Agatha Christie: Death in the Clouds

"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 business 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."