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.
‘W
hat 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,’ he said. ‘One needs much courage.’
‘To kill oneself? Yes, I suppose one does.’
‘Also to live,’ said Poirot, ‘one needs courage.’