Death in the Clouds - Agatha Christie [75]
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,