.
"You have always, I think, been intrigued by the missing daughter."
"Naturally," said Poirot, his eyebrows rising a little. "Of all the people who may or may not benefit by Giselle's death, this young woman does benefit very definitely in hard cash."
"True, but does that get us anywhere?"
Poirot did not answer for a minute or two. He was following the train of his own thoughts. He said at last:
"My friend, a very large fortune passes to this girl. Do you wonder that, from the beginning, I speculated as to her being implicated? There were three women on that plane. One of them. Miss Venetia Kerr, was of well-known and authenticated family. But the other two? Ever since Élise Grandier advanced the theory that the father of Madame Giselle's child was an Englishman, I have kept it in my mind that one of the two other women might conceivably be this daughter. They were both of approximately the right age. Lady Horbury was a chorus girl whose antecedents were somewhat obscure and who acted under a stage name. Miss Jane Grey, as she once told me, had been brought up in an orphanage."
"Ah-ha!" said the Frenchman. "So that is the way your mind has been running? Our friend Japp would say that you were being overingenious."
"It is true that he always accuses me of preferring to make things difficult."
"You see?"
"But as a matter of fact, it is not true. I proceed always in the simplest manner imaginable! And I never refuse to accept facts."
"But you are disappointed? You expected more from this Anne Morisot?"
They were just entering Poirot's hotel. An object lying on me reception desk recalled Fournier's mind to something Poirot had said earlier in the morning.
"I have not thanked you," he said, "for drawing my attention to the error I had committed. I noted the two cigarette holders of Lady Horbury and the Kurdish pipes of the Duponts. I was unpardonable on my part to have forgotten the flute of Doctor Bryant. Though I do not seriously suspect him."
"You do not?"
"No. He does not strike me as the kind of man to -"
He stopped. The man standing at the reception desk talking to the clerk turned, his hand on the flute case. His glance fell on Poirot and his face lit up in grave recognition. Poirot went forward; Fournier discreetly withdrew into the background. As well that Bryant should not see him.
"Doctor Bryant," said Poirot, bowing.
"M. Poirot."
They shook hands. A woman who had been standing near Bryant moved away toward the lift. Poirot sent just a fleeting glance after her.
He said: "Well, M. le docteur, are your patients managing to do without you for a little?"
Doctor Bryant smiled – that melancholy attractive smile that the other remembered so well. He looked tired, but strangely peaceful.
"I have no patients now," he said.
Then moving toward a little table, he said:
"A glass of sherry, M. Poirot? Or some other aperitif?"
"I thank you."
They sat down and the doctor gave the order. Then he said slowly:
"No, I have no patients now. I have retired."
"A sudden decision?"
"Not so very sudden."
He was silent as the drinks were set before them. Then, raising his glass, he said:
"It is a necessary decision. I resign of my own free will before I am struck off the register." He went on speaking in a gentle far-away voice: "There comes to everyone a turning point in their lives, M. Poirot. They stand at the crossroads and have to decide. My profession interests me enormously; it is a sorrow – a very great sorrow – to abandon it. But there are other claims. There is, M. Poirot, the happiness of a human being."
Poirot did not speak. He waited.
"There is a lady – a patient of mine – I love her very dearly. She has a husband who causes her infinite misery. He takes drugs. If you were a doctor you would know what that meant. She has no money of her own, so she cannot leave him.
"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."
Doctor 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.
Chapter 24
"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 dejeuner. 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 gray, which is not a very exciting color."
"And who has told you, mademoiselle, that it is not an exciting color?" 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 inter
ested 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 should 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."
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