Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘Because it is one thing to give information to the police and another thing to give it to a private individual.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Elise. ‘That is true.’

A look of indecision came over her face. She seemed to be thinking. Watching her very closely, Poirot leaned forward and spoke:

‘Shall I tell you something, Mademoiselle Grandier? It is part of my business to believe nothing I am told—nothing that is, that is not proved. I do not s

uspect first this person and then that person. I suspect everybody. Anybody connected with a crime is regarded by me as a criminal until that person is proved innocent.’

Elise Grandier scowled at him angrily.

‘Are you saying that you suspect me—me—of having murdered Madame? It is too strong, that! Such a thought is of a wickedness unbelievable!’

Her large bosom rose and fell tumultuously.

‘No, Elise,’ said Poirot. ‘I do not suspect you of having murdered Madame. Whoever murdered Madame was a passenger in the aeroplane. Therefore it was not your hand that did the deed. But you might have been an accomplice before the act. You might have passed on to someone the details of Madame’s journey.’

‘I did not. I swear I did not.’

Poirot looked at her again for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded his head.

‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘But, nevertheless, there is something that you conceal. Oh, yes there is! Listen, I will tell you something. In every case of a criminal nature one comes across the same phenomena when questioning witnesses. Everyone keeps something back. Sometimes—often indeed—it is something quite harmless, something, perhaps, quite unconnected with the crime; but—I say it again—there is always something. That is so with you. Oh, do not deny! I am Hercule Poirot and I know. When my friend M. Fournier asked you if you were sure there was nothing you had omitted to mention, you were troubled. You answered unconsciously, with an evasion. Again just now when I suggested that you might tell me something which you would not care to tell the police you very obviously turned the suggestion over in your mind. There is, then, something. I want to know what that something is.’

‘It is nothing of importance.’

‘Possibly not. But all the same, will you not tell me what it is? Remember,’ he went on as she hesitated, ‘I am not of the police.’

‘That is true,’ said Elise Grandier. She hesitated and went on, ‘Monsieur, I am in a difficulty. I do not know what Madame herself would have wanted me to do.’

‘There is a saying that two heads are better than one. Will you not consult me? Let us examine the question together.’

The woman still looked at him doubtfully. He said with a smile:

‘You are a good watch-dog, Elise. It is a question, I see, of loyalty to your dead mistress?’

‘That is quite right, Monsieur. Madame trusted me. Ever since I entered her service I have carried out her instructions faithfully.’

‘You were grateful, were you not, for some great service she had rendered you?’

‘Monsieur is very quick. Yes, that is true. I do not mind admitting it. I had been deceived, Monsieur, my savings stolen—and there was a child. Madame was good to me. She arranged for the baby to be brought up by some good people on a farm—a good farm, Monsieur, and honest people. It was then, at that time, that she mentioned to me that she, too, was a mother.’

‘Did she tell you the age of her child, where it was, any details?’

‘No, Monsieur, she spoke of a part of her life that was over and done with. It was best so, she said. The little girl was well provided for and would be brought up to a trade or profession. She would also inherit her money when she died.’

‘She told you nothing further about this child or about its father?’

‘No, Monsieur, but I have an idea—’

‘Speak, Mademoiselle Elise.’

‘It is an idea only, you understand.’

‘Perfectly, perfectly.’

‘I have an idea that the father of the child was an Englishman.’

‘What exactly do you think gave you that impression?’