Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘She brought documents to prove her identity?’ asked 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.’