Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12) - Page 89
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 Richards’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 the 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 had 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 Elise 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 over-ingenious.’
‘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 the 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. It was unpardonable on my part to have forgotten the flute of Dr Bryant, though I do not seriously suspect him—’
‘You do not?’
‘No. He does not strike me as the kind of man to—’
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